The Taco Hour

October 11, 2013 § 12 Comments

First KK set the hour record, then Fukdude set the hour record, and suddenly everybody was “training for the hour record.” But I wasn’t, because the only thing I know about it is that Eddy considered it the hardest thing he’d ever done. When I saw Fukdude get off his bike after an entire season of starving, training, intervaling, waxing his chain, and boring out his hair follicles for extra lightness, I knew the hour record wasn’t even in my imagination, forget actually doing it.

However, there are others who dare to dream big dreams, and no one dreams bigger than Hockeystick. Caught up in the excitement of watching a drained, depleted, dazed Fukdude get peeled off his bike, Hockeystick declared that he was going after KK’s hour record, as it was in his age group. This was shocking.

KK is only vaguely human. He’s one of a handful of people who can crawl into the pain box, shut the lid, and throw away the key. He’s got the perfect mix of athleticism, discipline, ability, and work ethic to take on cycling’s biggest test. But Hockeystick? Our dear, beloved Hockeystick? He of the happy-go-lucky smile, last to a fight, first to a feast, belly up the the bar and devil take the hindmost, when the going gets tough Hockeystick gets a note from his mom, why train when you can talk about it, I don’t like road riding because the sun is bad for my complexion, THAT HOCKEYSTICK? THAT HOUR RECORD?

No fuggin’ way.

I ran across Hockeystick on the way home from a race a couple of months ago. “‘Sup, Hockeystick?”

“Training for the hour,” he said.

“You? You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Man’s gotta dream big. Have challenges. Never give in to aging..”

“Never give in to aging? Dude, you look ten years older than you are. Your gut sags lower than your pecker. You’ll never set the hour record — KK has that.”

“I’m on a program. I’ve got a coach. My way, like the song says.”

“So tell me about the plan.”

“Long miles on the weekend. Steady cadence. Defined interval work on the velodrome.”

“What about diet? You still look like you’re hung over from Christmas.”

“Anquetil was a hard partier.”

“Anquetil was a multiple winner of the Tour, classics winner, ┬áhour record holder, the greatest time trialist the world had ever seen. What does that have to do with you?”

“Ya gotta dream big to stay young.”

“Dude, you can’t stay young. Everyone gets old. And some get older than others, quicker.”

“My way, baby.”

We parted ways.

An hour record hopeful walks into a bar …

A few weeks ago I was in a bar for a party, and who should I see on the high stool but Hockeystick. “Yo, Hockeystick. What the fuck you doing here?”

“Having a little snack.”

“Snack? That’s three plates of tacos in front of you. And a pitcher of beer. How many pitchers so far?”

“Two.”

“Dude! What happened to the hour record?”

“Nothin’. I’m going for it.”

“Impossible. You look like the Pillsbury doughboy’s fat grandmother. With his hour record attempt eight weeks out, Fukdude looked like a coathanger on a diet. KK was down to tendons and gristle. You look like an elephant seal getting ready for an Arctic winter.”

“I got this.”

“Got what? The bill?”

“The record. I got this.”

“Talk to me, bro. The only thing you got so far is arteriosclerosis.”

“I decided not to go after KK’s record.”

“Well, that’s a fuggin’ relief.”

“But I’m still goin’ after an hour record.”

“Which one? 210-lb. plus category? I didn’t know there was one.”

“Naw, I’m goin’ for the Eddy Merckx hour record, age 50+.”

“The what?”

“Merckx style. No aero. Just me, drop bars, spoked aluminum box rims. Mano a mano.”

“You’re fuggin’ kidding me.”

“Nope. I figured I couldn’t beat KK, so I looked it up and there’s this Merckx category that no one’s done in the US before in my 50+ category.”

“So all you fuggin’ have to do is ride around the track for an hour?”

“Yep.”

“And no matter how slow you go, you set the record?”

“Yep.”

“Like, you could pull a taco out of your skinsuit and drink beer out of your water bottle?”

“Yep.”

“And still get to tell people you set the hour record?”

“Yep.”

“Hockeystick?” I said.

“Yeah?”

“You’re a fuggin’ genius.”

He shoved the last giant taco into his mouth as a burst of sour cream and salsa drizzled down his chin. Then he drained his one-pint tumbler and smacked his lips. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

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