Chasing the shark

March 27, 2014 § 9 Comments

The phone rang. “Yeah?” I said.

It was Scooter. “The start times are up. Have you seen yours?”

“Start times? For what?”

“The time trial. You signed up for the San Dimas Stage Race, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.” This was a massive salt-peter in the peter pill.

“And guess what?”

“I’ve already lost ten minutes on the field?”

“No, dummy. You’re the third rider off!”

“That makes sense. They always send the slowest guys first. That way everyone can fly by them 5 miles an hour faster and have a good laugh.”

“Not at San Dimas. Your 30-second-man is THOG.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Nope. Go see for yourself. And your minute man is Jaeger.”

“Jaeger? My teammate who beat me in the 50+ Barnacle Butt category last week by fifteen minutes?”

“Yup.”

“So what you’re saying is that I have two guys ahead of me who I’ll never see, and the whole field behind me who will all pass me like I’m chained to a block of concrete going down a gigantic ocean waterspout.”

“Don’t be so negative. You’ve trained hard for this.”

“I have?”

“Sure! You’re peaking for this race, remember when we talked about it in January? San Dimas was the most important race on your whole calendar! Remember? You had a plan to do specific uphill time trial power workouts. Diet. Meticulous care and attention to your rest and recovery. You were gonna slash through this race like a Brazilian farmer chopping fresh acreage out of the jungle. Remember??”

“Vaguely. I mean, yes. I remember.”

“So? You been doing all that, right?”

“All what?”

“The TRAINING, you numbskull! The training!”

“Oh. That. Well, I got a little off course in January, then things didn’t work out so well in February because of a beer issue, and in March I had a couple of cases at the office start to heat up. But other than that, yeah, I suppose I’m still on schedule.”

“Good. Because Leibert is on fire. And Konsmo is just a few riders behind you; he’s flying, and going uphill is what he does. So it’ll take everything you’ve got.”

“What if all I’ve got is, you know, a droopy stomach and not much gas in the tank?”

“Dude! This is your race! Those guys are all beatable. THOG? So what if he’s a former Olympian and one of the greatest riders in the history of the sport? So what if you’ve never beaten any of the other 35 guys in the race ever, at anything? So what if time trialling is what you do worst? Tomorrow is the day you cut loose! Get into the pain cave! Bring the big hammer! Make it hurt so good, baby!”

“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “The last time I did a time trial was about five years ago and even though I did the perfect pre-race donut and chocolate eclair race prep, it didn’t turn out so good. And, like, I haven’t really practiced since then.”

“No problem. Here’s what you do.”

“Yeah?” Scooter was so enthusiastic, I started to get hopeful.

“Just go out there and hammer! Everything you’ve got!”

“Really?”

“Hellz. All that crap about going slowly and finding your rhythm … fukk that! Time trial equals balls out. Throw down from the go-down!”

“So I should just pound it from the start?”

“Like it was the last 200 meters on the Champs-Elysees! All out! You’ll catch everyone by surprise and go so fast you’ll be finished before you actually get tired.”

“Wow. I’d never thought of doing it like that before.”

“Of course not. You have to innovate to win, and you can do this. Full gas from the first pedal stroke. You’ll thank me when you’re standing on the podium.”

“With great advice like that, I’m thanking you now. I feel better. I’ve got a game plan. I can do this!”

“Hey, by the way,” said Scooter, who is often in financial difficulty. “Could I borrow a hundred bucks? I’ll pay you back next week.”

———————————

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Big C, Part Five: The best bath is a spit bath

July 29, 2013 § 4 Comments

How did I get into this? I’m already at Part Five and haven’t even finished boring you with the group ride. It’s Sunday at 8:40 PM. I spent the entire day at the San Marcos crit getting dragged around the windy, hilly course by sadists. Now I have no idea how I will finish this stupid blog. Oh, I know! Bullets! Or better yet, finish the group ride saga with a numbered list!

  1. Dropped on the climb up Lake Hodges.
  2. Flailed with Dandy Andy and Hatchetman.
  3. Laughed at by Surfer Dan as we hit the sand trail because I veered off the trail a bit.
  4. Laughed at Surfer Dan a few miles later when he launched off the sand trail and into the bushes.
  5. Obliterated by Stinger, Lars, Ryan, MMX, Zink, THOG, and everyone on the rock garden trail.
  6. Obliterated by same up sandy wall Questhaven climb.
  7. Obliterated by Josh, Alan, Lars et al. on the run-in to Encinitas.
  8. Swore to never return to North County ever again.

Make it to the church on time

My LAX flight left at 4:30. It was a long way from San Diego County but doable unless the traffic was bad. The weekend traffic in the afternoon from San Diego to LA is always bad.

We got back to Encinitas at 12:30. My bike was covered in dirt and sand and gunk and filth. So was I. There was no time or place to bathe before I had to swap out my kit for jeans and a t-shirt so that I could go straight to boarding when I got to the airport.

I stripped on the sidewalk wrapped in a towel. I grimaced at the thought of how the sand and dirt were going to feel trapped inside my jeans on a 2-hour drive and 6-hour flight.

Then I noticed gushing rivers of sweat pouring off my body. I slipped on my underwear. I took off the towel. I used the streaming rivulets of sweat to wet the towel and scrubbed.

Sweat is a great cleaner. It kept pouring off my skin until the towel was a soaked sweat rag. Pretty soon I’d wiped off all the grime so that I was sparkly clean with a twinkly shiny layer of sparkly sweat. There was a clot of sand between my toes that I couldn’t clean with the sweat, so I worked up a good gob of spit and drooled on my foot. Then I toweled the hell out of it.

I suppose the nice families sitting outdoors at the Lofty Bean coffee shop didn’t often see a grown man standing on the sidewalk in his underwear spitting on his feet. Perhaps that is why they stared, but I left before the police arrived.

Next issue: Surfer Dan and Wankmeister swear a pact to never eat any junk food ever again, not even if they happen to pass by a 5 Guys burger joint while ravenously hungry after the hardest bike ride of their lives, and they especially swear not to do such a thing if it would make them miss a very important flight that they were already cutting way too close anyway.

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