Time Trial Time
When teeth tears flesh, male gazelles fear females. It’s a truth of the animal kingdom: Female lions are the hunters.
As I rolled to the start of the LWC TT, my heart beat with a kindred fear. Where was Sinead Miller? Was the slayer of women, devourer of all human flesh and goddess of cycling starting behind me? Was I bound to be passed, killed—and emasculated?
Thankfully, she had already raced. My pride was spared a ravishing.
Until the finish—a ho-hum 5th place to a flying Billiam T. 12-inch Longfellow. Remarkably, Will won riding a borrowed TT frame fit to him the night before his race—at around 1 A.M. Nobody, not even Sinead—the grim reaper of cycling mortals—could touch him.
The Road Race
Since Will and I both had skipped warming up for chatting with the Womens, we finished the TT with fewer than 30 minutes on our legs—a fine spin for the RR.
But that was enough to inform me of impending disaster. My legs were clearly too weak for the road race. I knew I would need resort to physiological warfare if I were to have any chance at survival.
Remembering the teachings of biology, I selected and donned the famed pink and black striped panty-hose. My hope was the stripes would confuse the fast-men and allow me to escape unscathed. I dreamed that the apex predators would be bewildered.
They were: they let a break go from the start. But I, too, was befuddled. I missed
that same break.
So missing breakfast and paranoid that Sinead would ravish me, I settled into racing. The main test came on the final climb of the first lap. As my tiny legs attempted to spin my 39-28, images of the Tour of the Death River Gorge flashed across my closed eyes.
(Contrary to popular belief and my habit, It’s always best to descend with your eyes closed and to climb with your eyes open.)
Soon enough, the strong mens were off and I was left dangling. I was a gazelle who had just had a big chunk bitten out of his buttocks by angry crocs, but I was not dead.
So I chased hard, and continued my bleak fall. A full lap of groupo sucko chasing and praying for fortuitous death.
Until the pack we spotted and caught. I was overcome by a wonderful mix of pleasure and pain: I was no longer DFL; I had to race another damn lap.
Thankfully, most of it was slow going. Until I remembered the words of Petey Davis regarding the Trek 100: If I pay, I race.
With that in mind, it was time to make a move. So I follow some attacks and make my acceleration on an appropriately sloped climb. Crippled as I was, I slid forward gently and motivated my thunder thighs. A super strong Lindenwood rider joined me and we finished together. He, naturally, ahead of me.
Critification
The road race was done and the crit—they separated by an omelet, toast, some pancakes, cajun and cottage fries, grilled cheese and sleep served in a smoke filled restaurant—remained.
With a hardy meal consumed, my hopes were high. The snuggie fit well, the womens were happy, Redbeard was smiling and the legs had positive sensations.
But things had looked good for the U.S. in Vietnam at one time, too. And lord knows how that ended.
And my Tet Offensive was more than just a blow to credibility, it was an actual tactical defeat; I wanked myself across to a break, failed to contribute, blew up and missed the winning move.
Back in the pack, I resorted to a series of attacks and blocking measures—none of which were necessary, all of which were painful.
Finally, it came time for a move. Will had lapped the field. He needed a slingshot and a Marian man was off the front. So feeble and feckless Rosey Face moves to the front for a final pull. Rosey’s last call.
He rides himself off th
e road—Pro Wanker.
(Luckily for our national championship bid, Will finishes well.)
Sinead and Depauw await... One weekend down—three battles in a year-long war waged.
Rosey
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