I got beat by a man towing his 3 year-old child on a pull behind “third wheeler” last night at the “Fish Slap”, the weekly mountain bike shoot out. We lined up side by side and I let them pull in front, thinking I could sit back and draft until the final moment when I unleashed the fury on them. The little boy had his head on a swivel, marking my position, prepared for an attack. Swinging like a crab trap on an Alaskan fishing vessel, first he was over here, then he was over there. They were blocking me out, the bullies.
I thought about how crushed the little boy would be when I put the hammer down and dropped his daddy and him like lima beans under the Sunday dinner table. Well, they asked for it. I began my kick.
My kick appeared to be just a bit slower than my original pace so I sat back down to contemplate my options. I could ease the bars left and swing out through the Church’s Fried Chicken Drive Thru and go home, or I could keep chugging for the finish line. I chugged, head held high- 14 seconds behind. Multi-generational beatings, that’s what I’m taking now.
They are a smaller framed people. If there had been one more, I could have juggled them like bean bags.
Next week I’m challenging them to wrestle.