I prefer to operate on half-truths, lies, and innuendo when it comes to my cycling prowess. The less people know the better. I am a cagey and dangerous yard dog who wags his tail until you are close enough to bite. I only ride for fun, unless you look tired then I twist the rusty spoon in your side meat if I can. If I am the one who is hurting, I switch my narrative to appreciation of the moss in the oaks, the Great Blue Heron, and the swish of tall grass across my shins. Why hurry? We have all day.
It is awkward to pivot from a salute to the all day epic in my last post to a breakdown of a 7.5 mile lap around the hamster wheel, but this site is built on nothing if not contradictions.
To the best of my memory yesterday was the first time I have ever raced a mountain bike. I raced against the clock for money as a bike messenger in Portland, OR. I have done events like San Felasco, and of course every ride is a race at some point, but this time there were witnesses and record-keeping. I can’t say I cared for it.
A time trial is a race against the clock, with riders starting at one minute intervals. This means there is a possibility of being caught, or catching someone else. The former is awesome, the latter- humiliating.
My name got called behind a kid I was pretty sure I would not be seeing, and I had no idea who was coming behind me, and I planned to keep it that way until the end of the lap.
And that is exactly how it happened. One frantic, panicked lap all alone, sweating like a dry drunk at a job interview.
Results are pending.