The dust that Poncho bit down south ended up in Lefty’s mouth, and I know how Lefty feels.
The forest floor was still smoking from a burn, the trail an ashen pillow, and me- the last in line. I hit that section the last of seven and holding up well enough, the pace so hard I felt I was being reeled in, the prize lunker. I clawed for my jersey zipper, yanking. It was already down to my navel. I sucked water and coughed it out as the need for air took priority. The trail turned uphill and rivets started popping from my hull. A scrub oak branch snapped back into my face, I spit blood and grit over my front tire, and that is about when I called it quits. Dropped my friends, like a hit record on the first day of summer.
My last few rides had me believing I was better than that. Two hour epics of flow and spin with my friend Steve, the ever-steady man of mystery. Turns out we were caught in a collective delusion. Two bums straightening each others’ collars, “And a fine good day to you sir, don’t you look smashing this morning!” “Well thank you good sir, you are the perfect image of vigor and health yourself if I have ever seen a more able gentleman I will eat my hat!” And away we go toddering down the trail and passing the Wild Irish Rose.
“There is no such thing as patience.” Bill said, “There is only impatience and the way the universe reveals itself.” Or something like that.
Three weeks ago, I rocked a hilly 30 mile solo ride like it was a run to the store. Two weeks ago, I rode the very same route with the local cycling club, and was summarily taken out back and shot.
If reality is the ride you’re on today, then dreams are made of the last fast ride.