Sucking Air, or Maybe Just Plain Sucking

That damn Zaca Fire made for LA like conditions in the Santa Maria valley. Toss in the incessant attacking of that dino Thurlow, and it was wheezy time.

I got me a top 10. Nothing to brag about, though, given that there were only about 25 baby geezers lining up, plus that full blown geezer, Thurlow. He coulda gone for a bear jersey in the 40/50 race, but given that he already won a road one a few weeks ago for 45 + (for some strange reason, we have two masters championships in these parts), I guess that he decided that wearing two jerseys would be a bit warm. Damn unselfish bastard.

Lap 1, the dino whips it up, looking at us young pups with the look that says "take off your diapers, boys, and race your bikes." Ah man, old man, can't we just warm up? Nah, whip it, and whip it good. By the end of the lap, we are all pretty much together, not for lack of TR trying to bust things up, though.

Lap 2, the dino keeps wagging his tail at us. Mid way through the lap, things get busted up. Four go, then I chase, and look at about 4 on my tail. We connect, then two more maybe, and it looks like this is going to be be the race. Unfortunately, though, half the guys were Amgen guys, two La Grange, then the rest were solo. Of course, this means that the hemoglobin boys can attack freely, and no one really wants to work. And oh yeah, that damn dino Thurlow. I try to cover when I can, and try to catch my breath from what feels like one working lung. Coming to the end of the lap, I'm looking for Ale-Jet's phone number. "Ale-Jet, this is Nitro. Got the number of your doc so I can get me some of that special mist you use? And oh yeah, how much is too much?"

Lap 3, I get popped. The bottom fell out of my lungs, and my head did not want to push them further. I drop off, thinking that 3 laps is good enough for the day, but I end up getting caught by a group of about 7, including my mate in blue, Peter B. What the heck, let's go for a ride boys. Going up the bump, I get up front and just get in diesel mode, which is not too taxing on the carburetors. Going over the top, Peter says, "We've got a gap." A gap over the laughing pack? Wait, I want to laugh. Oh well. And looking up the road, it looks as though the lead group have eased up on their war, and that we might actually catch them. So heck, time to put some berryboy representation back in the front group.

Lap 4, we catch. Missing from the front group, though, was a certain old man. I ask one of the hemoglobin boys about the status of things up the road, and he says it's just Thurlow and one of their boys off the front. Cool and the gang, maybe I can breathe. The fourth lap was pretty civilized. I pull through with the non-hemo's in the group, knowing full well that we ain't catching the boys up front, but I may as well make an effort of it and get my money's worth.

Lap 5, the remaining hemoboys get their blood pumping. Peter makes a show of it too, and things start to whittle down. Up the steep, short bump, hemoboy Els lets one rip. I get on and we split from the group. It seemed good for a short while, a real short while. After one pull by me, I find myself wheezing to get back on his wheel, and that was all she wrote; third place went up the road. I catch back on what is left and try to find my missing lung. Going up the final long bump, an attack goes, and I wheeze my ass off to go with him. No go. Ah heck, I already dragged my ass, with the help of PB, back into a race that I was all prepared to drop out of 3/5ths of the way though; sitting up with 4 miles to go to cruise in for a top 10 was fine for me, and that is what I did.

No glory at Sisquoc, but of course glory is not want I'm in it for, unlike some brown skinned Norcal riders out there. I'm in it for the lung abuse. Mission accomplished.