Okay, so bikini watching is off the table (at least in SLO county), but there are still sights to see on a bike ride.
So, the other day while riding, I see a car pulled over, with its passengers off to the side of the road. I'm going to make the assumption that it was grandpa and one of his grand kids (if not, I should have called the cops). Grandpa was looking proud, and sonny was showing his manhood; pants down to the ankles, t-shirt held up by his chin, and two hands on his little fire hose. Bless him, all of 4 years old, maybe, and he was already learning that the roadside is one big urinal.
I was soooo tempted to take out my phone and snap a pic (and I finally realized why they have cameras on the things), but I was afraid I'd be busted for kiddie porn.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
The Thrill Is Gone
Okay, I admit it, bikinis are hot. And I admit it, I've been known to ride down to the beach just to check out the latest bikini styles. But that was in my 20's. Nearly a decade away.
So, I found myself heading to the rail at Avila today, looking to take a peek, but the rail was all of the sudden off limits, cuz as I looked out across the sand, I had a reality check, or two.
First, I'm old. However, that ain't that bad. Plus, I look better than half the 20 something males with beer guts rolling in the sand. But something about the thought of being that middle-aged man gawking at girls, well it has a cold shower effect. Reminds me of cruising down to the beach in Capitola with Hubes, doing the bikini check, and he points out a very stylish two piece on a little sun worshiper. But when she got up, it was clear that she was little. Twelve maybe. Chris tried to blame it on his old eyes (maybe 35), but he'll never live that one down. And now, my eyes are older, and, well, shudder to think I make the same poor gawking judgement call.
But I could just about live with the middle-aged thing. After all, one of the first rides I did last year when I moved back was an Avila rail ride. What as different this time was job-related, damn it. It hit me that there were students down there. Students who might see me in a classroom.
Hi, my name is Dr. ...
Wait, do you ride bikes?
Um yeah, but let's talk about the course this...
Yeah, don't you ride down to Avila a lot?
Um, err, I meet a group for a ride there.
I never saw you with a group, just with all the other gawkers.
I've learned how to handle running into students in a bar. After all, you can go to a bar and not gawk. Really, you can. But the sidewalk rail at Avila is a gawker rail. No two ways about it.
So now, rides to Avila have no stops. It's still a nice ride, though. Really.
So, I found myself heading to the rail at Avila today, looking to take a peek, but the rail was all of the sudden off limits, cuz as I looked out across the sand, I had a reality check, or two.
First, I'm old. However, that ain't that bad. Plus, I look better than half the 20 something males with beer guts rolling in the sand. But something about the thought of being that middle-aged man gawking at girls, well it has a cold shower effect. Reminds me of cruising down to the beach in Capitola with Hubes, doing the bikini check, and he points out a very stylish two piece on a little sun worshiper. But when she got up, it was clear that she was little. Twelve maybe. Chris tried to blame it on his old eyes (maybe 35), but he'll never live that one down. And now, my eyes are older, and, well, shudder to think I make the same poor gawking judgement call.
But I could just about live with the middle-aged thing. After all, one of the first rides I did last year when I moved back was an Avila rail ride. What as different this time was job-related, damn it. It hit me that there were students down there. Students who might see me in a classroom.
Hi, my name is Dr. ...
Wait, do you ride bikes?
Um yeah, but let's talk about the course this...
Yeah, don't you ride down to Avila a lot?
Um, err, I meet a group for a ride there.
I never saw you with a group, just with all the other gawkers.
I've learned how to handle running into students in a bar. After all, you can go to a bar and not gawk. Really, you can. But the sidewalk rail at Avila is a gawker rail. No two ways about it.
So now, rides to Avila have no stops. It's still a nice ride, though. Really.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Thank You Sir, May I Have Another?
Before this weekend, I had only done 3 criteriums this year (well in 12 years to be correct). I nearly doubled that total this weekend. Why? Well, to justify all the driving it took to get to them.
First, Stockton. There was money there, but let's be honest, it was doubtful I was going to get my hands on the prosy purse. Not enough circle dancing in my legs and head this year to do well. I was just using it to warm me up for the geezer race later (Stockton was backwards in the the 1/2/pro was before the old guys). Yeah, a 90 minute race to warm up for a 50 minute race. That's smart, but that was what I was gonna do.
Bang, and a 100 guys, and a couple of gals, start the spin cycle. Typical me, I drift to the back to feel things out. No problem, plenty of time to get comfortable and find my way upfront, which was about three corners ahead.
Several hours into the race, I look down at my number spitter, and it shows only 15 minutes, and I think to myself, holy sheeite, I'm going to be doing this for over two hours. Why I just did not listen to Trina's advice and stay home and go to her and Ed's place for their summer kick off BBQ. BTW, Trina, when I pestered you at the Solstice affair to have a shindig, I did not mean two days later. Oh well.
Round and round, I'm thinking that, okay, this ain't that hard, but I am merely pack fodder. Where's the old flame, Tracy, who used to sit on the sidelines yelling "Get up front!" Mind you, this was not an encouraging kinda cheer, but instead more like, "Get up there cuz your embarrassing me by being in the back of the pack!" I was only embarrassing myself, and my head was telling me to chill and make an effort to get up front at the end with about 15 minutes to go. Looking down at the number spitter, there are 40 more boring minutes, plus 50 more minutes with the old guys. Damn number spitter.
The whole day was a mind game.
Why am I doing this?
It's good training.
You need to work on pack positioning.
Oh hell, there is not rational reason for me to be subjecting myself to this abuse.
And abuse I received. My crotch and wrists were not happy. You'd think with the high tech ergo carbon bars, that I dropped way too much money for, that the damn things would massage my wrists. But no go. Ouch city. And I really did not expect my minimalist seat to offer much protection against the bumps, but I did not expect my crotch to get bruised. Okay, some of it was being bent over for soooo long. Grad school all over again.
I played around moving up front, or at least moving in the direction. But of course, it was too early to be putting in an effort. The master plan for was for a last 15 minute surge. And I was saved from that plan by a spill (though it was already 10 minutes to go, so my plan was falling apart anyway). I did not go down, but some poor fools in the pear-bottom part of the pack did. For me, it was the chase back on that sealed the deal. Making progress, I noticed that some seemed to be giving up. So hey, I've got another race, I should pack it in too. After all, there was sure to be more spills as these kids start slipping on their own drool thinking about getting some of that fat purse. I'm done.
Of course, as soon as I make the decision, I feel like a loser. Oh well. At least I get to watch the finish. Sprint finish. Spills in the last corner. Berry boy wins. I wonder what I am going to do for the next hour before I do this again.
Riding around, I can barely sit down on the saddle. Bruised and cramped crotch. Legs were fine, but where they met the torso was used and abused.
In between races, smiling Jack rolls up, so I go out and back and forth with him while he warms up, and I try to keep warm. We reminisce about days gone by and chat about young up-and-comers. But it soon came time to sweat again. Chat it up with you later, Jack. Keep smiling.
The old guys race was pretty much more of the same. However, I did get some PA recognition on the second lap as I led the field through, chasing down a first lap flyer fool. After I spoiled the glory of the eager elder, I slipped back and chilled. Throughout the race, there was always someone off the front, which I could even see from the back. Yes, I was in the back. But moving up in this field was not a problem.
In fact, without really thinking of it, I found myself upfront with 5 laps to go. Finally, the day's end was in sight. Sixty miles of spinning round and around was coming to a close. Two split the pack to chase down Jack's teammate, who had be slogging it by himself off the front for 5 or 6 laps. Four to go, I shot from the pack crossing the S/F line. "There goes Cal Giant Strawberry rider chasing the two chasers, and he flies right past them." Eat my dust. Blow my wad. A couple catch me. We catch the soloist. Pack catches us.
Coming across the line, 3 to go, I'm still up front, but so are 30 others, as the bloated pack crosses the line. Two corners later, I'm in the back. Mind shuts down. Plus, I realized the that noise I had been hearing the last few laps was my front brake shaking around. Not too comforting. So, pack it in until tomorrow. Tomorrow. I'm going to do this again tomorrow. At least it was only a 40 minute plus 60 minute circlefest.
Alright, this post is already too long, much like my time doing crits this weekend. I'll just state that Burlingame was somewhat more fun. Good course. There was even people lining the course. Ah, my adoring fans. But I have to apologize to my fans, as I spent the day as pack fodder again. There were a whole hell of a lot of old guys, so moving up front was a bit more difficult. Plus, Dirk got himself off the front with a group, so when I got up toward the front 2/3s of the way through, I sat back and tried to chill. But, I could not hold my position, so I slipped back. About four to go, it looked like the group might get caught, so I tried to get up front to be prepared to give a shot at a last minute flyer. But going into the finishing stretch, I was bouncing on my front tire, as old guys started bouncing off each other. Luckily, no one went down, but I did get bounced back to the back. Dirk's group stayed off, and he got silver, and I was warmed up for the prosey race.
Cool down lap right to the the start of the next. I survived, but my wrists screamed for most of the race. I played around, trying to work my way through the field, but maybe got in the top 3rd of the pack. Where was that Tracy motivation when I needed it? "Get up there! You're embarrassing me!"
So, about 110 miles of crit racing this weekend, at about a $1 a mile. My legs felt fine, but I had a serious mental block. I far too easily resign to the thought I'm not a crit rider. But, if I'm going to ride in crits, I better get a change of attitude. I don't have to pay to ride the roads of SLO county, and I don't want to pay to be pack fodder.
First, Stockton. There was money there, but let's be honest, it was doubtful I was going to get my hands on the prosy purse. Not enough circle dancing in my legs and head this year to do well. I was just using it to warm me up for the geezer race later (Stockton was backwards in the the 1/2/pro was before the old guys). Yeah, a 90 minute race to warm up for a 50 minute race. That's smart, but that was what I was gonna do.
Bang, and a 100 guys, and a couple of gals, start the spin cycle. Typical me, I drift to the back to feel things out. No problem, plenty of time to get comfortable and find my way upfront, which was about three corners ahead.
Several hours into the race, I look down at my number spitter, and it shows only 15 minutes, and I think to myself, holy sheeite, I'm going to be doing this for over two hours. Why I just did not listen to Trina's advice and stay home and go to her and Ed's place for their summer kick off BBQ. BTW, Trina, when I pestered you at the Solstice affair to have a shindig, I did not mean two days later. Oh well.
Round and round, I'm thinking that, okay, this ain't that hard, but I am merely pack fodder. Where's the old flame, Tracy, who used to sit on the sidelines yelling "Get up front!" Mind you, this was not an encouraging kinda cheer, but instead more like, "Get up there cuz your embarrassing me by being in the back of the pack!" I was only embarrassing myself, and my head was telling me to chill and make an effort to get up front at the end with about 15 minutes to go. Looking down at the number spitter, there are 40 more boring minutes, plus 50 more minutes with the old guys. Damn number spitter.
The whole day was a mind game.
Why am I doing this?
It's good training.
You need to work on pack positioning.
Oh hell, there is not rational reason for me to be subjecting myself to this abuse.
And abuse I received. My crotch and wrists were not happy. You'd think with the high tech ergo carbon bars, that I dropped way too much money for, that the damn things would massage my wrists. But no go. Ouch city. And I really did not expect my minimalist seat to offer much protection against the bumps, but I did not expect my crotch to get bruised. Okay, some of it was being bent over for soooo long. Grad school all over again.
I played around moving up front, or at least moving in the direction. But of course, it was too early to be putting in an effort. The master plan for was for a last 15 minute surge. And I was saved from that plan by a spill (though it was already 10 minutes to go, so my plan was falling apart anyway). I did not go down, but some poor fools in the pear-bottom part of the pack did. For me, it was the chase back on that sealed the deal. Making progress, I noticed that some seemed to be giving up. So hey, I've got another race, I should pack it in too. After all, there was sure to be more spills as these kids start slipping on their own drool thinking about getting some of that fat purse. I'm done.
Of course, as soon as I make the decision, I feel like a loser. Oh well. At least I get to watch the finish. Sprint finish. Spills in the last corner. Berry boy wins. I wonder what I am going to do for the next hour before I do this again.
Riding around, I can barely sit down on the saddle. Bruised and cramped crotch. Legs were fine, but where they met the torso was used and abused.
In between races, smiling Jack rolls up, so I go out and back and forth with him while he warms up, and I try to keep warm. We reminisce about days gone by and chat about young up-and-comers. But it soon came time to sweat again. Chat it up with you later, Jack. Keep smiling.
The old guys race was pretty much more of the same. However, I did get some PA recognition on the second lap as I led the field through, chasing down a first lap flyer fool. After I spoiled the glory of the eager elder, I slipped back and chilled. Throughout the race, there was always someone off the front, which I could even see from the back. Yes, I was in the back. But moving up in this field was not a problem.
In fact, without really thinking of it, I found myself upfront with 5 laps to go. Finally, the day's end was in sight. Sixty miles of spinning round and around was coming to a close. Two split the pack to chase down Jack's teammate, who had be slogging it by himself off the front for 5 or 6 laps. Four to go, I shot from the pack crossing the S/F line. "There goes Cal Giant Strawberry rider chasing the two chasers, and he flies right past them." Eat my dust. Blow my wad. A couple catch me. We catch the soloist. Pack catches us.
Coming across the line, 3 to go, I'm still up front, but so are 30 others, as the bloated pack crosses the line. Two corners later, I'm in the back. Mind shuts down. Plus, I realized the that noise I had been hearing the last few laps was my front brake shaking around. Not too comforting. So, pack it in until tomorrow. Tomorrow. I'm going to do this again tomorrow. At least it was only a 40 minute plus 60 minute circlefest.
Alright, this post is already too long, much like my time doing crits this weekend. I'll just state that Burlingame was somewhat more fun. Good course. There was even people lining the course. Ah, my adoring fans. But I have to apologize to my fans, as I spent the day as pack fodder again. There were a whole hell of a lot of old guys, so moving up front was a bit more difficult. Plus, Dirk got himself off the front with a group, so when I got up toward the front 2/3s of the way through, I sat back and tried to chill. But, I could not hold my position, so I slipped back. About four to go, it looked like the group might get caught, so I tried to get up front to be prepared to give a shot at a last minute flyer. But going into the finishing stretch, I was bouncing on my front tire, as old guys started bouncing off each other. Luckily, no one went down, but I did get bounced back to the back. Dirk's group stayed off, and he got silver, and I was warmed up for the prosey race.
Cool down lap right to the the start of the next. I survived, but my wrists screamed for most of the race. I played around, trying to work my way through the field, but maybe got in the top 3rd of the pack. Where was that Tracy motivation when I needed it? "Get up there! You're embarrassing me!"
So, about 110 miles of crit racing this weekend, at about a $1 a mile. My legs felt fine, but I had a serious mental block. I far too easily resign to the thought I'm not a crit rider. But, if I'm going to ride in crits, I better get a change of attitude. I don't have to pay to ride the roads of SLO county, and I don't want to pay to be pack fodder.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Mad Props to the Young Up-and-Coming Punk
So I was looking at the pics that Marco posted of his blog of Nevada City, feeling like a chump for not blowing off grading and making the long drive up, and I see this local college kid in shots, right on Moniger's wheel. Then another shot of him leading Moniger's group down the hill an hour into the race.
This kid has dished me out some pain on the Tuesday ride, but what the F$%k? The week before he was a 3. So, in his first race after his cat 2 upgrade, he is trading blows with Disco kid Cruz, and BMgeezer Moniger. Arrogant little punk. Later shots show him absent, but the results are finally up and what do ya know, he held on for 6th (although they got his team affiliation wrong). Sixth at Nevada City, the first time trading blows in a prosies field. Hot damn.
So, it looks like when the kid comes back from his summer vacation, he'll be dishing out a lot more hurt, as he'll fo show be get'n a lot faster if he keeps this brash stuff up.
Kick ass, Jared. Keep it up.
This kid has dished me out some pain on the Tuesday ride, but what the F$%k? The week before he was a 3. So, in his first race after his cat 2 upgrade, he is trading blows with Disco kid Cruz, and BMgeezer Moniger. Arrogant little punk. Later shots show him absent, but the results are finally up and what do ya know, he held on for 6th (although they got his team affiliation wrong). Sixth at Nevada City, the first time trading blows in a prosies field. Hot damn.
So, it looks like when the kid comes back from his summer vacation, he'll be dishing out a lot more hurt, as he'll fo show be get'n a lot faster if he keeps this brash stuff up.
Kick ass, Jared. Keep it up.
Looking at Pro Cycling Through Dope Colored Lenses
UCI looking for men in Black.
Levi rode Copperopolis in an all black kit.
Vino good day, bad day, good day.
Dr. must have not been able to get to the hotel room the night before bad day.
Valv having stomach problems, says that it might interfere with tour prep.
Ulcers caused by stress of losing the protection that Spain's legal system has given him up to this point. He'll be playing fetch with Piti in July.
Christ, been looking through the lenses for over 20 years. Alexi and poppy seed muffins and antihistamines. Delgado and masking agents on IOC banned list but not on UCI list. Lance loosing a ball to roids (okay, this is only peleton gossip).
But it feels so bad now. Like a guilty pleasure I can't quite deal with. Am I to blame for tuning in to the sites and VS's crappy coverage? But if I don't, the sport dies. I want to see the speedsters in spandex duke it out, but what happens when the race is over? Argh.
And like an addict, I keep saying that it is getting better. But is it? The culture seems to be cracking, and that is a start. Teams actually seem to be taking measures to protect the riders, instead of wink wink, push shove, dope 'em up and let 'em race until they drop. Maybe I should actively seek out the products of those teams to show my support. What does Slipstream sell anyway?
Levi rode Copperopolis in an all black kit.
Vino good day, bad day, good day.
Dr. must have not been able to get to the hotel room the night before bad day.
Valv having stomach problems, says that it might interfere with tour prep.
Ulcers caused by stress of losing the protection that Spain's legal system has given him up to this point. He'll be playing fetch with Piti in July.
Christ, been looking through the lenses for over 20 years. Alexi and poppy seed muffins and antihistamines. Delgado and masking agents on IOC banned list but not on UCI list. Lance loosing a ball to roids (okay, this is only peleton gossip).
But it feels so bad now. Like a guilty pleasure I can't quite deal with. Am I to blame for tuning in to the sites and VS's crappy coverage? But if I don't, the sport dies. I want to see the speedsters in spandex duke it out, but what happens when the race is over? Argh.
And like an addict, I keep saying that it is getting better. But is it? The culture seems to be cracking, and that is a start. Teams actually seem to be taking measures to protect the riders, instead of wink wink, push shove, dope 'em up and let 'em race until they drop. Maybe I should actively seek out the products of those teams to show my support. What does Slipstream sell anyway?
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Dizzy Time
Love 'em. Abso-f#$&ing-lutely love 'em. Crits. Round and round, corner after corner, usually free of gravity, and just long enough to get warmed up.
So, that's why I'm thinking that I should do 4 in one weekend, prosies geezers, geezers prosies. What the heck. Kinda like some submersion therapy. Maybe after the upteenth million lap, my brain might associate the silly event with something that I like. You know, kinda Pavlovian, or something like that. Of course, there would have to be some sort of pay off.
Podium glory.
That's a stretch.
Big cash pay off.
Stretching some more.
The roar of the adoring fans.
The elastic is breaking.
Ah well, why the heck would I want to stick around the slumhole of SLO county when I could bathe in the glory that is Stockton, with a Burlingame chaser?
Racing calls, and I drool.
So, that's why I'm thinking that I should do 4 in one weekend, prosies geezers, geezers prosies. What the heck. Kinda like some submersion therapy. Maybe after the upteenth million lap, my brain might associate the silly event with something that I like. You know, kinda Pavlovian, or something like that. Of course, there would have to be some sort of pay off.
Podium glory.
That's a stretch.
Big cash pay off.
Stretching some more.
The roar of the adoring fans.
The elastic is breaking.
Ah well, why the heck would I want to stick around the slumhole of SLO county when I could bathe in the glory that is Stockton, with a Burlingame chaser?
Racing calls, and I drool.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Stop Staring at My Ass, Tri-boy
Okay, be forewarned, my ego is coming out.
In SLO country, the hills are mine. Okay, lil' L. Euser could spank me, but he has flown the coop. And sure, bean pole Ozzie Ozfest could spank me if he wants to, but beyond that, they're mine. The first day back in the promised land, after years of exile in the flat land purgatory of Texas and Kansas, I let 'em know them know that I still had it going up (going down, though, was another story), and I remind 'em every opportunity I can.
So today, it was up one of my favorites, Santa Rita Creek Road. Twisty, shady, dirty, sexy. First, there's the nice ride to and up the coast to Cayucos. A litter warmer upper up to Whale Rock Reservoir, drop and right on to SRCR. On the prelude, thick leg Pat took control. Hmm? Okay. Yet, just before the real up, he peeled, and order was established. Excitable tri-boy Chris took my wheel, so I thought (I already gave y'all the ego warning, so here it comes) this will be fun. The only question I had was when to duck when the shrapnel flew. He was going to dig a hole, and I was more than happy to be his shovel.
So, tap tap away, going through the bends and twists, he's there, and he's breathing hard. This will show him for hurting me on LOVR on the Tuesday ride a few weeks back. He's built for that flat to down tailwind stuff, but getting that tall, head-to-toe cut frame (yeah, tri-guys tend to have better builds that us pure cycling freaks) up this dirt climb was gonna take a lot of umph. Pant away big boy. The panting, though, was not fading. And to boot, it seemed as though he had the audacity to try to take it to me on the hill. Ego, wake up, someone wants to play.
Going to through the corners, he would take the inside lines, trying to get by. I don't know, maybe he thought I was trying to sweep him off by going from one side to another, always on the outside line. But it wasn't no Michael Schumacher starting line antics, I was just keeping it smooth and shallow. Apparently he was more concerned with straight lines. Kinda fun seeing him get beside me, then get bumped back by the washboards. But damn, it did not crack him.
Okay, let him go by half way up. This will blow him. But of course, I can't handle being behind, so I zip by around the next bend, as even in front he took the short, steep and bumpy, while I went smooth, shallow and wide. I could have said something, but it should have been clear that I was not bouncing about and he was. Too blinded by his determination. And me, too ego driven to offer him a clue.
Coming out to the top, straight and not that steep, I thought, damn, the kid is still there, and damn, he's probably gonna get in his tri-torque mode and get me over top. I let him by, looking for a place to tuck my ego, but what do you know, he was stuck at one speed. He could not torque on the flatter section to the top. It's not over, my ego. Sitting down (just to show off) I show him my torque, and the polka dots are mine.
At the top, we went to opposite sides of the road, like wounded fighters at the end of a tied bout. I was gonna let him in on the little secret about going around the outside of the corner, but he would not come to me. And damn it, I'm the king of the mountain, bow to me.
Anyway, no words were said afterwards. He disappeared after that. Flat on the dirt descent? Went back down to the coast? I don't know. I'll see you out there again, excitable tri-guy Chris. Maybe up something a bit steeper, where those cut, tan muscles will be more of a drag.
Back through Templetucky, Atascadero, Santa Margarita, and dropping into SLO, it was pretty chill. Kenny H was whining about his bruised legs from the Philly pummeling he just received. And oh yeah, how hot it was. Crikey, spend some time in Texas. That's hot. But we cruised into the coffee shop, and chilled like civilized cyclists. Ah, Wednesdays are mine again. And I'll be damned if the hills don't remain mine.
In SLO country, the hills are mine. Okay, lil' L. Euser could spank me, but he has flown the coop. And sure, bean pole Ozzie Ozfest could spank me if he wants to, but beyond that, they're mine. The first day back in the promised land, after years of exile in the flat land purgatory of Texas and Kansas, I let 'em know them know that I still had it going up (going down, though, was another story), and I remind 'em every opportunity I can.
So today, it was up one of my favorites, Santa Rita Creek Road. Twisty, shady, dirty, sexy. First, there's the nice ride to and up the coast to Cayucos. A litter warmer upper up to Whale Rock Reservoir, drop and right on to SRCR. On the prelude, thick leg Pat took control. Hmm? Okay. Yet, just before the real up, he peeled, and order was established. Excitable tri-boy Chris took my wheel, so I thought (I already gave y'all the ego warning, so here it comes) this will be fun. The only question I had was when to duck when the shrapnel flew. He was going to dig a hole, and I was more than happy to be his shovel.
So, tap tap away, going through the bends and twists, he's there, and he's breathing hard. This will show him for hurting me on LOVR on the Tuesday ride a few weeks back. He's built for that flat to down tailwind stuff, but getting that tall, head-to-toe cut frame (yeah, tri-guys tend to have better builds that us pure cycling freaks) up this dirt climb was gonna take a lot of umph. Pant away big boy. The panting, though, was not fading. And to boot, it seemed as though he had the audacity to try to take it to me on the hill. Ego, wake up, someone wants to play.
Going to through the corners, he would take the inside lines, trying to get by. I don't know, maybe he thought I was trying to sweep him off by going from one side to another, always on the outside line. But it wasn't no Michael Schumacher starting line antics, I was just keeping it smooth and shallow. Apparently he was more concerned with straight lines. Kinda fun seeing him get beside me, then get bumped back by the washboards. But damn, it did not crack him.
Okay, let him go by half way up. This will blow him. But of course, I can't handle being behind, so I zip by around the next bend, as even in front he took the short, steep and bumpy, while I went smooth, shallow and wide. I could have said something, but it should have been clear that I was not bouncing about and he was. Too blinded by his determination. And me, too ego driven to offer him a clue.
Coming out to the top, straight and not that steep, I thought, damn, the kid is still there, and damn, he's probably gonna get in his tri-torque mode and get me over top. I let him by, looking for a place to tuck my ego, but what do you know, he was stuck at one speed. He could not torque on the flatter section to the top. It's not over, my ego. Sitting down (just to show off) I show him my torque, and the polka dots are mine.
At the top, we went to opposite sides of the road, like wounded fighters at the end of a tied bout. I was gonna let him in on the little secret about going around the outside of the corner, but he would not come to me. And damn it, I'm the king of the mountain, bow to me.
Anyway, no words were said afterwards. He disappeared after that. Flat on the dirt descent? Went back down to the coast? I don't know. I'll see you out there again, excitable tri-guy Chris. Maybe up something a bit steeper, where those cut, tan muscles will be more of a drag.
Back through Templetucky, Atascadero, Santa Margarita, and dropping into SLO, it was pretty chill. Kenny H was whining about his bruised legs from the Philly pummeling he just received. And oh yeah, how hot it was. Crikey, spend some time in Texas. That's hot. But we cruised into the coffee shop, and chilled like civilized cyclists. Ah, Wednesdays are mine again. And I'll be damned if the hills don't remain mine.
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