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.