Races, dogs, and the possible intervention of fate

So the plan was to get off work, ride home, eat supper, shower, shave, pack, load the car, and head west to the Pisgah Monster Cross race.

That was the plan.

All that went well enough. Steps 1-7 seemed to flow nicely, and I was out the door by 6:38PM.

6:40PM: I remembered that my custom number plate holder was still on the Misfit diSSent Brontoawesomeous Meatplow V.5. I never took it off after the Fool's Gold 50. I got home from that race and hung the bike on the wall next to the Dickstickel Meatplow V.6 that was suffering from an infected bottom bracket from the Shenandoah Mountain 57/100.

I decide to turn right and get onto Independence Blvd. Although I will not be able to get into a tidy aero-tuck with the number plate zip-tied to the bars, I'm not turning around for something so insignificant.

6:45PM: I remember that my Tulbag is hanging on its hook in the bike room.

I decide that since it's just a gravel/pavement race, I can live without tools. Everything I need to fix a flat is Awesome Strapped all over my bike. Fuck it.

6:52PM: Shit. I left my Thermarest in the closet. No big deal. It's not gonna get that cold, so my hammock won't need the extra insulation layer... especially with my REI 10° bag.

7:00PM No way. I remember that my REI 10° bag is still in the same closet as my Thermarest.

I decided that I'm a huge mess. Who knows what else I'm gonna remember next? I turn around and head home.

I drank a beer. I mounted a smaller light to the front of my bike (required gear). I set the timer on the coffee pot. I drank another beer. I went to bed.

It was a shitty night's sleep. Buster, the suicidal foster dog, was pacing all over the bed. I woke up and looked at the clock constantly. I gave up and crawled outta bed at 4:27AM.

I went straight to the coffee maker to turn it on since I was up earlier than expected. Then I got dressed, peed, loaded my bike on the back of the car, and then went back for my coffee.

Shit. I just bumped the switch from AUTO to OFF. No coffee. I turned it on and scratched my ass. Since it felt chilly outside, I decided that it might be a good idea to go grab an undershirt for the race.

I entered the bedroom.

Vomit on the floor. Nothing new. Geriatric dogs do that... all dogs do that. I scanned the darkness and there was Maggie prepping another hurl. She let it fly, and then she fell over. She waddled out the open door, fell over in the hallway, righted herself, and stumbled about the house.

Hmmmm..

"Pie, wake up."

The Pie carried Maggie outside. Head tilted sideways, Maggie started cutting circles and stumbling some more. Drool all over the place. Possible stroke.

I'm not going to a bike race.


Doggie ER, same place I was with the suicidal Buster back in June. After some waiting time, the vet says it's a vestibular dysfunction. Not so uncommon, should be better in a few days.

Maggie says, "I'm not dead yet. I think I'll go for a walk."



She's had plenty of close calls. Jumping out of the back of my Suzuki Samurai (bad dog owner), herniated disc, back spasms, multiple bouts of pancreatitis, unable to be out of our sight when off-leash fearing that anything she might eat will lead to yet another trip to the ER.. oh, and that expensive ICU stay.

Years and years ago, we were told she wouldn't live very long. She's now more than 14 years old. I found her at work one day walking in the crosswalk looking at the people around her. We already had two dogs, but I told The Pie she was special.

She is.

Sorry I missed the race. Not sorry I stayed with my dog.