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Tuesday, May 21

2019 Pisgah 55.5k

Me, trying to work out the shoulder knots or practicing my podiums before the start?

photo cred: Mario Quivera
I go ahead and line up right at the front.  Things are gonna get tight real quick-like heading directly up Black Mountain trail.  Figure I wanna stay outta single speed unfriendly traffic and allow the fastest riders by me on the lower, much wider section.  I get the hole shot to the first corner.

photo cred: Mario Quivera
Apparently, I know this start so well, I can ride it with my eyes closed and chanting, "Om money podium hum."

I watch as the faster riders come around me, nobody on a single speed in sight...

Well, until we get near the top of the first hike-a-bike, and I see a single speeder behind me.  Shit.

The last thing I came here for was a "bike race..."  Well, second to last mebbe to measles.  I wanted a no pressure supported ride in Pisgah WITHOUT RAIN.  Now I'm "racing," more or less, in some kinda triple dog dare scenario.

I hope this guy passes me, and I never see him again.

The short downhill to Hot Dog Gap and he closes right to my wheel.

Good.

We push up Middle Black, I ask his name...

"Steve."

"I'm Rich."

"I know who you are."

So, I wonder... does he think I'm the guy who was decent at riding bikes and mebbe still is or the washed-up has-been I've resolved to be until I'm dead or riding an e-bike (same same)?

It doesn't matter, because as soon as he and his squished bike hit the first descent on Turkey Pen, he's gone.

Good.

Down Turkey Pen and loving every minute (except the parts that go up), and happy (as I can be) to be alive, passing a geared rider in a section of thunder chunk.

Well, I got off the bike to hop giant downed lerhgs.

photo cred: Mario Quivera

photo cred: Mario Quivera
Into the first aid station.  Grab a handful of Peanut M&M's.  Woot.  This is what I came here for.

Up and over Bradley Creek, and arrive at the bottom of the climb up 5015.  This is a place where I can make my biscuits.  I give it a bit, pass another geared rider, and then I see him.   Steve.  Fucking Steve.  I was so hoping I'd never see him again.

Catch my breath, put in an effort, make the pass... hold the effort for as long as I can stand, hoping to get myself outta his line of sight and give him sads.

Into the second aid station.

"You’re fifth overall."

Huh.

That's kinda cool and certainly another motivator... although I didn't wanna be motivated.  I feel myself reaching for a second virtual hamburger...

Fill a bottle, ride outta the aid... see bacon outta the corner of my eye... make a u-turn.

I have time for bacon.

Making my way up Laurel Mountain trail,  I'm gonna need a build a multi-minute gap on the climbs to hold him and his fjork off on the long descents down Pilot Rock and Upper Black Mountain.  I put it on cruise control, swallow a bug in my gaping pie hole, look back... there he is.

Fuck me.

We're together again.  Chatting again.

"You're either going to have to blow up or have a flat tire to beat me at this point.  I'll never descend faster than you."

"I might actually blow up."

I get up the Thousand Dollar Climb ahead of him, start down Pilot Rock... and have to pull over to let him by less than a quarter of the way down.

Good.

As far as I'm concerned, game over.  Thank dog.  I don't want anymore of this.  I ride as one might down Pilot Rock on a rigid fork, on the edge of comfort and control, always looking for a second or two of relief from the torture.  My clean yet plodding line through the Humvee section only producing a mild amount of ire from the heckle pit.  I manage to get all the way down alive and unscathed, and I pop out on the fire road. 

Look to my right... there's Steve.

Fucking Steve.

He's either having a physical issue or mental.  Dunno.  My best guess is a cramp.  Pilot Rock is one of those kinda descents, just as physically punishing as any thirty minute sustained climb.  I grind past him as fast as possible...

"Why can't you just go away."

The voice in my head once again coming outta my mouth.

Get to the last aid station, fill my bottle while pounding tiny paper cups of Coke down my throat.  Steve pulls up and looks for his drop bag.

"The next time you pass me, please just make it stick."

I'm Steve's biggest fan.

I get outta the aid station first, up the back entrance to the Wheelchair Ramp, make more biscuits.

To the hike-a-bike to the top of Black Mountain, I realize there's very little reason to look over my shoulder.  I can only hike over the top at a certain speed, and from there, I'm just gonna have to hold on going down and hope that I built enough of a gap to keep Steve behind me.

I might have adjusted my comfort level a bit  through the techy bits, and when I got on to milder yet speedy Thrift Cove, I just let it all go.  I risked all the biscuits I'd made earlier, finally looking over my shoulder when I made the final left turn down to the final bit of smooth'ish descending... fuck.

I finally did a thing again.  Not that I wanted to do this thing, but the thing was there, and I couldn't turn this hamburger down.

First single speed (sport class distance 37 mile distance, 5hr 31 min in the saddle, margin of victory only 01.51)...

 and fifth place overall.

I think second and third musta got into a team building exercise knee fight.

That really felt good and absolutely awful to actually "race" a bike.  I have to give so much credit to Steve, because had he not pushed me all day long to try, I woulda just been on a bike ride.  He reminded me just how stupid and fun bicycle sport racing can be.  He made a very good hamburger.

And now off the Trans-Sylvania Epic tomorrow... to mebbe "race" my bike in the 50+ class or to find out that once again, I over-burgered myself.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Riding a 19 when you think it's a 20 is cognitive doping.
5% should be added to your finishing time?