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Thursday, August 26

Breck Epic '21: The Too Soon Post-logue

I hung out at the aid station waiting for the lead riders to come through.  Mebbe I'll wait for my frands.  The only thing for me back at the house is a fridge full of beer and my new buddy, a fresh bag of ice.  I pulled my shoe off real quick like, took a look at the swelling, and shoved my shoe back on just about as expeditiously as it came off.

A nice nurse saw me hobbling about and insisted I sit down and prop my leg up.  I told her I'd taken a look at my foot, and she told me to leave my shoe on until I was in a place where I'd be leaving it off for awhile.  Doh.  Eventually, she had to leave, so I returned to chair (she offered to let me keep it), and I plopped myself down in the dirt.  I found myself next to Bob, who had a splint from the back of his upper leg down to his toes.And then I wanted to vomit.

His Achilles ruptured hike-a-biking on day one up Little French.  

So I started feeling less sorry for myself.

I watched my frands pass through until I felt I'd wasted enough time not icing and elevating my sad, fat foot.  It was a slightly longer ride back to the house than I'd anticipated, but just as miserable as I expected.  I couldn't stand up to climb, and my wobbly saddle added to the complete sense of shit.

Got back, iced my foot, waited for everyone to come back... at least I still have the El Jefe Margarita Challenge to live for?
And hot tubs (after 24 hours of ice) and fox sightings in the backyard.

The story doesn't get much more excite than that. 

My foot about 24 hours after the wreck, at full-swole but not at complete blood pooling... which was so pretty when the colors came in.

The day after, I went down to watch the start.  Promoter Mike Mac saw me, came over, gave me a big hug, and I sobbed like a baby.  I don't quite stage races.  I've dropped out of all manner of events because I just didn't feel like doing them after I started, but never a stage race.  I cried when I broke my butt at Trans-Sylvania Epic and quit, so it was no surprise that this brought me to tears again.

Anyways, watch the start, head to the drug store for supplies, back to the house for ice and beer and movies and housekeeping and hygienes and what have you.

I spent the rest of the week trying to make what I could out of it.  I went on a couple "easy" rides (racking up almost fifty miles and 3,500 feet).  I hung out with frands.  Johnny Hamburgers crashed out and couldn't complete Stage Four (earning him points for stitches and serious injury), so he became a compatriot on my Sad Dad life tour.  I visited places on course to watch the race (as best you can at a stage race).  I drank beer and soaked in the hot tub in an effort to keep up in the  Margarita Challenge... as the rules had been adjusted... as they were all week.  Not doing a stage was costing me negative five points a day, but I got credit for a "serious injury" and also "cold sores."  Also, if I could make it over to an aid station and drink a beer, I got "course beer" points which were worth three times as much as a house beer.  

The rules were very complicated and multi-layered.

In the end, I'm pretty sure Montucky won the contest (as it was designed to do), but when I got home, I found the first place prize in my bike bag.

I'm sure that was a sympathy nod or at least recognition for going as hard in the paint as I possibly could, despite all my self-created hardships, which is also going hard in the paint.

It was a good week in the high country regardless of the fact that I was injured and had to leave the race. 

I mean, we got to Flesh Storm the women's SS podium again, so that's something, emmaright?

Now what tho?

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