The Only Race That Matters™ (not really): Part Two

That night was not the usual evening at Le Tour.  Fewer beers were being consumed than normal.  Bed times came earlier than in year's past.  Lasagna portions were as overwhelming as per the norm tho.

A full belly and a one water to one beer ratio saw me just fat and happy when my head hit the pillow.  That is aside from the small amount of chafing I was experiencing on my mushroom cap.  It was moderately irritating, like a bug bite or a "Scam Likely" phone call.  

You see, I wore SWAT bibs with a pair of baggie shorts, just as I tend to do when I ride bikes with more than 100mm of travel.  You know who else wears baggies at Le Tour?  Just about no one.  It's usually hot and almost always humid.  Had I been a smarter man, I woulda just wore the bike cycling racing panties outfit that I normally wear for "performance" sake.  Had I been a been a slightly smarter-than-a-rock man, I definitely wouldn't have selected the same articles of clothing when they came outta the dryer that morning of the second day.

It was hot (again).  It was humid (again).

We do a long parade loop to start the day so we could see a recently re-worked trail.  Then over to a road climb and the "racing" begins.

I'm already drenched in sweat, and the moderate discomfort from my chafing has gone up a few notches.  Add to that, the problem is spreading to the parts of my butt I believe would be called by someone in the medical field, the "under cheek."  As I climb up the singletrack, I try to reach into my bibs on occasion and reshuffle my deck, but to absolutely no avail.  My junk ends up where it wants to go and continues to excoriate and destroy my fleshy bit.

Some might remember that I really got into endurance racing doing 24/12 hour solo events.  I'm normally pretty good at undercarriage management, but this is a new experience for me.  I've been in these moist chamois moving around for almost nine hours in the past two days.  I'm not happy.

I come down the final descent of the first timed stage and head right back to Boyes's car.  Dive into my messenger bag, find a couple sample packs of chamois lubricants.  I go for the white packet first... and it feels like I just dumped gasoline on my ding dong.  I grab a dirty rag from the back of the car and immediately wipe it all off.  Once things cool down, I open a sample of Chamois Butter, thinking it should be less toxic.  No dice.  More burning.  More sadness.

I either grit my teeth and ride the next 7-10 mile loop and risk doing more damage or pull the plug.  I'm rather fond of my bits, so I take the second option.

I have no regrets. 

What follows for the next twenty or so hours is anything but pleasant.  I want to watch the riders on the final descent, but because I didn't pack any underwear in my go-bag, the only way I can walk around in my jorts is to cup my loins through my pocket while I walk.  Once back at Carp's house, I can finally bathe (ouch), apply some of Tony's Secret Salve, put on my one pair of underwear to reduce motion and friction.  That night, I got some of Reuben's Dick Juice and sprayed all the parts liberally.  To get to sleep, I had to sleep on my side and make a tent over myself with my Sponge Bob comforter.

I'd love to say that some beer took the edge off, but it didn't.

So the next day, despite having access to my borrowed flat bar garvel bike, I opted to not partake in a hundred miles worth of saddle time.  I was bummed, but I was already outta the full-pull after bailing on the final portion of the previous day... so whatever.

I ended up spending the day with Carp and the timing crew, running around (delicately), setting up lunch stops, marking the course, fixing flats, or doing whatever else was asked of me... all while occasionally lubing up my raw uglies whenever I could get a moment. 

That evening, the shower didn't bring me to tears, some of the redness was gone, the scabbing was looking pretty good (as good as a scabbed wiener can look), and my thunder down under was at a low rumble.

I'm seriously hopeful that the next day (the one that when I read about it in the pre-"race" email, I said "I'm in, you son of a bitch"), I'd be back in the saddle... although gently and mindfully back in the saddle.