End of an Error

A razor sharp wind cut through my hoodie as I opened my door.   I let my bones fall out of my car onto the parking lot gravel and immediately shoved my hands as far into my pockets as they would go.   The cold tore at me as I crossed the paved road to the registration table, where the waivers were trying madly to escape into the forest, where time and decomposition might let them again be trees some day.  "Are you-ou-you-you p-p-p-preregistered?"  The race director was so cold that he was having trouble talking.  I nodded my affirmation.  I was too cold to lift my mouth up out of my collar.

An hour later I was lying flat on my stomach in the gritty mud at the base of the big staircase climb.  "Ouch!"  Are you OK?" said the volunteer with the camera.  I had noticed the camera a few seconds before and had tried to zip up the outermost of my five layers so CER would have a good picture for the blog.  A quick glance at my zipper and I was skidding into the lowest stair headfirst.  "Yeah, just peachy."

Two minutes later, I was flat on my stomach again.  "Damn!" "Are you OK?"  said a guy with a backwards hat and a sullen looking dog.  I have no idea what happened, but when I got back to my feet and started running,  the guy said "I think you're going the wrong way".  He was right.  I backtracked to the orange flags and plodded up the hill to get my bike.  "Yeah.  Awesome.  Peachy, in fact" I said as I stumbled on. 

Despite my pair of "octopus-falling-out-of-a-tree" impersonations, I entered the transition area in third place overall.  I changed shoes, put on my helmet and started cranking away on Roadside Trail.  When the first rider passed me a few miles in,  I said "good job, you're in third!"  When the next rider passed me, I said "good job, you're in fourth!" When the third guy tried to get around me,  I ran him into a greenbrier thicket.  Apparently, the knob on my sportsmanship amp only goes to 2.

Down the loose gravel hill, back up to the powerline and out Roadside Trail again to the transition area.  Lose the helmet, change shoes and back out onto the run course.  Half a mile from the finish line,  Joe catches up to me.  "Hey Stew", is probably what he said, but all I heard was "glug glug glug baaaarrrrrfff" as I imagined having to drink a Natty Daddy at the next race.  We were racing straight up, winner does the run leg at the Cranky Monkey relay, loser drinks 24 ounces of the aforementioned nastiness.  I managed to remain upright for the remainder of the race and finished a few seconds ahead of Joe for first in our age group.

And that was the end of the Mountain Duathlon, forever.  Participation has been dwindling for the past few years and the organizer is leaving his position at the university.  This race has always been my training carrot; my reason for running and riding in my garage throughout the winter off-season.  I will probably miss this race after I heal up, and I suppose I will have to find another carrot. 

I hear there is a 24 hour bike race in Florida next February.  Hello Carrot!