Lodi

These blog posts are starting to remind me of “Quantum Leap”.  Every episode starts out exactly the same.  Instead of Sam and Al popping into somebody’s life, though, they all start with me on the ground after a wreck.  I resolve to change two things in the near future:

1)   crash less

2)   find a new way to start blog posts

Anyway, on with the show…

From my inverted position in the ravine, I could see the headlight coming through the black.  Nothing was broken on me or my bike and the brief rest was nice, but I had to get moving again.  I know the kind of bugs they grow in the Virginia Piedmont and I didn’t want to spend any more time in the weeds than necessary.  Plus, somebody was chasing me. 

I watched through my still-spinning front wheel as the headlight rolled up and looked down into the gully at the soles of my shoes. I couldn’t see a face but I could imagine its empathetic grimace.  “Wow!  Are you OK?”

I’m getting really tired of hearing that question.

Thankfully, for the third time in three weeks I was, indeed, OK.  That was the good news.  The even better news was that this guy was wearing a bright green and orange kit.  The guy I was running from was wearing a black jersey with white sleeves.

“Never better.  See you at the finish.”

Nine hours earlier I had been standing at the start/finish line, waiting to go out for my second lap.  I was feeling strong; ready to take another crack at the tightest, twistiest singletrack that I had ever ridden.  Our team had put up four clean laps, out of an anticipated twelve, and I was waiting for Jones to finish number five.  We were sitting in fourth place, about four minutes out of third. 

“What do you think of the course?”

The rider in the starting pen next to me struck up a conversation.  “Me and my buddies ride here all the time.  We are in third place right now and we have about four minutes so far on the guys behind us.”

The four-minutes part caught my attention.  “That’s cool.  What class did you say you were in?” I asked.

“Three Man Sport.  You?”

“Three Man Sport.”

About that time Jones came sprinting out of the brush.  I let out a “WOOOOOO” and my new friend said “If that’s your guy, then you just took over third.”  I stared at him for a second, memorized his kit, and answered “Yep, gotta go”.

Jones is fast.  Not many sport class riders can keep up with him.  He had picked off the third place guy, but I had no idea how much of a cushion he had given me.  I tore out across the opening straight, nailed the bridge drop dead center, and commenced the brake-pedal-brake dance.

I lost our podium spot about forty minutes in.  I was still having trouble carrying momentum through the turns when White Sleeves caught me coming out of a particularly twisty section.  “I’ve been looking for you” he told me as he took a clean line around me on a slight rise.  I finished that lap a few minutes behind him and slumped off to our tent to eat some Ramen noodles and pout.  I still felt strong but I couldn’t find anywhere on the course to apply power.  Save for a few climbs and couple of downhills, the whole course was laid out like a pile of spaghetti.  I had to figure out a way to get through the pile faster.

I ate some chips, drank some Gatorade, and then stretched out for a bit.  Joe finished another strong lap, Jones headed out to make up the time I had lost, and I fiddled with my seatpost.  I moved toward the starting line again when something caught my eye; a flash of color buried deep in my gear crate.  I fished around and came up with the lucky rock that my little boy had made for me.  He had melted a bunch of crayons in the sun onto a little chunk of sandstone and had given it to me for Fathers Day last year.  I carried it in my pocket all that weekend and did pretty well, then I had dropped it into a box and had forgotten about it.  Maybe it still had a little mojo left in it.  I put it into one of my jersey pockets and rolled over to the starting pen, ready for lap 3. 

White Sleeves was already there, looking cool and confident.  Rightfully so, all he had to do was keep beating the scrub with the big “C” on his chest and his team was assured a podium spot.   I would have been confident too, after the way he had ridden me down last lap.   We lined up beside one another and waited to see who would get the head start this time. 

A blue flash erupted from the brush.  Jones had beaten his man again.  A quick exchange of the baton bracelet and I was off.  Out the flat, up to the clearing, past the camp, back and forth and back and forth.  I came to the spot where my nemesis had caught me on the previous lap.  I could hear his freewheel clicking behind me, but he never made a move.  I never saw him until he crossed the finish line, about ninety seconds behind me.  I handed the baton to Joe and rolled on over to the tent, my head held high.

You might still beat me, pal, but it’s going to hurt.

One last rest, one last drink, one last lap.  In the dark.  Again Jones beat his guy to the line and sent me out of the pen before the competition.  “See you soon!” shouted White Sleeves.  The last lap had done nothing to shake his confidence.  Why should it?  It was dark.  He was in his own backyard and all he had to do was catch the hillbilly in black.

I expected him to come ripping by me at any second.  I tried to stay calm and knew I would hear that clicking hub at any moment and then it would be all over.  I tried to imagine the disappointment.  I knew my teammates wouldn’t lay it on me, but if we slipped off the podium, it would be my fault. 

Trees, bugs, roots, bridges, uphill, downhill.  The miles brushed by.  Into the home stretch.  This might actually happen.  I had ridden fast and clean.  Was it enough?  One more move across a narrow board.  Swing out wide, line it up, pick a spot on the other side…

Boom.  Rear wheel comes flying up and over.  I hit hard on my side.   My teeth crack and my vision goes blurry.  I lay there for a few seconds, talk to the first rider to come by, then start pedaling again. 

Still no clicking hub behind me. 

Still nobody with white sleeves in front of me. 

I roll across the finish.  My headlight blinds everybody in the waiting zone.  I hand my baton in, turn off my headlight and declare “257 IS DONE!” 

High fives and fist bumps.  Ham it up for the camera a bit. 

I wait for the fourth place guy to finish but the wet clothes, cold night, and exhaustion begin to make me uncomfortable.  I head back to my tent, change into something dry, kiss my lucky rock, and sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.