Remembering the good times

There's something about this time of year. Like many cyclists, I slow down a bit before ramping up my "winter training program" — which is short for watching TV while straddling my road bike mounted on the trainer. This is different than summer training which consists of watching TV while straddling my sofa while my bike is mounted to the top of my car.

Aside from beautiful weather which is ideal for mid-day weekend rides, this time of year is great for reminiscing on the glory days of the past....the past years' races, the great group rides of the past, and the epic 4-day benders in Moab or Fruita. 

So while spinning the local singletrack on my mountain bike this week, I was reminded of the last big mountain bike race I entered. When I say big, I don't mean important, I mean long and hard. Let me add as a disclaimer that I didn't really know how to train for racing when I entered this race. But I don't think this would have changed the outcome anyway. The bike race was the now defunct Brian Head Epic 50/100.

To begin with, let's look at the finish line photo, compliments of my good friend and riding buddy The Motivator.

You may not be able to see the look on my face, and if you click on the photo you may still not realize what the look I have on my face really means. What you can see here is me using sign language to communicate exactly how I felt when I crossed the finish line. Let's backtrack for perspective...like that Seinfeld episode in reverse.

Thirty minutes before this photo was taken I was a scant 5 miles from the finish line, lying under a pine tree in the fetal position trying not to vomit. As I shook, shivered, and dry heaved, the gleeful onlookers posing as race fans could be heard debating the merits of approaching me and offering help. They eventually decided to let barfing cyclists lie and have a good laugh at my expense instead. A wise choice. Eventually I got up and rode on.

Thirty minutes before that, I was puking string cheese on my new carbon handlebars. A new way of looking at the term "cheesed off."  String cheese was the only thing that sounded edible at the last feed zone, so I pounded a few and went on my merry way. I was looking forward to a cold, flat Coke, but unfortunately my race support had gotten thirsty and drank it. Bet Lance never had to deal with Bruyneel rifling through his mussett bag of pastries and beverages.

Thirty minutes before that I was walking my bike up the steepest part of the trail talking to myself in the second, third and fourth persons.  And waiting for that elusive second wind. 

At this point I should have given up, thrown in the towel and accepted the DNF like a man. But I couldn't. I couldn't let the race best me. I couldn't let string cheese best me. I couldn't let those single-speeders with aluminum cans on their hubs best me. I couldn't let the crappy pre-race meal best me. And I refused to let the barking dogs that kept me awake ALL NIGHT before the race best me. So I kept pedaling...errrr....walking.

Fast-forward again to the finish line photo: shortly after I crossed the finish line, saluted the camera, and fell off my bike, I resumed the fetal position and prayed to Santa Claus to ask the Easter Bunny to help me from blowing my lunch all over my many fellow two-wheeled soldiers. 

But my faith in Santa Claus wasn't strong enough, and this is what ensued.

To add insult to injury, someone from the resort who I couldn't focus on clearly because of the tears in my eyes had the nerve to ask me to "please not throw up on the grass." And while I couldn't respond coherently, I do remember The Motivator having my back, telling the woman to let me have a few minutes to puke my guts out in peace. 

It took four hours in a dark basement for me to feel good enough to get in the car and drive the four hours home. All told, the four hours it took to ride the course, the four hours in the dark basement, and the four hours in the car home were the longest 12 hours of my life.

So as I carved tacky ribbons of trail and took extra long hits on nature's crisp morning air this week, I said a little prayer to Santa Claus asking him to thank the Easter Bunny for allowing me to first, live through the awful experience, and second, finally get that race cancelled from the race calendar once and for all.

Good times...good times.