Lunch break pow intervals. Photo by Ethan Martin
Pack up for race in the a.m. Intervals around Donner Lake. Wrap up projects, hustle home, pack car leave. Arrive safely at my parent’s house in Bennett Valley.
3:30 am, loud smack – fall back asleep. 6:34 am, awake, notice the time, spring from bed, grab chamois butter and head for the car, drive 97 mph down HWY 12. 6:54 am, suit up, whatever goes, no coffee, food, water, no number. Ask the dude where registration is-1st sprint.
Get number, pin it on, roll up and out, race is on 7am. 7:30 am: finally warmed, eat two chocolate Clif Shots, choke but swallow most, still racing. 7:40 am: flat with 5mins to go, matching the pace without problem, think to break but your mommas voice says chill. 7:45 am: sitting back hoping to claim riders in the sprint, nothing happens, bunch sprint, finish 15 – no coffee, water, food, or Lyon attack. Wrap it up, head out and enjoy dinner with my good friend Rosie, Nate and Jesse in Sebastopol. The town of the Tigers and many lit Friday nights over decade ago claiming the Big Apple Trophy.
Set Iphone alarm to “weekend” this time. Awake on time and head to the race. 7 a.m. Phone rings: Ben, no clutch, in the farmlands, stranded. 7:05 am, I’m parked at the race, everyone has shower caps and rain coats. I have a torn skinsuit and a ripped long sleeve jersey that might do the trick but I still haven’t paid. 7:10 a.m., rescue Ben and drive his S4 to Reno sans clutch with a little race car shifting.
The next race I do, it’s going to be sunny, there will be a nice lady handing out warm wash cloths afterwords with a cocktail, or not, because then it would be golf or tennis. This is bike racing, and although riders fall short of packing pistols, it’s still some cowboy shit and you have to man up. Maybe soon for me.