like a ferrari ... only shittier

ok ... was on the way to the office with a bag of oatmeal, a box of raisins, and a holster full of yogurts to nosh on like a good athlete in training - already thinking about how surprisingly whole my body feels for a monday after a cross race and titilating myself with just what kind of effort level could be produced for the lunch workout when ...

the gawdamn devil jumped out and grabbed me.

. . . oy.

three pounds of fatty chocolate later and i feel

~ ready.

- - -

on the faux news front ... the pentagon says they're broke, leaked National Intelligence Estimate report says "terror threat" worse because of US invasion of Iraq, and the Bush administration is sued by some innocent Canadian in the wrong place with the wrong face accused of being a terrorist then shipped to Syria then tortured then returned with an ... oops, my bad.

depressingly humiliating.

- - -

Anatomy of a bike race

There was no way i was going to be able to put together a 60 minute race yesterday. The start of the Prunedale course is a fairly wicked little paved hill that dives straight away into a couple sweepy turns ripe for the prototypical cross start screwage. I didn't want to find myself at the ass-end of the group ... but i didn't want to blow myself to smithereens in the first 30 seconds, either.

Luckily, there was a little spot behind Wicketts and Robinson so I snuck my scummy butt in there and had a decent gate-launcher position. I was kind of goofing off when Rod blew the whistle and didn't really focus on snapping into the pedals and accelerating full-bore ... so, lost a few bike lengths that way. But then, after the initial few seconds of surge, I was able to accelerate by a few bros and comfortably slot into the top 15 without having had to exert myself much. Yippee.

Through the first half-lap, I could see the lead 4 or 5 pressing down on the accelerator pretty decent. It wasn't break neck speed, but it was definitely spreading out the field. There was a nice little knot of guys like DJ Snead, mighty Kerulak, Cam-alicious and the like some seconds ahead of me and I felt a fair bit smooth and in control.

I'd ridden the loop a few times and felt confident there weren't any significant dabs going to reach out and crash me, but I hadn't really gone tachometer-red on any of it and was surprised by how bumpy the descents were. Soon after the start of the 2nd lap I wacked some earthen structure, but good, and my bars went "eeeerrrp" towards the dirt and my right shifter dove down even further, stretching my right brake cable to the point of auto-engage.

double crap.

so, i finished off that lap with a rear wheel smoking like the jacket and really thinking there was little chance I would want to suffer it out for an entire hour. Luckily, I had asked Sabine to toss her bike in the pit and was able to exchange mine for hers and ask da'PAB to open up the brake while i murdered her Steelmen for a lap. He did so, and I was able to take back my "homeroom orange" Kona for the rest of race use.

The middle 20 minutes of a cross race are so bloody taxing. The surge of adrenaline has evaporated, forcing reality to creep in and leave you awake to the real pain. There is no escape. But eventually, the body's bong hit takes hold and the final minutes of the race settle into focus and you dive back to the fantasy of moving forward, gliding, maybe even flying.

I was floating past a few of the hitters and coming up on Hooptie with a lap to go. We entered into the final barrier section close but I didn't make any effort to play it hard and pass him through the technical stuff, besides he's like a compressed can of muscle tuna and i didn't want to risk getting a tail slap. The finish is back out on the paved road and I figured there was ample time for us to accelerate to the line if we wanted to play a bit of sprinty-sprinty.

Hooptie dug out of the corner pretty well and stomped on his one-gear a fair bit mean.

"whoa, better get shifting."

As the engine began to pick up speed and started chomping at Hooptie's rear tread, he pops up a wheelie a good 15 meters before the finish.

shyte.

there's no way you pass a guy pulling out that kind of style at the line.

i sat my ass down and bowed to the bravado.