They say that short memories are a good thing for
quarterbacks and pitchers. The ability
to forget about the interception and throw boldly is a valued asset. I have always eschewed looking backward as my
ability to alter the past has proven to be very limited. While I do think we should learn from the
past; excessive time spent revisiting past decisions is wasted energy.
Just as I find myself finally able to stand erect after
the sweet torture that was the Leavenworth Fondo I am looking forward to the
next round. I have graphed the elevation
profile and swapped cassettes in anticipation of yet another superlative-laden
adventure.
This one should be hotter and steeper.
What could go wrong ?
I plan to gather with a close-knit group of fellow slow
learners and assail the Cascade Range from the eastern side on the eve of the
summer solstice. What I find morbidly
amusing is the drop off in participation following a particularly challenging
event. After the washing machine ride
that was the Ephrata Fondo, the number of riders at Goldendale was down
significantly. If a particular
Cyclocross race is a sloppy mudfest the week following will have far fewer
riders. I expect a number of battle-weary Leavenworth riders will skip the next event at Ellensburg. Your loss....
It takes a special mindset to find these type of events
enjoyable. Psych wards are probably full of folks with this “special”
mindset. For those of us lucky enough to
be high functioning and still have an outlook on life that allows us to find
joy amid this suffering; we know who we are.
Making eye contact with our
fellow crazies yields a unique connection.
Our selective memories don’t remember the numb hands or
frozen feet. We are more familiar than
we should be with the fine line between extreme discomfort and danger on the
hypothermia scale. We can wipe the drop
of vomit from our sleeve or wash the salt from our helmet straps and erase the
memory forever. If someone reminds us we
typically resond with, “Oh yeah, I forgot….” We take a perverse pleasure, somewhere between
analytical and masochistic, in reaching our limits.
I heard that one definition of tact was telling someone
to go to hell in such a way that they look forward to the journey. Those of us who pin a number on for these
events know exactly what we are getting into and yet not only do we do it
again, we look forward to it!
Why must you humiliate me for your perverse entertainment ?
At this stage of my life the prizes and accolades for
riding a bike faster than some other idiot are meaningless. It is egotistical (or
maybe Zen-like?) to say that as far as racing goes the only opinion that
matters to me is my own. It thrills me to ride to the top of a mountain and
take in the view. I take pleasure in
finishing a ride exhausted, having tickled my physical or technical limits. I
find these Fondos complex problem-solving challenges that require the right
combination of fitness, equipment selection, nutrition, riding finesse and
luck. When I get it right I feel omnipotent. Riding with Hottie or with my
friends is far more satisfying that standing on a podium.
I don’t think I am lowering the bar by preferring the
journey over the results. I prefer to think I have found a better bar.
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