"Crap! We forgot our water bottles bud!" We both stop pedaling and give each other that "oh shit" look. We coast, one hand on our bars and the other holding our spare wheels. I quickly surmise that the likelihood of us finding anyone willing to give us 4 bottles is slim. AJ's race starts 5 min. after mine. "We can come back and get them." I say, but figure there's no way we have enough time. I look over and see Chris Baker just mounting his rig, spares in hand and ask him how much time we have. "I think it's getting pretty close." He replies. Since he and I are in the same race, I ask if he can take my wheels to the sag car. "Yeah sure" so I hand them over and tell AJ to go on ahead and that I'd bring him his bottles. I turn and head back to the truck. "Now lets see, the last time I checked it was 8:38...that had to be about a half hour ago..." Whistle blows at 9:05..."SH!T!"
I've never missed a start time before but I've got a sneaking suspicion that I won't be able to say that again. I get back to the truck, throw 2 bottles in my cages, fill my jersey with 4 more, take a bite of a banana and head back. Weaving my way through cyclists and pedestrians I finally make it to the start line to see the officials briefing the P12 women's field. Hmmm..."Do the math...DUMBASS!" the incessantly annoying voice in my head clangs. "CAT 3's!?!" I ask the official, because I'm too embarrassed to say Masters 123's, I mean, after all, it looks better to be 2 minutes late rather than...7!? Really though, what idiot is going to ask anyway...as if they've got the Masters and the C-3's staging around the corner or something. "They're long gone, you'd better go!" Paula replies as I'm already pushing up the road. "Well, so much for that!" "Dumba.. SHUT UP!" I hit the drops and dig in. The least I can do is try to reach the 3's and hand AJ his bottles. Hopefully he made it for his start and grabbed a bottle from someone. I figure if I don't catch them, I'll jump off in the feed zone and feed him on the 2nd lap.
I've been thinking, for the purpose of writing, of naming my internal monologue. Though, I'm not sure what name to give...him? Sometimes he sounds like an Italiano, sometimes a Brit, sometimes a Frenchman, sometimes he sounds like my Dad, sometimes like AJ, and on rare occasions, VERY rare...he sounds a bit like...dare I say...a she. :0/ But, more times than not, he sounds like...me. "This must be what a true 'Domestique' feels like." he says. I'm about 10 min in, bottles keep working their way to the bottom of my jersey and I'm constantly having to tuck them back in. I don't dare look back, why, I'm not sure. Thankfully I don't have my contacts in so I can't see anything beyond around 500 m up the road...at least not clearly. Which...also means I'm only 500m off the back...right? :0/ Well, that's what I keep telling myself anyway.
I'm a solid 30 min into it, for the last 10 min I've been squinting at a rider who keeps inching closer. He's riding strong, not like the other's I'd passed who were obviously chalking their day up to a training ride. No, every time I think I've got him, he stretches out the gap. A peculiar feeling of familiarity washed over me, which jerked me out of my trance. I sat up, squinting and blinking hard. A bottle had worked it's way out and dropped before I could reach back. I look back to see it tumbling, then rolling to the side of the road. No way I'm turning back now, plus, I'm a little lighter now. I turn my attention back to the rider up the road, and much to my dismay, my biggest fear was rushing at me now...AJ had sat up and was pedaling backwards.
I roll up beside him feeling much like half the life had been sucked right out of me, and the look on his face almost ripped out the other half. I swallowed hard forcing the emotions back down to my winded core and roared, "Are you crying!?!" "I missed my start!" He roared back, being careful not to make eye contact. "Well, I missed mine too...my race is over!" "Here!" I barked back holding out a water bottle. He looked over at me with an almost startled look on his face, which immediately turned to one of gratitude. He'd been hammering almost as hard as I had for the last half hour with not even a drop of water. "Suck it up damnit!" "Here!" I hand him another one. "Now lets go!" "Come on!" "SHIT!" "We can catch them!" Sweating and spitting snot and slobber all over the place, I hit the drops. He guzzled half a bottle and fell in behind me. After about a minute or two, he re gathered himself and pulled through. I fell in behind him for a minute or so, and pulled beside him. "You OK bud?" "Yeah" he says. "Alright, 30" pulls, nice and easy" I say, and we start a rhythmic rotation. It takes a few rotations, but we smooth it out and start working as one. Rotating with someone that knows what they're doing is a beautiful thing. Doing it with your son? Even now, there are no words. It's about commitment and trust. Committing yourself to a common goal and trusting your partner to do the same. Inches from each other, we thunder our way up the road to nothing but the sound of our breathing, the wind rushing over us, the clicking of our grears and the smooth sound of our well lubricated drivetrain straining under pressure. I look down at my computer and we're holding steady at 27 mph. "We're in the break bud!" I say. AJ looks back, grinning. "This is what it feels like to be off the front bud."
We hit the rollers and, right on cue, AJ begins to pull away from me. "Hey...don't be dropping the domestique!" He looks back with a half smile and slows up. "When we come through the finish area and the feed zone we need to separate so we don't get DQ'd, K bud?" "OK." he replies. Rolling through the feed zone, I ask a spectator how far up the group is. "About 2 min" he says. Once through the feed zone we regroup and fall right back into an undulating rotation without skipping a beat. About half way through the 2nd lap, we hit the rollers for the 2nd time, I stand on the pedals and give a few hard cranks and hear a "ping" then a cling-a-cling with every rotation. I look down and notice that I'd broken a spoke..."On a friggin' climb!?!" "Gimme a break!" I slow to a stop and wrap the broken spoke around another one, loosen up the back break, and remount. We press on as the reality that we're probably not going to catch them begins to sink in.
We're about 5 miles from the finish line on the 2nd lap, and the unwelcome sound of a moto ref starts getting louder and louder. Not really caring about being DQ'd at this point, I look over. He smiles and says, "Hey fellas, you've got the Pro 1-2 women's field about 20 seconds behind you." "Thanks man!" I reply, as I look back for the 1st time in and hour and a half. AJ looks at me as I pull up beside him. He's trashed, so am I. "Come on bud...we can't let the chicks catch us!" We hit it hard for about a solid 5 minutes before I take a glance back. I see nothing but rolling hills as far as the eye can see. We pressed on.
Passing through the finish line for the 3rd and final lap I ask that same spectator the same question...his reply wasn't what I was hoping to hear. We were about 5 min. off the back and fading fast. When we regrouped, I didn't tell AJ, but I think he already knew. We hit it hard for one final effort and that familiar sound came up on us again. This time, the moto ref sat there for a few minutes before saying anything. I look over and ask him how many laps the 3's do, already knowing the answer. He says "3" again offering up a sympathetic smile. I roll up next to AJ. "Whata you wanna do bud?" "I'm hurtin' Dad" he says. "So am I....You wanna call it?" He just looks at me, and doesn't say a word. I have a feeling that he would have rode himself right into the ground with me. My heart grew at least 2 inches in diameter with that thought. "Lets call it." I say. We slow to a stop and pull off the road and dismount as the P 1-2 women roll past us. We sit there for a few minutes, breathing and stretching. "You ready?" "Yeah." We slowly climb back on our bikes, reminiscent of that scene from All the Pretty Horses when John Grady Cole and Lacey Rollins just finished breaking all of those horses and drug themselves, without saying more than a handfull of words, into their bunks and passed out, we rolled back to the finish line, draped over our bikes like wet towels, sweat dripping off our noses and blood filled swollen legs glistening in the sun. Like 2 battle hardened, weathered and weary warriors not saying more than a handful of words, enjoying the beautiful weather. Not sure how much time had passed, but somewhere, rolling down a tree lined road in full blossom, we look up at eachother and stare, shaking our heads in mutual understanding, as the corners of our dry, parched lips start to curve upwards. "Good job bud." "You too Dad."
We'd chased for 2:06 hours and rode 51.82 miles when we pulled to the side of the road...easily one of the most fullfilling races I've had to date. Was a good day.
Thanks for reading.
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