|
|
|
|
|
"Dude! Don't let *anybody* pass you on the right! If they try, just kick 'em over!"
I glance into the rearview, then edge my tubular aluminum steed as far to the right of the Texas highway pavement as I dare. An eerily quiet stampede of cycling road warriors closes upon us at an alarming rate as the Intens-O-Meter slams into the red zone.
Ryan, a Top Gun on the Austin cycling scene, as well as the greatest friend anyone could hope for, has taken a position half a wheel length ahead of me and slightly to the left. Not only does this courtesy allow me to draft him, it makes it impossible for any overtaking riders to squeeze me off the road.
The "kick 'em over" order from Ryan isn't meant to be taken literally. It's more a colorful metaphor for shifting our mindset into full-on defensive mode. Besides, with my feet spinning around at 95 RPM and locked through shoe cleats to the pedals, any attempt to kick would result in a mess that I'd prefer not to describe.
The main peloton of several hundred hyperfits sails along side on the left. The "shuh-sizz" sound emanating from precision machinery hard at work lays down a light chorus that belies the combined horsepower output going on here. A few characters seem to stand out. The guy in all-black reveling in the insanity of staying two bike lengths ahead of *everybody*. A woman wearing number 12. A tandem.
Moments later comes the heads up from Ryan, "It's Lance, check it out!"
I look back to the left. There's a small gap, and at the apex of the second group sits the Man himself. Painted in his signature blue Postal Service jersey (it should have a big 'S' on the front), his upper body stays poised, relaxed and nearly motionless. 100% professional, he casts an aura of mega-coolness. I can't see his legs, but if I could I know I would see only a blur spinning an absolutely huge gear.
Of course me, Mr.Not-Mega-Cool, gets so wound up at the Lance sighting that I yell a cheer so lame even I can't remember what it was. Something like, "Alright LANCE! Go get it done man!"
The view doesn't last long, but it's OK. Life is now complete. I've just ridden on the same road at the same time in the same direction as three time Tour de France winner, and all-American hero, Lance Armstrong.
Now some of you could be wondering how we got in front of Lance in the first place. As much as I'd like to conjure a tale of how we leapt off the front in an early two-man breakaway and held off the main pack until a herd of longhorn steer blocking the road stopped us, the boring truth is we started our ride about 10 minutes before the gun.
Now before you accuse us of not playing fair, allow me to defend our actions. Exhibit A: See the photo along the top of this page? That represents a tiny fraction of riders congregated for the start. Every one of these people has had three cups of coffee and wants to ride alongside Lance too. Exhibit B: Examine the photo at the left. That line of cars stretching to the horizon, stuck in Atlanta-like traffic, represents the riders trying to add themselves to Exhibit A, but instead got to watch Lance zoom by from their cars.
In conclusion, I submit that we, the defendants, yielded to an innate instinct for self-preservation coupled with a near universal desire observe an on-the-job Mr. Armstrong. Given due consideration to Plan A (survive the start crush), we, being of sound mind, opted for Plan B (view the gladiators from the comfort of our own saddles down a lonely stretch of Lone Star highway.)
Ah yes, in addition to the minute described above, there was the other four hours and twenty-nine minutes spent covering the circuit. The course was mercifully flat, as my legs, despite all the training, felt lead-heavy with absolutely no zip in them for scarfing up hills. However, the east of Austin countryside showed it's springtime best, with Indian paintbrushes and poppies lining the way. The sag (rest) stops were manned with most enthusiastic volunteers who served orange slices, Gatorade, and cookies aplenty. (That stuff tastes amazingly good after you've been grinding away at your anaerobic threshold for an hour or so.) At one sag, we even had folks "valet" our bikes so we wouldn't have to lay them on the ground!
What made the day for me though, was watching Ryan in action over the road. The man is at one with his bike, and it's a joy to see. Climbing a hill to him is a morsel to be savored. He meets and greets all with a bit of engaging conversation. And, his keen quips and chatter turn long miles into floating fun.
About 1:30pm we made the final pull into the finish. We clasped raised hands from our bikes, quietly acknowledging the day's events as a good thing. We rode the last mile slower than all the rest. Our legs were definitely cooked, but maybe we just didn't want it to end.
As we rolled into the finish area, I kept hearing a voice beckoning, "Sir! sir!". As the fog from the fatigue lifted momentarily, I stopped and turned. This young woman, obviously out of breath from trying to stop me, handed me a single red rose. "This is for you." At first I didn't get it. No one else near me had a rose. Then I remembered the yellow "I'm a survivor" card pinned to the back of my jersey. No one has ever given me a rose before. What a truly beautiful gesture. I said "thank you" as this very nice lady hurried off to her duties at the finish line. I wish I could explain to her how much it suddenly meant to me.
