The miracle of rest
The past two months had been full gas of singlespeed cyclocross racing plus a few alleycats and drunken weekday rides thrown in for extra merriment. The knees had cried uncle. The mind and the body had thrown in the towel in search of rest and recovery. I could barely pedal my bike let alone walk up a flight of stairs. The race at Steilacoom had pushed my right knee to the edge of tolerance. One too many steep hills. A dozen too few gears. The thought of getting up in the dark on a Sunday morning to race made me roll my eyes and pull the covers back over my head. Fine. I'll rest. I'll take a few weekends off from racing and <gasp> pull out the geared bike to let the knees recoup. Rosemary can stay in the stable chewing her alfalfa and getting fat. Her mom can get lots of rest and enjoy the freedom of sleeping in late and nuzzling up to a well trimmed beard when the day finally awakens us from slumber.
Ahhhhhh rest. It was wonderful. But something was unfinished. We went to the Evergreen race to cheer on our friends who were still gunning it for four laps every Sunday morning. The people. The colorful kits. The pinning of numbers. The laughs. The blown lungs. The bulging eyeballs. The fog. The cowbells. The fleece. The mittens. The wool hats. The hugs at the end. The relief of testing your body and succeeding by crossing the finish line. The mud. The sweat. The hamburgers with lots of ketchup and freshly sliced tomatoes and lettuce. The $2 bottles of Henry's.
I wanted to return. My three weeks off had done me good. I stirred. My legs wanted to throttle again. My mind was eager to challenge myself and others. I wanted my points back! I had averaged 5th place out of 30 ladies in every race. On my singlespeed dinosaur mind you. Only two races left in the season and I was not ready to call it quits. South Seatac's sandpits called my name and I etched it on my calendar.
The morning broke with cold sunshine. It was SWEET! The rain from the preceding days had formed a slick layer of black mud along the shady singletrack while the sandpits absorbed the rain and formed a firm track to ride on top of rather than sinking down to your rims. Jane pinned my number, I rubbed some Greyhound Juice on my bare legs, and we warmed up twice around the course. At the start line I was no longer called out front with my top 10 placings so I resigned to the back of the pack. Bah. No worries. I shall pick you off one by one. GO!
We set off up the hilly pavement and I passed half the girls spinning one smooth gear as they contemplated what cog to shift into. The sandpits, the dismounts, the slogging, the bottlenecks, PASSING YEE FRAIL SOULS, the singletrack, the mud, the cowbells. I loved it! Tick tick tick I passed them all, save four. I sprinted the last 200 feet as Tim egged me on to pass one last lady. Flying through the finish line, I came to a stop and leaned over to hurl, not my breakfast shake, but a mouthful of warm spit. I watched it drip off my heaving lip and into the mud at my foot. I love this shit! Hugs all around. Faces splattered in mud like we're six-years-old. Mud in teeth. Mud in ears. Mud up your ass. What a fabulous return. Next week at the Kelly Creek final it's all full gas. The last race. The last hurrah. I'm ready to eat more singlespeed love.
