CX: It All Ends Tonight…For Realzies

She’s tolerating it.  For ten, twelve, weeks I’ve rode up alongside her, put a hand on her back and said, “See ya at home Honey.”  Then I drop it into the small ring, put the left bud in my ear and noodle the 45 minutes back home.  With OVCX races on Sunday, I always cut the Saturday ride short.  She’d smile and maybe say something sassy like, “smell ya later.”  I can’t imagine what cyclocross is like for those who race and have spouses that don’t ride.  You gotta have a real angel in your life.

The end is near.  Thank you Oprah.  Thank you Tom Cruise.  Thank you little baby Jesus, she’s saying in her best Ricky Bobby impersonation.  I thank her.  Since August I HAD to buy two new tires and a seatpost.  I'm still afraid to calculate how much I’ve spent on gas, entry fees and Combos at Speedway.  No doubt the cost of Combos alone is nearing the cost of the six month property tax bill.  Still I got excited to open the 8^th place payout envelope last weekend.  I gave it to her when I got home. The real prize to me was the words "8th Place Elite Masters" written on the envelope itself.

She rides and races too, just not cross.  So in the fall, she has no interest in intervals, hill repeats or riding circles in the grass drooling and wheezing like a donkey.  The only thing that’s kept us working out together is the 45 minutes on Saturday mornings, the occasional  recovery ride and yoga.  Namaste to that.   

The season essentially ends tonight.  At least that’s the way I’m thinking about it.  I don’t know if she sees it yet, that there’s a Sunday in the future with our name on it.  There’s 4 races left, in three weekends.  Really, today being Thursday, November 18^th, I’ll line up in the grid for the last time in about 2 weeks.  Less if I decide against racing Indy.  I can count the number of interval workouts I have left.  Three.  The number of really hard gut busting donkey wheezing interval workouts is exactly one.

This is precisely why you set goals.  Not only do they justify the work and sacrifice to yourself, but those around you.  I heard her on the phone the other day telling a relative about some of my bad race luck with the tires and broken seatpost.  Then in a warmer tone she added, “The last two races were great for him.  He reached his top-ten goal.”  She cares.  She called me Number Eight Sunday night after my 8^th place finish.  When I think about it, the number eight is an infinite as a wedding ring.  That stuff makes a man feel all warm and gushy.

I’ve got my crampons dug in and I’m on the peak.  Endurance doesn’t matter anymore.  I’m not going to get any stronger than I am right now.  Speed and technique is all that’s left to tweak.  I’ll do my last real hill repeats tonight, race Sunday in Lexington, do some speed work mid next week, toss in a yoga class, eat some Turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie and green bean casserole and more mashed potatoes and race the State Championships at John Bryan. 

Tonight’s Biiiiiilly Goat ride is it.  Fin.  After that it’s a matter of making the most of the fitness I’ve built up since I started cutting the Saturday ride short, since I was home on Sunday afternoon, since I last spent an entire weekend riding with my wife.  It all ends tonight Honey.  For realzies.

The Perks and Perils of Wrenching for Team Wifey

I’m chief mechanic for Team Wifey. There’s no salary, but I’ll admit there are some great perks. Here’s the current roster: Sweetie, Honey Bunny and Baby Cakes. Team Wifey is all pro. All they do is ride and leave the wrenching and set-up to the incredibly qualified and handsome mechanics. As chief mechanic, and the most handsome, I handle all the maintenance for Team Wifey’s corral of high end bikes such as an IF Crown Jewel and a Ti Litespeed Pisgah. Team Wifey is as demanding as any tour team. The mechanics take the job very seriously and are always ready with spare tubes, chains and cables. They make sure the tires are pumped before every ride and lights are mounted in case training goes into the evening. If the forecast calls for showers or chilly weather, the mechanics put the bike on the trainer, tune the TV to Entertainment Tonight and drape a small towel on the handlebars. Just like any Pro Tour team, the riders of Team Wifey never admit to operational errors or oversights. It’s preposterous to think that long natural perfectly filed fingernails could ever impede shifting performance.

Recently Team Wifey went out for a training ride with the Fast Fairfax Women’s squad. Just like Team Wifey, the Fast Fairfax Women also have their own sweet deal with the bike shop down the street so they too can strictly concentrate on riding. So they’re out pedaling the bike path and Team Wifey starts having ghost shifting issues. Clickity clickity clickity. Annoyed, she says, “It keeps shifting all over the place!” Her riding partners say there must be some problem with the cable tension or the little adjustment screws on the derailleur. Team Wifey complains that her new chain has been backordered and obviously the current chain must’ve finally stretched out and is causing issues. There is not a screwdriver between them, but ten bucks says there’s definitely a scrunchie in one of their saddlebags. They press on confident that the shifting issues were properly diagnosed in the midst of discussing the hilarious trailer for the new movie “Couples Retreat” at 20 miles per hour.

After the training ride, Team Wifey is promptly met in the team shop where the riders are swarmed by the trusty and ruggedly handsome mechanics. They carefully remove water bottles, wipe the icky gooey half-worms out of the rear brake and slough the spilled Gatorade from the down tube. Team Wifey complains that she doesn’t understand why they can’t make a water bottle that closes easily. Then she remembers to tell the mechanics to check the chain for stretch adding that it was ghost shifting all over the place. The mechanics put the bike up in the stand, spin through the gears and look for the issue. “Ah hah!” The dashing chief mechanic reaches into the recesses of his trusty tool box and pulls out the hand made sharpened spoke poker tool and goes to work.

“I think we found your problem,” the chief mechanic exclaims as he pulls a 10 inch stick, which had wrapped itself between three cogs, out of the cassette. “Oh…my…gawd! Thanks Sweetie,” she adds pulling her gorgeous hair back with a pretty blushing smile while walking into the house. Job done. Mechanic paid.