February, 2005. Roberio, BJ, Annette and I drove to Charlottesville, VA this week to train on the Jefferson Cup Course.
I think ride-trauma caused me to suppress the memories of how we arrived at the hills of the Jeff Cup course yesterday—that, and lack of sleep. Roberio and I totaled equaled one good night of sleep.
It all began with the cacophony of the two alarms it took to roust me before sunrise. Then I vaguely remember snapshots being taken of four clowns trying to pack themselves into the Conte’s Mini. It’s not that it doesn’t have legroom. It just doesn’t have room to put your stuff. We closed the hatchback quickly to keep anything from falling out. BJ and Anette climbed in the back and we were off.
Some hours later we were on our bikes riding the loop—some of us for the first time. There isn’t a hill there that can knock you out, but they all gang up on you. Except for close encounters with a pair of dogs and a pair of squirrels there were no incidents aside from the new max heart rates we may have reached. At one point BJ, who must have been suffering a little more than Anette and I, played the old “I’m a grandma” card abused by all too many a cyclist.
After five torturous loops we packed up. I sat down in the back of the Mini with a Mavic Krsyrium against one shoulder and a Zipp 303 on the other. I felt like some shoddy axel (for you non-cyclists, those are wheels). Anette drove with BJ at her right, sure to keep her awake. We stopped for a decent meal in downtown C’ville and then headed home.
At some point I made the mistake of moving my leg, triggering a cramp. I don’t know who was driving at that point because when I stretched out over the center console four hands were massaging my leg. My next imbecilic mistake was telling them that it was my inner thigh and not my blissful calf. Roberio, beside me, gladly made it clear that I was on my own which reminded me of that old joke about the two guys in the woods. One gets bit in the butt by a rattlesnake. His buddy gets hold of a doctor on his cell phone who tells him he has to cut the wound and suck out the poison. When the anxious victim asks his buddy what the doctor said, he replies, “Doctor says you’re gonna die.”
While Roberio and I made some feeble attempts at turning the conversation towards bike parts, we were no match for two up front. It’s not every ride that ends with home ec tips. Apparently that thick black coating on the silver in my dining room is not some slowly attained, protective, anodized finish, but a far more insidious oxidation that can cause pitting. This led me to two thoughts: the irony of silver getting cavities, and, you mean you have to polish that crap.
We got back after dark, still slaphappy as we divvied up our belongings and parted.
A whole day in such company and not one comment on my fresh haircut. I knew I was in need of a haircut because the last day marked on my Supercuts card was 12/8/04. Maybe it was a bad one. I did get the feeling that my hair got shorter and shorter not out of some image of perfection, but in an attempt to even out erroneous snips. I just hope next time the gal working on my hair doesn’t have to stop to get pointers from her co-Delilah. But hey, my card is full so the next one’s free.
Come join us next time and bring a big car.
Originally an email to our team list serve and then blogged by LizVoice.
50 miles in the hills seemed like a ton back then!