As we sat outside the cafe in Bellefonte waiting on coffee, we noticed a couple of elderly women fresh out of church walking toward the cafe. Both were wearing full length dresses and reasonable heels (whatever those are), and they looked quite dignified. One was holding the other's arm, and they were chatting amicably as they approached the oversized curb that separated the street from the sidewalk. Mind you, this was no step up to the sidewalk, but rather a step over to the sidewalk, about the height of a 'cross barrier. If you were riding over the curb on you mountain bike, you might hit your chainring without bunnyhopping the rear tire.
Since we were ordering food, we didn't pay much attention to the women until we heard a small "oh, oh" and turned in time to watch the elderly woman on the left try to stop the elderly woman on the right from falling. It was a slow fall, but the lady did end up on the sidewalk at the base of our rather nasty bicycles. We were separated from the action by a fence and about ten feet, but our reactions suggested that we were miles away, or perhaps watching her eat sidewalk on TV. You know the feeling: you sort of tense some muscles and lean forward to help, only to settle back into your chair, knowing there's nothing you can do. Perhaps we weren't quite that bad, but it was close. Fortunately, the waiter and another kind gentleman about 20 years older than us helped the lady to her feet. I distinctly remember seeing how the toes of her left foot had pulled out of her reasonable shoe, though the shoe itself stayed strapped on. She limped over to the bench, unharmed, and adjusted her shoe.
Given our almost total lack of reaction, I'm thinking we were a bit tired.
On to Ole Bull Midnight Madness.
Needless to say, I was pretty wasted after the Double. Wasted in a deep, bone-tired way. But I had five whole days to recover before I raced Ole Bull solo. That's all kinds of time, if you are 24 years old (like Josh) or don't have many muscles (like Tom). But I'm old and I have muscles and it takes me a while to heal sometimes.
The fam and I arrived at Ole Bull on Friday night with over ten minutes of daylight left during which to put up the Taj Matent. We got it done, but barely. Then, being the rambunctious crew we are, we slammed a few goldfish and pretzels, drank some water, and crawled into bed.
Next day dawned beautiful for a bike race. I ate, watched the kids tiny amount (my favorite image: Gloria sitting on her tricycle with her legs over the bars, saying "Damn it. Damn it. Damn it."), and suffered from my usual pre-race grumpies (read that however you want).
At noon, we were off.
I was one of the last to ride out of the park and make the climb up the opening hill. I rode conservatively (meaning slowly), planning to conserve energy for the long day ahead. My legs didn't feel terrible, which I took as a good sign, and I even managed to pass a few people who started too hard. I hit the gas line climb and puttered to the top, walking the Frowny Face section. It was all about saving the legs. Then the riding just became a blur of struggle and pain. I fought with the singletrack, not feeling relaxed on my bike at all. It didn't help that I was staring at a point about 4.5 feet in front of my tire. I knew this was a problem, but I was powerless to change it. Evenetually, my right shoulder began to tighten up and create a pain that would require Aleve before the day was out. I just wasn't riding fluidly and my body wasn't ready to be pounded by singletrack.
Like the year before, I managed to get dehydrated on the first lap. Then it was a matter of trying to drink and eat my way back into some semblance of physiological fortitude. Even my brain stopped working. When I left on fourth (and final) lap, I didn't grab batteries for my lights, thinking "It's 6:40 p.m., I'll be back before dark." Coupled with stopping for a beer with Brian and Gayle (always a smart decision), that stupid decision meant that I rode the final two sections of singletrack in the dark. Or, more accurately, walked the final section (whatever it's called), not wanting to fly off the side of the hill and break my bike or neck.
Thus I finished, a dumbass with perfectly good lights but no batteries, a dope with no discernable grasp on the state of his fitness. But you know what? I learned the next day that I had won. Here's my prize:
Gabe presented me with my prize and told me I "won" after we got home. (Gloria drew a prize, too. And, no, it didn't say "damn it.") Pretty cool coming from a six-year old who, because he was able to ride his bike about as many miles as I did (in much better style) and watch a movie about wild animals outdoors, would proclaim Ole Bull his "favorite camping place of all time." I reckon I did win after all.
