Given the conditions for the day, I'll call that a collective Win.
|Saul took this. Amazing.|
At one point, I looked down at my Garmin while descending Wyatt Mtn, and I was going 36 miles/hour and it was only 18 degrees. So that was something, especially when my outer jacket actually froze in place, and I couldn't really bend my arms to steer.
A couple of things surprised me about the day:
1) Just how many people actually were willing to do that to themselves. Car after car kept rolling in at 10:30 AM, fully willing and moderately prepared to face whatever it was we were going to do. You never think there are so many people out there like yourself until you meet them all face to face in a field where the windchill is 5 degrees and they're all wearing 15 layers like you.
|but his feet weren't cold.|
2) Everyone was so bundled up - hats, scarves, facemasks, ski goggles, etc - you really couldn't tell who anyone was. At one point before the gun went off, someone walked up to me, handed me a stack of papers, and I thought, "Who the fuck is this guy?" It was Shawn. Or when you rode up to someone you knew out on the course, you'd have to announce yourself by name so they knew who you were. That was bizarre.
3) Despite the prize being the coveted Maillot Pistachio to the winner of the ladies race, only one very hard woman embarked on the journey, and Susannah ended up not climbing brokenback due to the simple horror of the thing, which I get. Still, she did all of that on a fatbike.
Qwadsworth, you are desert-dwelling, shifter-using, part-timer, and you smell like a foot. The tifosi demand that you launder the Maillot and mail it to the location of Susannah's choosing. Wear it with pride, lady.
Now just to thaw the world out, let it all drain a bit, and get back to work before work gets back to you.
Up, up, up.