That was a slog, eh?

On Sunday, I was pretty shocked when 60-some masochists showed up in my driveway looking for the slightly adjusted start line of Il Pantani 2018,  bound and determined to do that to themselves.  The Pantani route on a dry day is one thing, but Pantani in the mud is a real slog.   

The lineup, too, was impressive, and Dave Flatten came away with the W.  He's now won the two most treacherous Pantanis on record- outsprinting superpro Jeremiah Bishop a few years ago in a frozen tundra hoth-version of Pantani, and then riding local hero Johnny P off his wheel in the slop this go round.  It was a dogfight up there, I've been told, but apparently "Flatten" - when it comes to word choice - is a misnomer.  That guy does not suck.  

The view from the back, as always, was less dramatic.  There was this long stretch in the middle of the afternoon when my legs and I simply had to talk it out, nearing the start of the brokenback climb, and we've both done this enough times to know what was coming.  Veterans of this negotiation, we both knew we couldn't get everything we wanted out of this relationship any longer.  I, for one, was insisting that we go up brokenback, because we might be nearing 3 hours already but I still have my pride for heaven's sake, and my legs, on the other hand, were demanding we swing by the store and Dyke and just see, for a few minutes, if they had any sausage gravy we could lie in for a while.  

In the end, a deal was struck and up we went - a 3 mile, 1600 foot compromise where I agreed not to demand too much if my legs agreed to just get it the fuck over with.  And so I didn't and they did.  4 hours and change later, I made it home and, like always, I was a mess.  After trying to stuff my gravel bike into the trashcan for the first little bit, I settled down and got some food and I was OK.  The bike didn't fit, fortunately, but that reminds me I need to put a new cable and housing on there, plus a rider who can actually pedal it worth a damn.  

One thing about Brokenback, especially when you lack the fitness to really get after it, is that it lays you bare.  You're defenseless, having only one plodding speed forward.  And if you stop for just a second, you can ponder the silence out there, which, except for your own ragged breathing, is complete.  Try it one time, and you'll recognize the enormity of it all, as well as your own tremendous smallness: that the mountain was a mountain long before there was a road there.

It puts me back together every time.

So thanks for coming out, you bunch of loonies.  Until next time...Up, up, up.