Mother of GOD.
Pantani 2020 is exactly, from this every instant, one month away. Like it or not, on February 9th at 10 AM from the very same field as the Paranormal, the proverbial gun will go off and away we'll go.
Truth is, you'll probably like it at first. It's no Paranormal field party, mind you, but it feels pretty good nonetheless at 9 AM when you pull in and you see all your buddies and their buddies and super-fit looking assholes, all lounging around in the morning sun, pondering where to poop. But you see, that's exactly where things come unhitched, relative to the Paranormal. There
is nowhere to poop. Where the Paranormal has boasted as many as 3 porta-potties in recent years, Pantani providers only a shovel (albeit with drop bars) and a roll of T.P. Where the Paranormal has costumes and kegs, Pantani has extremely fit assholes and permafrost. This is going to be different, you'll observe.
When the jostling starts, you might notice that the fittest looking asshole, Bryan Lewis, is lined up near the front but not actually ON the front, which will strike you as odd until you get out onto Markwood and realize that the first 8 miles are all drafting. Except for one decisive moment when it's 100% absolutely not. Who on earth would be riding this fast already? Answer: anyone who wants to get rid of Bryan Lewis. When he flats in the first gravel section, it's go time. You're not going to win Pantani by sitting up and taking a pee, waiting for him to come back now are you? No indeed, someone puts their foot down, and it's well and truly on. Did you just take a pull at the front of Pantani? Who, exactly, do you suppose you are?
Like all the other lies you tell yourself, eventually you find yourself out. It just happens that this one is especially short-lived. Moments later, blown up, languishing at the back of a chase group going up Fox mountain, when Bryan already comes back past you, having fixed an entire flat and chased back across a gap that was A MILE LONG within less than three minutes, the painful reality will set in: Bryan Lewis is an extremely fit asshole. You'll try to explain that to him, gasping for air, but through your drippy saliva lips and panting, he can't fucking hear you. He'll probably tell you how great you're doing. Keep it up. Good job. The nicest, fittest asshole on the open roads. And as he pulls away, he can't hear you cursing at him, one of the benefits of how loud 800 watts really is, alongside blind positivity and...is he humming? Is he enjoying this?
Pantani Revelation Number One: Goals. And where one goal falls, erect another. If you can, eradicate all traces of the first. Keep moving.
Let's party, you lie to yourself. So you fall in with some other fellows, your brethren in their early forays into anaerobia. Someone says, "let's just party pace it" whatever that is.
You realize, soon, that party pace is one of those phrases that means absolutely nothing. Especially when trudging your bike straight up "Flattop mountain" on foot. So many misnomers, you ponder. "Riding bikes." You walk, one foot in front of the other. How much further, you wonder? "It is what it is," someone tells you, and you repeat the phrase over and over, signifying nothing.
Pantani Revelation Number Two: Misnomers. Pantani, himself, was an icon, fashionable, famous, resplendent, talented beyond imagination. The Pantani Ride, one would deduce, would bare some resemble to that...or at least sustainable roads. Some riding, perhaps? And yet, walking up a 29% mud slope, dragging your bike behind you by the front wheel derailleur side down, weeping snot and curses onto your bibs, here you are.
Miles later, well past the point that you turned the engine down to survival mode, you'll be shocked by how much snow there is up here. It's like a little piece of Canada got carried down the Appalachians and dropped, left to die, just like you. The road alternates between mud, ski slope, dogsled track, ice luge, and back to pavement...over and over again so many times that you begin to lose focus. Some guy, going even slower than you are, stops to let some pressure out of his rear tire for the last climb. Where are we?
 |
| "We're in the spirit world, asshole, they can't see us." |
Onward you trudge, deep into the belly of Greene County, where less than 100 years ago the roughnecks that lived out here still spoke Gaelic, still drank unfiltered creek water, still believed in pagan gods. In a remarkable display of history repeating itself, you do all of that and worse. It's awful. You hate everything and everyone around you. Eventually, you're all alone, still walking. If there was a viable way to quit, you'd have quit long ago, but with no van or course official or receptacle to actually quit
into, you're unable to do anything but trudge forward. Bryan Lewis, that fit asshole, finished hours ago. HOURS. How can it be so much fun, go so quickly for him, and yet for you it's misery and darkness? Literally, it's getting dark.
The answer also happens to be Pantani Revelation Number Three: Science. I've sketched it all out here for you, and like most brilliant revelations, it happens all at once, without warning, and on the back of a used napkin.
Like it or not, you have to ride back to your car. So you do. Eventually. Back to sunshine(set), open fields, civilization, at least relative to wherever that was that you just were. And back to the differences between The Paranormal and Pantani.
Where the Paranormal has gourmet wines, a whiskey bar tended by professionals, a CAMBC grill crew serving the finest burgers and stews, Pantani has this guy:
And, let me tell you, those revelations that you're having now, he had those YEARS ago. He knows who he is. And he's here to party.
Just like you, eh?
Keep learning.
Keep looking up, up, up.
