I had this friend back in high school named Ron Moran. He was one of these guys you always looked forward to seeing in the hallways because he was always happy and quick with a story. I remember him telling me about his wrestling match that he had recently lost. He was wrestling some guy who he admits was better than he was, but Ron was holding his own against the guy. He actually was up on points against him as they went into the final period of the match. With sudden swiftness, the guy turned the tables on Ron and he quickly found himself writhing for his life as the guy worked to pin him. Ron worked and worked but the guy had him tied up and the inevitable lurked just around the corner. As Ron retold the story, he remembered that just before the ref brought down his hand on the mat signifying that he'd been pinned, Ron vowed (as he stared defeated up at the ceiling) that next week in practice he'd work his ass off so that he'd be more prepared the next time he wrestled.

I thought a lot about that story on my way home from Fort Ord this weekend. I sucked with a capital "s". We had to do five laps out on that course. A course I normally love for its hard. There is a climb, not long, but very steep that I meet with excitement. I'm not a great climber, but I'm good enough to do the old "hang on" routine for the three or four minutes it takes to get up it. I was in good shape on the first lap, got gapped a bit on the second lap but able to quickly catch back on, crested the third time easily with the group which had noticeably shrunk which put all sorts of confidence into my brain. The fourth time up proved to be my undoing. At the base, I was doing all right and hanging with the lead 20 guys or so. I'd generally start near the front on the climb and drift back a little each time up. My HR was in the zone, so I figured I'd be there in the end. Well these Squadra guys moved forward and drilled the pace about half way up. This created a little gap after the 10th guy or so. The second group held steady of which I rode precariously positioned at the back. Somebody in the group panicked and quickened the pace in an effort to bridge us all up to the front group. And I popped. Like a bag of bricks had been lowered onto my back, I floundered as I got gapped. As I crested, I could see the tail end of the second group as it rejoined with the front group. There were maybe 20 guys left as I dangled off the back gapped by 10 seconds or so. I tried to bridge, I picked up some stragglers that couldn't hold the pace as the group crested and we worked to get back to the group. Slowly, they pulled away from us. At first it was imperceptible, but with each passing minute, the gap became more pronounced. Creeping doubt began to enter my head and I worked to suppress the demon voice. But as we went through the finish line area, the lead group was gone and the tailing ref on the motorcycle went through me signifying that my hopes of a top finish were officially dashed. And I quit right there. That word "quit" really sucks. There is no way around it. At first I thought that I just was having a bad day. Or I thought about the lack of sleep or the bad training due to work or the fact that I hadn't stopped eating since my last mountain bike race in June, but the fact of the matter is, I just quit trying. And that is why on my way home on Saturday, intermixed with the out loud F-Bombs I dropped my way, I thought about Ron Moran. I hate being humbled, but I do learn from it. With Patterson facing me square in the face, I may suffer a bad placing, but I will not suffer the failure of not finishing. I'm still pissed about sucking, but this too shall pass. No time like the present to get back to work.

Johnny GoFast