So recently I learned that three tell tale signs of death are delirium, shortness of breath and rapid heart rate. "Ah ha," I screamed. "I knew I was close to death in Santa Cruz," I shouted to a very confused crew of people. You see, I experienced all three symptoms in massive proportions on Sunday during the elite 3 race. It was my racing debut this season, and though the training has been dismal and the weight more so, I had those thoughts of grandeur we all get when we find ourselves on the eve of a real test. There is no substitute for hard work, yet I told myself that I'm strong with residual fitness from years of training and though I might not have the hours in my legs, I still have the fight in my heart. WRONG! The gun went off and I drifted somewhere near the back. The first 10 flights up the finishing hill went okay, but I could tell it was only a matter of time before I'd be popped like a well seasoned zit on a 14 year olds face. And when I popped, it was that oozing painful kind. I refused to quit. Not because I thought I could bridge to a quickly disappearing peloton, but because I was pissed at myself for being so pathetic. I held out hope that I could make it through the next 13 laps without getting caught. About lap 12, I started getting cheers from people on the sidelines that thought that by yelling they could will me to keep going. Sure there were some people that tried to hand me a beer and another person wiggled her ass in front of me for some unknown reason. But I kept going even though I was embarrassed to be in this situation in the first place. Ah, the anonymity of the peloton. It was about then that I told myself that I was pioneering a new tactic. Sure, Griff likes to say that when he takes a solo flyer off the back, he does everything he can to make it stick. But when I solo off the back, I like to think that I'm bridging backwards to the now approaching peloton. Sure, it's way cooler to bridge off the front to the lead group, but who ever said I was cool? So with four to go, I heard the moto coming up behind me. He pulled along side and told me I'd have to pull myself if I got lapped. I argued that the officials before the race said they weren't pulling anyone. But he gave me the "listen chump--get off the course" shake of his head. I had about a 10 second lead/1 minute 50 second deficit (depending on your perspective) at this point, so I attacked. I was able to hold them off for one more lap before they roared on by. Short of breath, rapid heart rate, delirious with my pride in tatters, I pulled over to the curb and cussed. Pretty shitty ass debut but totally deserving given my training. At least I cheated death...but just barely. Hope you are well.

Johnny GoSlow