It’s been some three odd, possibly more, years since I partook in an OCUP event.
There are reasons a few and many.
Some of whom are here;
- These races cost real money
- I had been using this time to complete uber incredible long-distance cycling exploits of excellence
- Regardless of said fitness, that is – even when fit, races that don’t last as long as the commute are not my forte
- Forte or norte I had become grossly unfit
The remainder of the reasons are essentially variations of the latter.
My ‘riding funk’ began with injuries imposed by overexertion and danger.
Officially, my personal awesome and the repeated triumphs it brought, had taken their physical toll…on my mind and body.
Eventually and ultimately this funk culminated in a new, but equally clear ‘funk riding’.
I have repeatedly sworn, attempted and subsequently failed to mount any measurable effort at a return to form.
Truths be told, I had (instead) utilized all intent to convince myself that I didn’t really miss it…and I filled my days with wallow and squaller.
Frustrated by this lack of ambition (and discipline and effort and the ability to see mine own penis) I determined that only the inevitability of public humiliation would suffice.
Lap one. Climb one.
Lap two. Climb one.
A kind (cow)-hearted citizen refused to allow my indecency to continue:
Lap three. Climb one.
At long last, my final fuck of the day is given:
Fast forward much time the later, I arrived (all alone) at the finish line.
Where the medics wrapped me in a foil blanket and asked me what day it was.
None the more or less, it was good to be back, if by back I do only mean on a bike.
Thanks be to Steve ‘Cow Heart’ Martin.
For the undoctored photos.
For the use of his personal Misfit.
For reluctantly reducing the ratio (on said) to a partially manageable 36:20.