Honestly, every damn one can be summed up as follows:
* Waste gas and lose my way driving to some dumb ass honkey tonk in fire-work selling, cheese-guzzling Worst Consin. (Evanston omitted this step. Bless you Evanston and the delicious preservative-free, live-culture, all natural Red Mango Yogurt shop on the course)
* Drop trou, liberally apply Assos on the raw boys, catch dudes checking out the Italian Stallion's package whilst shimmying into slowly disintegrating team kit.
* Bike malfunction in the fuckin' parking lot. It's all happened, take your pick.
* Use my master mechanic skills to MacGyver things under control.
* Heinous ordeal in the port-a-potty. I usually take pride in my accomplishments, but these are a rare breed of stress-induced on-the-road terrible freaky nasty.
* Try not to make eye contact with the next person in line at the port-a-potty. Poor bastard.
* Try to warm up on local streets with ass face drivers unaware that I am about to rock their streets and they should get their Cheesehead rusted-out pick-up out of my determined way.
* Stew at the start line as the bastard races are running late and the race before mine has been stopped due to some sort of Cat 5-tastropie.
* Take my no-cost lap on some pot-holed, tight-cornered, shit stick course.
* Spin around to the line to find 40 multi-colored lycra-clad love-handled bodies between me and the damn line.
* Intimidate purse-swingers, crush feeble souls and fill my shoes with sweat while sally-faced losers yell, "Hold your line!"
* In the final 1-2 laps, some dousche crashes in front of me. Or into me. Or under me. Or clips my wheel. Or grabs my jersey as he hits the pavement.
* Roll in for some lame-ass mid to late pack finish.
* Have words in the parking lot with some ass face while completing my post-race nutrition requirements.
All of this chaps my already weeping and chafed taint, as my training and fitness has been focusing on Superweek since Coach M. and I laid out our game plan while other riders were packing on their winter weight. I'm better than this. I could totally win all of these races if it weren't for all the other dousches in them. I mean, numbers don't lie.
Now, I totally understand this shit, but I'm not the best at explaining it to you boneheads. But just know that I should be winning these things, no questions asked. Hell, Coachie says mathematically I am a Cat 2 or 3. Shit, I could have told him that.
I mean, plot this shit out. My power above threshold and zero times during a Crit are ideal. My mid-week Crit-specific interval workouts have me blasting 1000+ watts easy as pissing off a bridge. So watts up with the sub-par finishes?
I blame it on the dousche-bags that shouldn't be out there in the first place.
No comments:
Post a Comment