Being Hardcore gives me an ice cream headache

We ventured out in the rain yet again today at lunch.

I know I shouldn't complain. What with others riding in snow in sandals and stuff.

But I am only hardcore on the outside. I swear, there was a point in our ride today, where the cold rain pelted my forehead and gave me brain freeze.

Thats just stupid.

~~

On Sunday the entire contents of the Dukes Hotet suited up for a ride.

There is Jen who survived Montana winters without water and slogged through snow to use the outhouse and just smiles wider as the conditions get uglier.






There is Brent, the Bonny Doon bigfoot. And I mean that in the nicest, burliest, hairiest legged way.






There is Laura who says her suffering days are behind her, but she lies. I have seen her win races while she was still drunk.






And there is Michael, who believes in intervals regardless of rain, snow, sleet or hail. Draconian I think was the word.





And then there is me. Who was quite comfy eating banana pancakes and sitting in the warm rocking chair and listening to Retro-Active on the goofy tv music channel and teasing the kitties with the laser pointer and watching the rain outside the window.

The rain.

Jen wanted to do a 4 hour hill ride with 2 twenty minute intervals. Everyone else just nodded a "thats fine" as if there was anything sane about what Jen was saying. I just stared in disbelief. Why do I know these people? They are sadists. I am not a sadist. I am a content banana pancake eater.

So I faked like it was fine with me too. Faked it real good.

And we all put on underlayers, wool socks, booties, rainjackets and skullcaps. Just as I was trying to decide between either two layers of long fingered gloves, or the one layered but cozy warm Gore ski glove, I noticed that Jen had fingerless gloves on.

Sadists.

Off we finally went. Up the mountain. Right into the rain clouds. We did not see any other cyclists, no mountain bikers at Demo as we passed, hell...not even any cars. Even driving in this shit was crazy. (Post edit note - we did see Dan Martin riding up Soquel San Jose. But anyone who knows Dan, knows that he is the king of the sadists and so I think a Dan sighting is just proof of our sadisticness)



We did see raging river waterfalls, rockslides, mudslides and road slides. And my 4 sadist friends. And my wet ass.

As we neared the summit and I felt the pain from Saturday's race in my legs and the pain of the rain in my face, my motivation started to slump. My mind scrambled for an excuse. Surely I left the oven on or the garage door open. Or maybe I could just plead sanity?

And then, the sweetest sound I had heard all day....someone said "Let's turn down Soquel San Jose". I kept my mouth shut...not wanting my wimpyness to be revealed. I was afraid the sadists would punish the weakling in our midst. But instead, they all nodded a "thats fine". I nodded a "well, if we have to". And I did a happy dance in my head.

Brent led us safely and quickly down Soquel San Jose. The rain came a pouring in Corralitos, my hands and my mind started going numb. My friends just pedaled and smiled. At about the lowest point of my motivation, when water was pouring from my helmet and feet and I was choosing the spot where I could wait for Sputnik to come pick me up, Michael asked me to do a few intervals.

"Just a few" he said all cute like.

It was a request that was so far into the realm of the ridiculous, so unfathomable...that I was powerless to call it for the craziness that it was. Numbed with cold and fatigue, I did the silly intervals. I think we only did 3 or maybe it was 15. I have no idea. I only have soggy memories of roostered road water splashing into my mouth and grossing me out.

We finally made it home. I had to walk up my driveway. I had to peel drippy wet lycra from my skin. I had to pluck gravel from my hair and eyes. I had to encourage the blood to flow into my feet again.


"That was fun guys!", I lied.