The Ride to the Race

Wake up. Drink. Water, then coffee. Eat. Oatmeal, banana, honey, peanut butter, raisons. Mush. Mash. Paste. Pulp. Like something you would feed to an infant. Or livestock. Or the elderly. Clean your chain. Oil it. Clean the oil from the chain. Attach your saddlebag. Fill it with a repair kit. And sandals. And a change of clothes. Get dressed. Spandex, socks, shoes. A jersey with numbers pinned on the back. Numbers that hide your sponsors’ logos. Fill your water bottle. Finish your coffee. Clip on your helmet. Kiss your girlfriend goodbye. Out the door. On the road.

Pedal. Across Stark Street. Up 86^th. A right on Burnside. Across the Max tracks. Careful not to get your thin tires caught in the groove. On to the bike path. The one that follows the 205. Pedal. Pass the bums that lounge beneath the bridges. Pass the smokers who lollygag on the path. Pass the dog walkers and the Saturday strollers. Swing a left. Cross the big bridge. The Glenn Jackson. The one that opened the year you were born. 1982. The one that sees over 100,000 automobiles a day. The one that is two miles long. The one that saw three men die during its construction. The one with four lanes going both ways. The one with a bike path smack dab in the middle of those eight lanes. Pedal. As cars fly towards you on your left side. Pedal. As cars zip by on your right. Seventy miles per hour. Their taillights disappearing in the distance.

Enter Washington. Where pot is legal. Enter Vancouver. Named after George. The explorer. From British Royal Navy fame. The guy who gave Mount St. Helens its name. Along with Mount Hood. And Mount Rainier. All of which can be seen in the distance. All of which can be seen on this crystal-clear blue-sky day. Pedal. Uphill. Northeast. Right. Left. Right. Repeat. Right. Left. Right. Repeat. Think. About anything. But not about the race. Think. About life. About love. About death. No. Don’t think about death. Not while riding on these busy streets. Think. About society. About passion. About writing. About a new style. Call it scatter-shot. Scatter-shot writing. Here. There. Everywhere. Now. Then. Over again. Wow! Are people going to hate it…

Pedal. On country roads with no shoulders. Pedal. As cars whip by. Cars that are too close for comfort. Focus on the white line. Not on the ditch to your right. Not on the ditch that falls five feet deep. Focus. On the road. Not on the cars. The cars with bicycles on their roofs. Cars with bicycles on their trunks. Trucks with bicycles in their beds. At least you know you’re going the right way. Pedal. Up hills. Steep hills that test your chain. Steep hills that test your legs. Pedal. Into the wind. Twenty miles per hour. The wind speed. Not yours. Uphill. Into the wind. Singlespeed. 38 by 16. Five miles per hour. At best. Pedal.

Fly. Downhill. Finally. Fly. As fast as you can go. Beneath a canopy of trees. Shade that blocks the midday sun. The midday sun that’s scorching the Earth. 90 degrees and climbing. Fly. Down the winding road. Until it comes to a dead-end. Until you’re at the venue. Alderwood Park. Thirty miles from home. Find your team. Find your tent. Drop your bag. Refill your water. Study the course. Eat a gel. Use the bathroom. Line up for your race. Listen for your name. Hear it. Roll to the starting line. Listen to the official. “Single speeds ready.” Listen for the whistle. Go!