With a bone chilling ancient creek, similar to that of fingernails drug slowly across a chalkboard, I thrust my rusty door into the wind and then thrust my body out into the rain. The bombardment of pounding precipitation feels like I'm being spat on while running at mach speed down a hallway lined with pissed off jeering "Lunner Haters," Now imagine these so called, Lunner Haters, have conspired to place a jet engine at the end of this never ending hallway. Whirling madly, the gigantic turbines rip like a frigidly cold ass-hole, if such a thing exists, stagnating my progress. This in turn allows the jeering crowd ample time to aim and propel their viciously malignant saliva at my face. Yet still, I lurch forward with a stubborn yet purposeful step because I signed up for this....and although I'm cold and saturated from the taunting sky, I take a moment to revel in the magic of bicycle racing and the madness that is about to take place.

Actually this is just the ride to registration from the field I parked in a mile away. It is the back drop. A beautiful damp ether of which to engage the Spring Hill Road Race. I managed to park after getting my truck out of the ditch that the guy with the orange flag directed me to turn aound in...Turns out...that 12 inch tall grass that everyone else parked in was actualy about 3 feet tall and growing out of the bottom of a muddy culvert. Catastrophe avoided through the use of a 23 year old 4-wheel drive toyota, I mount my bike and stroll towards the registration tent. Along the way I Pleasantly collect raindrops in my absorbent cotton jeans and tennis shoes. After this pleasant foray......I pin my number onto my jersey, assemble my food and jump back on my Pegoretti racing just to get to the start line in time. Welcome to Nor-Cal Pro-Am racing at its finest. Riders ready....and were off.
The days activities include four, 22 mile laps, on an always undulating course with poor to bad pavement. A California classic indeed. The conditions are as salubriously described earlier. Riding in the pack is dangerous and unpleasant. Banging into each other as we jockey for position we are pressure washed in the face by the rooster tails coming off the riders wheel in front of us...This is no place to be. So the games begin and I meander into almost every break attempt of the day and finally succeed in getting in a well represented group for the first lap. I'm pleased with my break mates. Good selections and I feel confident going into the finish line against them. The going is easy as we all take turns for a while. Then we're caught. Yippee.........lets start the process over again. I actually hate this process and being an ex-DH mountain biker and over confident descender I follow a small group over the next climb and gas it on the ensuing descent. Bingo....next break and I'm in it.

The rest is history.....and I'm not going to do the play by play.....lets just say I'm not a tactician......more of a straight shooter, I like to break souls and engage in the moment of craziness that is always present in cycing. Sometimes I get lucky......I always have fun. Today I broke a few souls.....including my own. Mission accomplished. See ya next time......the rest of entry is dedicated to anyone who has done the following.............

This spirit braking perpetual precipitation has become an extension of my skin. Together we have united in a symbiotic fashion, but after sixty two miles of epic racing I have pulled my own plug. No fire left, my matches smoldering, I resign to the task of returning to my truck. In the process I try to down shift with my left thumb, but it buckles from the cold like a broken toothpick and I am forced to shift with the palm of my hand. Awesome....! Then I pause....... In relief and realization I stand tall on my pedals. Bracing my upper body under locked out elbows I observe my beautiful surroundings. Then closing my eyes I prepare myself....this is about to be them most satisfying moment of the day.........Like warm sunshine, I embrace the heat rushing down my inner thigh, caressing and curling around my calf muscle and filling my shoe with ebullient festive warmth. My toes dance too the music of this truly bio dynamic function. I just pissed myself....and on the way back to my truck I proceed to do it three more times thoroughly enjoying every moment off it. Its the little things that count......

OK.........I didn't want to delete this so here is a little more mumbo jumbo.
My thoughts peruse the days events as I cruise the eight or so miles back to my 87, 4-runner. DNF.....(did not finish) will be stamped after my name on the results. Along with half the field. For a moment I am not to happy, but then the hell with it. "Off the front, or out the back.......I hate fo finish in the fucking pack." I then feel good about myself once more. Out numbered, I am the only member of my Above Category Racing team, racing this season. I would have to say the first 42 odd, um,? even miles were some of the most aggressive racing I ever done. Up against a full squad of Cal-Giant, (Cal-Gina's), and Yahoo's( Yea-A-Hoot to race with) I find it quite satisfying that I split the field and narrowed it down to 3 yahoos and 2 Gina's all on my own.....Come to think of it....I eventually whittled it down even further with my next solo foray off the front....spitting the only supporting cal gina out the back as his strong teamate made him chase chase me down.
I realize it is all tactics and in retrospect Jesse Moore and Tyler Dibble, the eventual first and second place, were just keeping track of each other and I was a pawn in the game.