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Well, I don’t know that I have ever been so glad to finish a TT. 

Garage was out in force at Green Valley today, and the results were nothing to sneeze at. Flavio had the best time of the day, took the 1/2 race, and placed third in Masters. I finished 2nd to the malignant force known as Gallaher, and while this would normally trigger thoughts of seppuku, the back story of today’s race was better than the results.

Flavio started things out by flatting his disc at the gun. He returned to his car, grabbed his trainer wheel, re-started, and rolled a time that was good enough for third in the Masters. 

Nice. 

The keystone cops routine he and I later put on trying to pump sealant into his tire was, well… less nice.

We managed to pump enough foam on to the tailgate of his truck that Brooke Burke, bikinis, and “Wild On” would have been the natural follow up. 

No such luck. 

Damn.

Equally bad luck with the tire. All foam, no fix. As flat as (insert off-color Brooke Burke comment here.)

With complete disregard for the flat, the foam, the re-emergence of winter, a complete lack of sleep, and Mr. Gallaher’s repeated proclamations of “I’m beating you guys today, this is my day, I’m going to win.” Flavio borrowed a wheel from Tom and set about storming to the best time of the day on his second ride. Yay Tom’s wheel!

My ride was, well… interesting. 

At the turnaround I was on pace for a good ride, and I was holding things together pretty well until just before the 2k to go mark.  

That was when things got weird. 

Imagine if you will, our protagonist: head down, rolling  55×11 at his usual glacial cadence, full lactic acid bath in effect. As the storm clouds gather on the horizon, and a minor chord emerges from the organ loft, consider what evil is afoot on this gray day. Surely this diminutive figure poses no harm to anyone; what portents are there for the evil that is to come?

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a  red panel truck emerges. With a heavy foot on the gas, and scant inches to spare, it passes on a blind curve. In mid, sweeping curve, the van darts in front of the rider, and comes to a sudden and complete stop. 

Yuck.

32 mph to a dead stop in the blink of an eye isn’t the greatest pacing strategy for a 13 mile TT, but at least I didn’t hit the deck.

This, of course, was clearly disappointing for the Rutger Hauer wannabe in the van. Realizing he had failed in his attempt at vehicular manslaughter,  he proceeded to spend the next kilometer or so alternately slowing down, speeding up, slamming on the brakes, and swerving from one side of the road to the other so I couldn’t pass him, interspersing the efforts with profanity and gesticulation. 

Panic stops aren’t a great pacing strategy, but if forced to choose I will take them  – hands down – over the alternative, which in this case was a kilometer of frustration interspersed with moments of sheer terror. Seriously scary stuff. Really.

I did manage to gather data on my new “double-bird” time trial position, though, so I can now provide information on the drag coefficient of a rider in the fully upright position with bilaterally symmetrical extension of the center finger. So that’s something.

I was eventually able to get around Rutger through a combination of desperately suicidal maneuvering, the obstruction of a rider in front of us (who was scared s***less,) and the sudden appearance of witnesses as we neared the finish line. Rutger hit the brakes and slewed sideways, I sprinted around the other rider, across both lanes and clear, he got stuck behind the other rider, and by the time he was able to get around the other rider, we were close to the finish line and the comforting gaze of impartial third party testimony.

Sensing that further attempts at mayhem and destruction were bound to be observed, Rutger knew the gig was up, and with a cursory swerve and a mere tap of his side view mirror to my shoulder, he was on his way… 

…and my race was over.

…well, except for that last 1/2 K or so, which went about as well as you would expect.

End result was – miraculously – 2nd place in the masters, and third best time of the day. Gallaher beat me by 1 second, and punctuated the news of his victory with repeated fist pumps in the air, and repeated recitation of the word “YES!” 

He was, needless to say, slightly less exuberant in his exhortations once the tale of “Flavio and the flat, Rutger, and Matt” had been relayed to him.

The End.

MH