Suffering on a Grand Scale

Note: This post has been modified from its original version to include more smack talk, as per ECCC Blogreel poll guidelines. Edits can be seen in brackets.


New Hampshire [A state that, frankly, sucks] is kind of far away from Rochester, but that didn't really stop us. After all, New Hampshire has that rock that looks like a face that people seem to really like, even if it did explode a couple years back, or something. After a long drive through some hillbilly areas (one sign informed us of Hillbilly Fun Park in the vicinity), we ended up at White River Junction, a town that as far as I'm concerned has nothing beyond a Dunkin' Donuts, a Super 8 and a China Moon restaurant.

The next morning was gray and a little chilly, but not so chilly that I had too put any more material on my legs than I had too, a benefit of still not having fully shaven my legs. Chris, Zach and I put up a fantastic ride, two seconds off of Northeastern and two and a half seconds off of Tufts [You're dead, Tufts. That's right, this is a written threat. I'm going to freakin' kill you], which is to say one of us wearing an aero helmet would've netted us third. Tim and Anthony also had a solid ride in D, Peter and Will desperately missing Jesse but still putting up a competitive time for just the two of 'em. Sam had the bad luck to drop her chain on one of the hill's resulting in what was, by Amanda's account, a comically low-speed fall.

The crit approached as the day got colder and Anthony and Will got more and more wired on espresso. A brief rundown of the course led me to the conclusion that someone, at sometime, was going into the drink. This did not happen [but it probably should have, since you're all scrubs who have no business riding a bike]. The race itself was tiring [probably more tiring for you guys than for me, because I am so goddamn great], what with the little hill. I ended up with an 11th place [because I let somebody else win] with Zach coming in right behind after some quick thinking got him around a crash. The RIT men's intro took their laps with both Pat and Andrew pickin' up points. The ladies were unhappy with their first foray into a Women's B crit, with both ending up getting pulled and both definitely displeased by the fact. Peter, in the spirit of smacktalk, asked a young man wearing a striped polo and khakis where the Audi was parked, positing it was perhaps in his Daddy's garage, and perhaps he would pick it up when he went to the yacht club later. The young man was not amused. When he decided to race, Peter took a couple of primes and a fourth place finish. Will, who halfway through the race looked as if the espressos he'd been pounding finally turned on him, held on to the pack despite going through some wicked withdrawal shakes.

During some downtime between crits, I went off in search of beer, specifically Stinson's, a store I learned of from another rider. On my trek, I discovered two things: 1) There are cops all over Hanover, which makes it very difficult to be a dick cyclist and blow through red lights, and 2) Dartmouth students have a difficult time discerning left from right when giving directions. I achieved my goal, but not before someone complimented my bike, which I thought was odd because I ride a Trek and nobody should be complimenting it. Feel free, however, to compliment my Adonis-like good looks and chiseled abs. My foray into town also helped my team find Boloco, a review of which can be read directly below this post.

We went back to our hotel, some to sleep, others to watch zombie movies and complain about the impotent stream in our shower. After some digesting, we went back into town to Everything But Anchovies, where I took it upon myself to eat an entire pizza and Amanda took it upon herself to ask what the difference between parmesan and provolone was, as well as comment on our server's "funny accent." We had a word find competition on the children's menu, which I won [because I am so goddamn great]. Best word found: shat. Or knurt, which I guess is trunk backwards. Anthony took it upon himself to make up words, find words with letters not in order and probably even add some letters in himself. I also authored a heartwarming comic about two friends and cats.

We woke the next morning pumped for the road race, but especially excited to see Joe Kopena's car had been saran wrapped (shenanigans). Look how helpless he is:

We, and several other vehicles, followed him to the staging area, but he was obviously flustered by the run in with cellophane and led us through the twists and turns of Vermont before realizing that he had gone the exact opposite way. We did make it to the start, which I was delighted (read: utterly crushed) to discover was on top of a rather large hill.

The road race started with a dirty downhill dotted with dimples, though it was, mercifully, a neutral part of the ride [I would've killed it had we actually raced, though]. We then continued to ride for several miles before actually realizing that we were actually racing, and I think it took a lot of the group even longer than that to figure it out. I, in the spirit of trash talk, commented that I was pleased that I had decided to ride with Women's B, which turned out to be a mistake. At the end of the first uphill, my gears started switching wildly and my chain started slipping, and curse words, despite the warnings of the marshalls, started slipping from my mouth as I slipped out of the pack and slipped out of contention. Having been crapped out the back end, Zach caught up to me and we worked on getting back into the group.

For the next part of the story, just play this link in the background: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZnHmskwqCCQ .

Alright, so there we're catching up to the group, little by little. I figure the best time to catch them is on the descent into the hairpin, so I bomb it. I forget that it's a hairpin, and brake way too late. Zach, bike handler that he is, goes around, speeding off into the distance. I shoot out into the field, keep my bike up, turn it around and crank back to the road, where I discover a ditch and about a foot and a half drop. All the marshalls are frozen, waiting to see what I'll do; I go for it. It ends poorly for me, as this artist's rendering shows:

I get back on, a marshall comes running over, helps me put my chain back on and gives me a push. After a nice paceline with a couple of guys, I end up on my own again and finish...poorly. As a sidenote, I end up making horrible heaving noises after a long climb. Chris ends up with the best D finish at 34, Lee manages to snap his rear derailleur in half and Tim narrowly misses being in the Women's B finishing picture. Speaking of Women's B, both Amanda and Sam finished, with Amanda having an experience in the aforementioned field similar to my won and Sam somehow making it through with major mechanical problems that required her to walk up much of the hilly bits. You can turn off the music now. I worked on my euro-pro cyclist tanlines while C went off, with both Peter and Will finishing in a near-dead state. Will noticed that some guys had gotten off their bikes and decided to stretch in the middle of the final climb (what the hell, guys), while others made moves off the front to go pee. I may try this.

We packed up and left, lurching forward to our western new york goal. Will suggested we stop for food, which, by the time the words had reached the front of the Mole Van, had somehow morphed into a suggestion that we stop for gas, so we did. Several hours later, we ended up eating at Golden Corral, which, if you're looking to put on several pounds or just want to make a pile of banana pudding covered in gummi candy, is the place to go. A late night return and an exhausted crew, both from excessive eating and brutal climbing made for a rather subdued return trip.