THE MS150 CHRONICLES 2013 PART III - SATURDAY AFTERNOON

After lunch, I make the mistake of laying down in the grass at the Bellville fairgrounds, a fluttering breeze wafting down upon me, the sun a gentle kiss upon my brow, my ass and legs sinking further and further into the turf, perhaps there to remain for the rest of the day, the balance of the day’s MS150 ride a fond if abstract regret.  But no, it was not to be.  Duty called, and after a 15 minute nap I was back on the road.  I cruise through the tree-lined streets of Bellville, the townsfolk cheering on both sides.  Several houses have bubble machines going that spread a wall of soapy confection across the Riders.  I’m waving and calling out, suck down a few bubbles to no ill effect, and then break out onto the open road.

 

I go a few more miles, and I’m now closing in on the halfway point of my ride, so I know that whatever pain I’ve experienced up to that point, it’s only going to be worse for the second half.  So thank you, nameless bike mechanic, for selling me new Kevlar tires that amplify the impact of the minutest pebble in the asphalt into a machine-gun like vibration that is relayed directly to my scrotal sac, as well as to my increasingly aggrieved left knee.  Apparently there is a price to pay for failing to challenge that whole Tire Rot scenario back at the bike shop. 

Whining about it isn’t going to do me any good, though, so I roll on several more miles and come upon a most welcome traffic sign that reads: LaGrange 28 miles.  This would turn out to be egregiously and infuriatingly untrue.  My first hint is four miles later as I pull into a rest stop.  I’m turning into the driveway, and a lady with a megaphone is repeating “12 miles to your next rest stop; 28 miles to LaGrange.”  I roll by and ask her how this could be true, seeing as how there’s a traffic sign four miles back that says “28 miles to LaGrange”?  “You can’t believe everything you read, Dorlin’”, she said.  That would not be the last time somebody would call me Dorlin’ that weekend, and while it was sweet, it still didn’t take away the sting of disappointment, nor allay my newfound paranoia that traffic signs might not necessarily be telling me the truth.

I take care of business at the rest stop, and I’m back on the road for only a short time when I look over to see one of the familiar big white MS150 support vans driving by in the left hand lane.  Most of these vans have a sign in the right rear passenger side window with cheerful slogans and encouraging words for the Riders.  In multi-color lettering, this one says simply “The MS150 sucks”.  I do a double take, but it’s travelling slowly enough for me to be sure of what I’ve seen.  Now what local knucklehead, I’m thinking, goes to the trouble of owning a plain white panel van, much less cruise it up and down the ranks of thousands of Cyclists so as to give them the Raspberry?  Or this is a deranged SAG driver?

I don’t see him again.

I peddle about four more miles and haven’t had long to contemplate the bizarre van before I roll up on a very large, official looking MS150 sign along the right shoulder that announces “LaGrange 28 miles”.   “Are you f*cking kidding me?” I say to myself.  Apparently I say it loud enough for others around me to hear it.  I press on without offering any explanation, but somebody owes me one.  This is the third time I’ve informed various body parts that we were within 28 miles of the finish, and they are not amused.  On the plus side, I do notice that I am passing riders consistently, the left leg finally called to its duty, with me clipping along at an 18-19 mph pace on the flat, the wind having veered ever so slightly out of the SSE to our left front quarter.

I come up on Mile 65 or so, and there finally is a field of Blue Bonnets, Indian Paint Brush and a little tiny sunflower-looking plant whose name I don’t know running out as far as the eye can see.  Curiously, I’ve not seen a lot of other plots of the famous Texas wildflowers - much less in such abundance - and I will not see another one for the rest of the ride.  Small matter; I saw this one, and got a picture:
 

 

Sorry, cell phone cameras just don’t do it justice, so I got a close-up of one patch:

 

 

We’re down to about eight miles to go to the finish, and I’m nursing things along.  My thighs and calves have started cramping, and once a big one hits, I’m generally done because I can’t make it go away, so I’m pacing myself.  We finally reach the “T” that signals the left hand turn and a two mile home stretch, and once again I’m amazed at the number of folks who’ve come out to cheer us on. 

Soon enough I’m making that familiar right hand turn into the Finish, running down the chute, and wondering how it is physically possible for the several hundreds of photographers that seem to stalk every mile of the MS150 to all make a decent living photographing the Riders, much less how half that number are implausibly stuffed into the hundred yard length of the Finish Line.  Back in the old days, there would be a Photog every few miles and a couple at the end, and you would receive your notice that the Brightroom package could be had for a mere $29.00 for the CD, $35.00 for actual pictures including an 8 by 10 suitable for framing.

I blame TV.  See, I can’t shake the conviction that in a media saturated age where literally anybody - ANYBODY – can get onto a Reality TV show, that EVERYBODY must assume that someday one of those Bodies might just be them.  How else to explain the popularity of “Buckwild”, a show about a handful of inbred Goobers who claim to represent West Virginia, doing nothing more than getting drunk and playing the fool? 

This notion would resonate with a bunch of folks who dress like peacocks to get in their exercise.  We all look better, photograph better and have all of our teeth.  It would also explain why the Paparazzi – benevolent though they may be - are so thick on the ground.  So, at least for the weekend, we are all Lindsay Lohan or Tom Cruise: minus the personal drama or height challenged paranoia, of course.  The Papa’s are literally lining the left side, their humungous camera lenses practically resting on the shoulder of the guy in front of them, so our interaction with the Folks is limited to the right side.  Friendly hands reach out toward us as they cheer us on, all of them now expert at accounting for your 10 mph speed and letting their hand yield as it comes in contact with your own, so that your hand feels the palms slip through it at the rate of sometimes several per second, with nary a distraction from keeping your bike upright.

I slow, turn the corner, and the Day’s ride is done.  I’m still surrounded by friendly smiling faces and walk towards the Mattress Firm tent, secure in the knowledge that a hot shower, a good meal, a wonderful massage, a gallon of measurably applied fluids and a genuine mattress as my cot will in no way prevent the multiple leg cramps that will hit me all at once around 3:15 in the morning, causing me to shoot up in my cot and exclaim “son of a bitch!”

My tent-mates will be serenely undisturbed.....