I think I can speak on behalf of the MS150 Cycling community when I say
that truer words were never spoke upon the occasion of waking up on a Sunday
morning in LaGrange: the previous day’s ride working its thousand natural shocks
on various body parts, and the present
day’s ride contemplated with no small dread from the comfort of your little
pallet; the early morning sound of volunteers disturbing not just the sleep
that would bring an end to Heartache, but a sleep that would allow us,
perchance, to dream.
Do you hear me Heartache?
Whatever. Props to William S for
so adequately summing up the situation; and while I hadn’t absolutely decided
as of waking up Sunday morning not to ride, the fact that riding was optional
allowed me to look at it in a whole different light. Gone was the compulsion to be up at 4:45am so
as to be in line for pancakes by 5:15am so as to be in the Rider Que by 5:45am
so as to stand there stupefied for another two hours, waiting for the frigging
mass of Riders to finally – finally – move out of the campground and onto the
route to Austin just before 8:00am.
So it was only logical that – being free of the necessity of getting up
at 4:45am – I got up at 4:45am, mostly because there is one aspect of the early Sunday morning
experience in LaGrange that is completed invested with virtue, and that is The
Pancake Breakfast. It’s a near-religious
experience and that’s a lucky thing, seeing as how the closest any of the Riders in
LaGrange will be getting to a house of worship will be the dozens passed whilst biking to Austin. If you appreciate the égalité vibe of the MS
riding experience, you do the Pancake Breakfast, regardless of what your team
is serving: Your wait in line is mere minutes, the wonderful smell surrounding
you even if well away from the entrance.
The building is barn-like, with huge entrance and exit doors. As you get closer, the warmth of the building
gushes out, never more welcome than on a morning like Sunday, when it was under
50 degrees.
Once you’re in the door, you’re served within minutes, the coffee and other beverages close at hand, melted butter, syrup and fruit just outside the door; and everywhere, there are volunteers young and old. Breakfast is my favorite meal, and this is my favorite breakfast. That’s why it struck me as nigh on to sacrilege when one of my fellow Riders earlier described his pancake breakfast thusly: “they were slightly burnt on the outside and slightly undercooked on the inside, just like I like ‘em!” Then he laughed, making it apparent that he neither liked them that way nor thought much of the skills of the volunteers. What a crock. To watch the LaGrange volunteers make pancakes is to understand how wars are won. Their machine-like efficiency means that nary a pancake is anything but perfect, and there’s not a sense that is not pleased. That could only mean that the critical Rider was probably incapable of enjoying his pancakes unless they were cut up for him by Mommy, who no doubt nursed him until he was seven.
I head back to the team tent, but neither the walk to or from the
Breakfast tent was fun, the left knee acting up severely. Was I to go and get my bike, I’d be using it
more to hold me up than for its intended purpose, and I decide to punt on
riding Sunday. When I go inside, I am
amused to see that there was one Mattress Firm rider less motivated than
myself: a tiny female who managed to burrow yet ever further into her sleeping
bag as the approaching dawn, our volunteers, the noise of flushing toilets, her
fellow Riders and the sheer mass of the MS150 experience encroached upon her
Personal Space. I know it was a woman because
when sunlight comes up, only women burrow.
Ironically, she was in the exact middle of the tent, so stepping around
her was no obstacle. As things progressed,
mattresses were removed and stacked up until she was alone – a tiny island of somnolence
in a sea of activity. My last clear
image was of a huge tent devoid of humanity except for her. Good for her.
She had a schedule, and she was sticking to it.
I helped the Volunteers load the last items onto the truck bound for
Austin, then caught a ride on that truck, more than a little disappointed as
the last of the Riders left the campgrounds around 9:00am. The ride to Austin took just over an hour,
and I got a panoramic view of the timber ravaged by the wildfires that burned
down Buescher State Park along with hundreds of square miles around it. The damage came all the way south to Hwy 71,
and continued for almost a mile. We
paralleled the Riders for a good stretch of the Day Two ride. We arrived in Austin without incident, and I
helped unload the luggage for the 200 Riders on Team Mattress Firm. Once done, I walked over to a couple team
mates that were taking pictures of the capital building in the distance and
asked what they were taking pictures of.
“The Sniper”, he replied. “The
Sniper? Where?” “That building right in front of the capital,
left front corner.” Sure enough, right
there was a guy in shirtsleeves with body armor, and that funky floppy hat that
Navy Seals wear. He was slowly and
continuously sweeping the grounds with a huge pair of binoculars, the rifle
itself implausibly long, and no doubt wickedly accurate.
I retrieved my bike and took it to the truck that would return it to
Rhodes Stadium. I no sooner started to
walk away when a young lady walked up – having just finished the ride – and stepped
smack into a hole in the pavement about 8” wide by almost a foot deep that
housed some kind of utility access. A
bunch of us surrounded her, and I eased her foot out of the hole; she bore the
pain well, but it was clearly sprained.
After less than a minute, we had her situated and as comfortable as she
could be until the paramedics showed up.
“Somebody please take my picture”, she said as she pulled out her
iPhone, “my mother will never believe this.”
By the mutual looks of us bystanders, the consensus was that this was a
unique thing to say at such a time, as well as amusing. The guy next to me took her picture, and the
rest of us – showing admirable restraint – left our phones in our pockets.
Two cops helped her into a lawn chair; her name was Jenny, and I asked if she wanted me to
notify somebody at her team tent, since I was walking back that way. She said yes, but then said “wait, don’t
mention my ankle; they will want to an incident report.” “Oookay; what should I say?” “Tell them I’ve finished, but I won’t be able
to make it back to the tent for a while.”
Apparently she was a little paranoid about her employer knowing about the injury. I didn’t say anything else, but figured I would
come up with some kind of explanation, until I realized that their tent was in an entirely
different sector. See, they were one of those teams that practically takes up a sector all by themselves. I won't name the team, but they have lot's of consonants in their name.
Anyway, it was probably all for the best that I not complete my mission: I wasn’t relishing walking up as a complete stranger and telling one of the biggest teams on the Ride that their 5’ tall co-worker Jenny had finished the ride, but “wouldn’t be making it back to the tent for a while.” Sworn to secrecy, I would be unable to offer anything other than vague assurances that everything was fine, really, while not being able to provide any additional detail, including where the hell she was. This scenario and all its unpleasant possibilities played out in my mind in the minute it took to walk up the street from where I had left her. I turned back to discuss the matter with her further, but in just that short interval the EMTs had apparently shown up and whisked her away.
Anyway, it was probably all for the best that I not complete my mission: I wasn’t relishing walking up as a complete stranger and telling one of the biggest teams on the Ride that their 5’ tall co-worker Jenny had finished the ride, but “wouldn’t be making it back to the tent for a while.” Sworn to secrecy, I would be unable to offer anything other than vague assurances that everything was fine, really, while not being able to provide any additional detail, including where the hell she was. This scenario and all its unpleasant possibilities played out in my mind in the minute it took to walk up the street from where I had left her. I turned back to discuss the matter with her further, but in just that short interval the EMTs had apparently shown up and whisked her away.
So, feeling I was off the hook, I headed back to my team tent, and had lunch with a few of the Riders just newly in. Then I went and visited the St. Arnolds tent, chatted with a bunch of their folks and drank some more beer. About 1:30pm, Riders were finishing in ever greater numbers, and rather than be in the way, it occurred to me that it would be nice to get home relatively early in the day for once, so I grabbed my luggage and headed for the bus depot.
As I walked – or more accurately gimped – towards the table set up for
Riders, two nice ladies in their 30s sitting there felt like they needed to
encourage me: “Come on Dorlin’. You only
got a little ways to go”. When I arrived,
I got my first indication that the registration gremlins that had plagued me in
the past may have reared their ugly little heads after all. “What’s your name Dorlin’?” “Pete Smith”
“Sorry, I don’t see a Pete Smith here, or a Peter Smith; did you maybe
register late Dorlin’?” “Nope,
registered back in August” “Waaaal,
we’re not gonna let a little thing like that get in our way; go ahead and get
on the bus!” By now, her big Dallas
blonde hair – which just minutes ago had seemed a bit out of place – was like a
halo. She put an official “X” on the back of my hand
with a Sharpie. She reacted to the smile
spreading across my face with one of her own, as did her cohort. “That’s some system you’ve got here Ladies.” “Yes, Dorlin’; yes it is!”
I got on the bus, and in another ten minutes we are on down the highway. With nothing to distract me, I notice several
fields of bluebonnets along Hwy 71, and several more after it merges onto I-10. Soon enough, I’m back at Rhodes, and Sharon
is rolling up the long driveway to pick me up, the weekend now complete. I’m a little disappointed but philosophical
about not being able to ride Sunday, but it is what it is.
EPILOGUE:
I recalled a couple of other memorable moments from Saturday that I thought I would share: It’s Saturday about half way between Belville and LaGrange, which would put me at about Mile 65. We were all slogging up what was arguably one of the longest steepest hills of the day. It would turn out not to be the longest or the steepest. When I got to the top, there on our right was a family with a canopy, pickup and a farm tractor with a bucket. The bucket was filled with ice and every description of soda and beer, along with water. These folks explained that they did this every year, and had no affiliation with the MS150. As the Dad explained it “we just want to be sure all the Riders are taken care of.”:
I recalled a couple of other memorable moments from Saturday that I thought I would share: It’s Saturday about half way between Belville and LaGrange, which would put me at about Mile 65. We were all slogging up what was arguably one of the longest steepest hills of the day. It would turn out not to be the longest or the steepest. When I got to the top, there on our right was a family with a canopy, pickup and a farm tractor with a bucket. The bucket was filled with ice and every description of soda and beer, along with water. These folks explained that they did this every year, and had no affiliation with the MS150. As the Dad explained it “we just want to be sure all the Riders are taken care of.”:
The World's Most Welcome Sight
I rode on a few more miles, and as I approached the top of the highest
hill that day, to the right was a band that was playing “Don’t Fear The Reaper”, which put a
smile on everybody’s face. As I crest
the hill, I’m directly in front of the band and yell out “more cowbell!” The lead singer yells back “I don’t get it!”,
a big smile on his face. He’s playing a
cowbell, as are what I presume to be his three kids. They had more than enough cowbell.
It’s now the Thursday after the MS150 weekend, and I get the e-mail
notifying me that my pictures are available for viewing. I open the website,
and there amongst the dozen images of me from Saturday are several pictures of
a female rider. I enlarge her picture
and her number is 1443. My number is
1443. “Aha!”, I shout, startling my
wife who is in the chair next to me……
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