Oh boy, what a whirlwind of a Friday! Punched out of work at the stroke of 2 but didn’t manage to flee town till about 4. Ross and I bid adieu to Lolo around 5, only to crash into our beds at the ungodly hour of 1:40 AM on Saturday. Not exactly what you’d call a masterclass in race prep, huh?
To add to my list of questionable life choices, I was harboring a gut bomb of some peanut-infused trail mix that I was positively certain would come back to haunt me at dawn.
And haunt me it did. The next morning’s “issues” led me on a pilgrimage to Melba for what I hoped would be a magical trio: bacon, sausage, and a triumvirate of coffee cups aimed at… let’s say, easing the situation. Little did I know, I was on the brink of discovering my next big pre-race secret weapon. Armed with nothing but grease and caffeine coursing through my veins, I left my competition in the dust. Honestly, it was my best showing since the infamous Rolling Thunder.
As we were driving away from the adrenaline-pumped scene at Barking Spider, Ross hit me with, “You must feel pretty good about today’s outcome,”
“Well, of course… but,” I trailed off, my mind racing back through the day’s escapades. Let’s tally it up: started in something like 70th place, made a beeline to the front, and then zoomed off to outpace the pro field by a cool 3 minutes. The whole affair was nothing short of astounding, and it hadn’t really fully sunk in yet.
“I’d trade it all in a heartbeat to get back what I’ve lost,” I murmured, my voice tapering into a mumble as I braced myself for the impending need to elaborate. Ross, bless him, stayed silent. Just like my pals back in Plattsburgh, NY, came to realize, I wasn’t racing solo today – brought my demons along for the ride.
Boneshakerbike 
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