I met Warren at the bar on Friday night, for one beer. That was the plan. But they know me too well there. By the end of the night, I’d had three. I paid for none- full pints just kept appearing in front of me, my glass never empty for a second. I left a sizable tip and weaved out the door.
A 10am start had sounded luxurious when I signed up for Whirlybird Cross, but, on the day, the largess of my bartending friends and the length of the drive proved to be tall hurdles.
I bumped into Jed at the race and he offered me a trainer. I got on, and suddenly the horizon felt very untrustworthy. Clearly those beers’ effects had not completely worn off. Oh well. Twenty minutes later I was pre-riding the course.
I rolled up to the start with a minute to spare, and squeezed myself in between the 45+ and 55+ fields, who had all lined up already, so I was in something like row 12 1/2. Deep. But, what the hell- I didn’t come to win. I came to get dirty.