I started out telling an upbeat story about how Tiff and Mike came back after a difficult start. Somehow it became the most self-indulgent writing I'd done.
Racing in the Hill Country. Road Rash. March 28, 2004
The day started a bit gray, one big cloud in the sky. Some of the cloud came down to the well-planned course. It would be a beautiful day with racers taking the turns holding butts extra low.
I hadn't skated for over a week. I was here on doctor's grudging consent. He made it clear my muscles aren't up to competitive skating, but he also believed stopping activities was the worst thing for a spine patient. "Just don't lose balance. You'll be OK." Easy for him to say.
Eddy must have sensed my desperation when we last met. He wrote on a piece of paper "don't give up the dream."
I anxiously waited for the gun at the start. I didn't know how my body would react. I didn't want to find out. There was no time or racer I tried to beat. I didn't know if I could finish. Last time I stood at the start so ambiguously was on 1992 Rollerblade Lightening.
Richard said something over the PA system. I didn't hear him. But I remembered how he finished A2A by sheer determination. I needed some of his courage. Suddenly legs started moving; arms flew. I followed my teammates who helped me through the gentle Georgian hills.
Pace lines formed. Pace lines broke. Everyone wanted the same spots; no one got it. I watched my teammates working together negotiating the course from the back of the lead pack. I had no problem keeping up; I was all fast-twitch muscles. I saw feet moving quickly with frames coming close to each other. I saw Mike's knee bent unnaturally. I froze. I saw Mike set down on the ground. I saw a skater hurdle over him in slow motion. Our coach was not supposed to go down.
Every red-yellow jersey hesitated. Everyone pressed on. Tiffany was left behind, wanting no more to do with the hungry pack. I made her skate behind me. Today would be a success if I could bring my gifted friend back to the race.
I pulled Tiff into the wind. I tried to be steady. I tried to stride evenly. I sensed a drag on my right frame then heard the scrapping sound. I was sick to my stomach. Tiffany went down. She got up; we pushed on. I saw a pack in front of us, and my job was delivering my teammate to that pack. I wasn't as studly as I'd hoped, so she had to share a lot of work, but Tiff eventually bridged the gap, and I was happy. I rested.
I strolled along the windy highway alone, waiting for the next pack to pick me up. Tom and Patricia came.
I was amused to see how much speed Tom lost at every corner. I prompted the workhorse on the mechanics of going right; he caught on quickly. The more he learned, the more Pat struggled. It was weirdly entertaining and rewarding.
Tom suddenly skated away. He had steady strides and didn't care who's behind him. He looked great. I barely pull him back using dangerously long strokes going downhill. My double push blew the pack apart at Long Beach, now it's only good for keeping up with an inexperienced skater who couldn't turn. I have an illness that the best I can hope for is slowness in deterioration. It doesn't matter how flexible or strong I get. My back muscles would seize up every time its load crosses the threshold. I was angry with my body.
I imagined the lead pack negotiating the same wet pavement. I imaged Duane trying to keep up with the sudden acceleration and cursing. I thought about how I would never race among the pro lead pack. I told many Pegasus Flyers it ain't about the speed. Now I was having problem dealing with losing power. I'm such a hypocrite.
I continued to struggle. I was on the verge of slipping that would lead to weeks of funny walking. I remembered the pain of putting on the left sock in January mornings. I was afraid. I wanted to quit. My condition is a mild form of handicap that doesn't even qualify for good parking spaces. Reducing activities would promote losing more mobility. I couldn't quit. I desperately hanged on to my technique. I desperately hanged on to Tom.
I saw Scarlett. She hid behind some bigger Pegasus Flyer, bending over, Tiffany-like. She held her form and tapped out steady rhythm. She's so cool. She smiled at me.
I told Tom when to back off and hide in the slipstream. I told Tom to look for spots to attack. I wasn't going to beat a teammate by withholding information.
My left leg went numb. I tried to hold the speed using one and half legs. I double pushed. I used the technique I finally acquired after years of obsessing. I barely kept up with Tom's 100-mm wheels. I wanted his symmetry. I went through each stroke hoping the leg would do what I think it should.
I expected darkness or enlightenment at the edge of cracking; instead, I found freedom. My past and future no longer mattered. I just needed to make it to the top of the hill. I concentrated on my strides. I carefully contracted my muscles. My life became a smashing success--ampersand, set down, hook, roll, push, recovery. I celebrated over 30 victories per minute. I didn't think about what got me there or where I was going. I felt a primordial urge for motion. I was moving. I was content.
I saw Renee, hurt, dropped, alone. We picked her up right before the turn into headwind. I concentrated on my set down. Every landing had to be right; my fatigued muscles couldn't afford any slip.
Tom accelerated. I searched for the gear to follow. I found none. I lost my fast feet. I saw Tom pulling away. I was proud and envious of him. I was confused why I wasn't more bitter.
Tiffany popped out of nowhere. She hugged and thanked me. I vaguely recalled helping her a lifetime ago before I was wrapped up in my own feelings. I remembered Mike went down and was relieved to find he stealthily passed me and kicked my butt by a huge margin.
My back finally locked up in Duane's car on the way to motel. I was terrified. I didn't want another 6 weeks of pain. I tried to breath. I tried not to freak out. I lied on the dirty motel carpet 'til the tension went away.
I tried to keep my spirit up at the award ceremony, but I didn't care about my race. It seemed so far away. I didn't bother checking my time. I was lost. I mechanically walked up for my medal and was woken up by the cheers. I remembered I loved the sport and the people. "It ain't about how fast you go," I used to tell them. They were sitting there, with their first marathon still fresh in their mind.
We went to Chuy's for lunch, where Lance Armstrong got fat after giving up racing. It was fun listening to Renee, Tiffany and Kim compare scars and injury stories. I forgot what I ate. I enjoyed the company.
I got in Duane's car and adjusted the passenger seat to perfection. For next 3 hours he would educate me further on life, universe, and women. What was the line from the movie, "Tomorrow is another day" or "I don't give a damn"? I don't remember. I was full, tired, and a little drunk. I'd just enjoy the ride and maybe take a nap. I had a good workout that morning.
