Then something peculiar happens to my energy levels. They fall through the floor. I begin to feel tired. Very, very tired. Tired and sore and dehydrated. I begin drinking biblical quantities of water in an attempt to rehydrate before my next lap. My excitement about riding again is perceptibly waning, at the same time that I'm noticing a peculiar compression of time. Riders are coming and going with alarming frequency and my next turn is drawing closer at an impossible speed. Lengthy rest hours suddenly implode into seeming minutes. Meanwhile the daylight wanes and the light rain degenerates into an Africa-calibre downpour. Soon, unthinkably soon, it is 10pm and I am walking my bike back over to the start/finish area. A black, starless night drops a heavy, choking blanket of rain down onto the muddy course and I join 20 or 30 other riders in huddling under the awning of the start/finish line tent. We cluster in the tiny shelter, staring out into the dark downpour. Riders arrive in from the course, encased in mud, scowling and snapping terse warnings to their waiting teammates. "It's insane out there man, be careful." "There are bodies everywhere. The course is a mess. Go slow." An uncharacteristic pall of tension hangs over the crowd of waiting riders. No one is smiling. Conversation is at a minimum as tired, wet riders huddle in the brief island of shelter, awaiting their next journey out into the storm and the dark woods. Out in the nocturnal monsoon, beyond the faint circle of the finish line lights, pale figures and blinking taillights shimmer into brief view, moving with disjointed purpose, then vanish again into the all-consuming night of wind and rain. I shake my fist angrily at God, then resume sulking. I'm not feeling enthusiastic.
Finally, delayed by trying conditions on the course, Skip emerges from the storm at 10:30pm. He hands me the baton, smirks a cryptic warning about mud and suffering, then vanishes into the night to seek shelter and rest. I resentfully mount my bike to head out and nearly fall over with shock when my ass comes into contact with the sharp, pointy, instrument of torture that is the seat. I shriek like a startled nun and barely regain my balance in time to prevent an early mud bath. Now, with my ass unbearably sore from the first lap, I ride out of the start area standing up, gradually putting more and more weight onto my butt until it goes numb and I can begin riding like I'm not handicapped. The swollen night is angry and lashes me with relentless waves of icy mountain rain while groundfog rolls menacingly out of the dense woods and into my bike's headlight. The course is awash in mud. Roots and rocks that were tricky riding before suddenly take on a sinister new level of difficulty. Uphills become completely unrideable in some places, and long, eerie trains of bike lights can be seen slowly crawling up the dark mountainside as their riders push them along. Repeated violent meetings with the muddy earth begin to sap my seemingly limited strength. I begin to feel a deep sense of dissatisfaction with my fellow riders, who are passing me routinely. Finally, after an unusually long lap that is slowed down further by the untimely demise of my headlight, I drop back down off the mountain and into the finish area, somewhere around 1am. I am tired, sore and wet. I return to the gear tent in our campsite and find it deserted, with everyone asleep in their tents. I know that I should eat, but all I can think about is crawling into my sleeping bag. I change into dry clothes, inhale half a litre of water, and crawl into a tent to sleep. A couple of hours later I am awoken by Reece, just back from his lap, crawling into the tent. "24 hours sucks." Reece observes aloud. "Yes it does." Then I'm asleep again, for a few brief, fitful hours. I'm awoken at 6am by the sound of someone violently blowing their nose outside the tent. I emerge into the morning rain to find a catatonic looking Skip sitting in the gear tent, trying to muster the will to get back into his wet bike clothes for another lap. Progress through the night has evidently been slow - I'd been expecting Skip to already be out on his lap. I'm secretly thrilled as this buys more time until my next ride. I drop into a chair, mindful of the aching in my ass, and proceed to stare blankly at the tent wall until Skip disappears off to the track. I eye the rain-slicked universe suspiciously. My thoughts are consumed with how badly I want not to ride again. I drink some water, feel sorry for myself, and stare at the tent wall some more. It doesn't make me feel any better. I'm too tired to bother eating. |
Oh,
Shaggy, when will you ever learn?
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