1 Sunday afternoon. 1 cyclist racer. 1 normal mortal. Two bikes. 94-degrees Fahrenheit. 3.5 hours. 45 miles. 30 SPF. Abundant water. No Alexander Vinokourov. No doping scandals. No team car support. No schloogus maximus'.
the husband: *pulling of to the side of the road while pointing north in the direction of a galaxy far, far away* I wish I could show you where we live from here, but the hill is blocking our view. . .
me: wow. We are that far from home? *utter astonishment*
the husband: yep. And we are heading that way *pointing south *
me: *turning my head ever so gently* BUT THAT'S A HUGE HILL! And,it'stheoppositedirectionofhome! *on the plus side, death is one of the few things that can be done just as easily lying down* [Woody Allen]
the husband: *pulling of to the side of the road while pointing north in the direction of a galaxy far, far away* I wish I could show you where we live from here, but the hill is blocking our view. . .
me: wow. We are that far from home? *utter astonishment*
the husband: yep. And we are heading that way *pointing south *
me: *turning my head ever so gently* BUT THAT'S A HUGE HILL! And,it'stheoppositedirectionofhome! *on the plus side, death is one of the few things that can be done just as easily lying down* [Woody Allen]
the husband: *laughing* I know!
me: that's so not funny. *grrrr*
*********** 5 minutes later ***********
me: *pedaling up previously mentioned hill* my heart rate is 175 *can't. find. air.*
the husband: I'm not even going to tell you mine. . . *laughing again*
me: what? It's . . . . like . . . . 130 . . . . , isn't . . . . it? *kill. me. now.*
the husband: more like 125 *still laughing*
me: that's . . . . just . . . . wrong . . . . on . . . . so . . . . many . . . . levels . . . . of . . . . wrongness. *it's impossible to experience one's death objectively*
the husband: *laughing - he's still laughing on a hill*
The husband even put his hand on my bum, no, no not to cop a feel, but to help push me up that hill. And, while I'm pretty sure it was a category 200, as mountain categories go, it felt like it was a cat 1. Or even an HC. In the Alps.
I'm not kidding.
me: that's so not funny. *grrrr*
*********** 5 minutes later ***********
me: *pedaling up previously mentioned hill* my heart rate is 175 *can't. find. air.*
the husband: I'm not even going to tell you mine. . . *laughing again*
me: what? It's . . . . like . . . . 130 . . . . , isn't . . . . it? *kill. me. now.*
the husband: more like 125 *still laughing*
me: that's . . . . just . . . . wrong . . . . on . . . . so . . . . many . . . . levels . . . . of . . . . wrongness. *it's impossible to experience one's death objectively*
the husband: *laughing - he's still laughing on a hill*
The husband even put his hand on my bum, no, no not to cop a feel, but to help push me up that hill. And, while I'm pretty sure it was a category 200, as mountain categories go, it felt like it was a cat 1. Or even an HC. In the Alps.
I'm not kidding.
[I hope the tour has a good rest day off on Monday, I know I will.]
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6 comments:
There is definitely something wrong with your husband. Any hands on bum should be to cop a feel - a helpful push could be part of it but defintely not the main reason.
You are a good sport. Doubtful that I would have been.
I don't think I would have been a good sport either. ;)
Honestly, I'm not sure how good of a sport I am, b/c after mile 34 I crabbied out pretty hard core. And snapped, "I think we both need to remember here that I'm not in the kind of shape as you nor can I ride in this heat like you!" And a few other choice statements. He then tried to take me on a short cut that ended up being a very. long. cut.
Suffice it to say, I had to finally stop at a park in the shade and wait for him to ride home and pick up the truck. He came with a massive bottle of cold water, a big kiss, a bigger "sorry" and was late for work all in the name of moi.
While I did 45 miles he did something like 53. . . .and the last 8, according to him, "was completed very, very fast so he wouldn't leave me sitting in the heat."
He made up for the unintentional epic bike ride that burned my nose hairs off.
You're a loony. Nikki and I briefly considered a bike ride this weekend that would have been 15-20 miles tops before deciding it was far too hot. We went for margaritas and fajitas instead. A far more sensible idea.
Pfft. Screw that. I'd be the one pulling out my cell phone to call a cab. ;)
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