I will start out this bike race recap with a bike racer excuse (if you have been racing bikes for any amount of time, you have already built up a handy list of excuses you can draw upon at a moment’s notice—I’ve been using "God really hates bikes" a lot lately). In preparation for this week’s race I spent last week busily exhausting the supply of Hamms in a can at Paul’s Big Game Tavern, and two weeks before that I was busy nursing an injury. Actually it was more of a situation than an injury.

**Notice, things are about to take a turn for the mildly disgusting, if you don’t want an excruciating description of my "dan-atomy" feel free to skip the next few paragraphs.**

My "situation" was one that is very common among bike riders—I had a saddle sore. Normally when I get a saddle sore, I apply some Bag Balm (made for cow’s teats, but apparently perfectly acceptable to use on people?) and the problem goes away. But this saddle sore was special, exceptional really.

But to appreciate the situation fully, we should first get a feel for the topography of the "valley" where this situation occurred. Imagine if you will an overhead view of the Kingdom of Schmalz, and near the middle lowlands in the valley of the crotch there are two ridges on the interior edges of the "Back Tetons". The ridge on the right side of the valley developed an outcropping—another mountain almost—that was directly on the spice route for any bike-based activity. This outcropping was about the size of two marbles that were fused together, and the outcropping seemed to be made of solid granite. This development in the valley put a halt to all the cycling in the Kingdom of Schmalz.

This outcropping brought all sitting based athletic activities to a standstill. I did try to ride my way around the boulders of granite that I was crotch smuggling, but it was hopeless. The outcropping was placed in an area where it could not be avoided. I despaired—and I stayed off my bike for an extended period.

It took a week for the outcropping to erode, and afterwards all were happy (although slower) in the valley.

**End of mildly disgusting section.**

So it was with limited riding and untold Hamms repeats that I went into Saturday morning’s race. I set my sights on simply surviving. I signed up for the category 1/2/3 race, and shoved off. The pace of the race was spirited—I would describe it as disgustingly so. The race’s accelerations would string out the pack of 110 riders in long lines of pain and panic that stretched out nearly a quarter mile at some points in the race. I turtled for cover from the wind wherever I could and cursed the Hamms family. I tried to jump to one move, and miserably spent nearly a quarter lap trying to close a two bike length gap. The speed was furiously rapid. Somewhere near the 5 or 6 laps to go point, while I was a quarter mile from the front of the race, about 5-8 fellows slipped off the front, never to be seen again.

If I were in better shape, I might’ve been miffed at this situation, but I was merely glad to participate. I rolled to the line with the rest of the race and enjoyed the feelings of peace and calm in the valley.

The Strava tale of the race is contained below.