Festival of Flowers Oly

This is (was) my first Olympic distance race and those of you who know me, you know that I have been having a bit of trouble with my feet. The dreaded planar faciatis in one foot and the (idiotic-evil) toe thing in the other. These issues have reduced my run training to pretty much nill. I thought of removing the toe by violent means, but decided to punish the evil toe by racing on it instead. This has seemed to be a very effective means of punishment because the evil toe has been very unhappy (Take That!).

I will update for race info later but for now, here are some pics.

Rob, Phil and Jill

Rob, Clevy and Tate

My former charge and I - ergo, the Bobsey twins

The finish chute. Yes, it is as steep as it looks.


I let (this guy) borrow a wheel. Yes, it's true........... I Rock!


The run start or The road to hell.

Wow. I had such a fantastic time. Thanks to my lovely girlfriend Lynn for being the photographer, masseuse, navigator, head scratcher and bike holder (here, hold this) behind this operation .

More pics and details to follow.

The Only Thing I Ever Won

Flash back to 1997, when all the world (mine anyway) was ablaze with the fervor of cycling. After having gotten my first real (albeit too large) bike during the summer, I had commenced to training with a purpose. My goal,”Tour Terror”. Tour de Bloom, Tour de’ Paws, The Fabulous Fourth, I was tearing it up as any good poseur should, and I was culminating my season with the Cherokee Foothills Ride for Life metric century.

This ride was in October and as anyone from the upstate knows, our weather can be most unpredictable and we were having a pre-winter cold snap. So the morning of the ride I had my “race proven” breakfast of McDonalds pancakes and had donned my entire PRO race kit which consisted of Pearl mesh summer jersey, shorts and socks. Bear in mind that the temps were in the low 40’s at 8:00 a.m. but hey, it was ON. The Michelin Classic crit was being held the same day so I knew that the field would be soft and besides…………..I had a plan.

The so called "plan” was to line up at the front and launch an all out TT effort off the front and hope no one chased, so when the gun went off, I was on the gas. Kick the tires and light the fires we’re goin racin’ (well not really…but close enough). As it was, no one did chase, but I can just imagine the comments of “what’s up with the skinny dude?” Man, I was just a rippin' it going down the road but within a few miles I began to go hypothermic. But I kept the hammer down trying to build heat, knowing that it would eventually warm up but lord have mercy I was suffering like a dog! Holy human popsicle, I was having a real hard time staying focused, my eyes were watering, and I was starting to shiver uncontrollably, teeth chattering in the breeze, but still nobody was giving chase.

Twenty miles in I was really starting to get my groove on at twenty plus mph. The solo break was working! Then at mile twenty five I encountered a pack, and I mean a large, ten strong pack of wild dogs in the middle of the country. I say, bring it! Snick it into the big ring and drop the hammer! I tell you I was flying at full song, geared out, the pack of dogs howling and chasing except for the lead dog who never made a sound but who was matching my accelerations paw for pedal. I put my head down, kept that big gear a turnin’ and took the sprint with a big two handed victory salute.

At mile thirty five the route intersected with the Pumpkin Town Parade. I kid you not, the route was intertwined for a mile or so with the parade. After assessing the situation for a few minutes I see some other cyclists catching up to the parade, but I also see my chance. There is a Boy Scout troop following the tractors and when they got to me, I filed in with them, into the parade. The other cyclists see me, walking with my bike with the parade so they too enter into the fray. So here we are, the lycra clad wunderkind, in the Pumpkin Town parade, with our bicycles! The scout troupe kindly ask me what I am doing and I tell them I am in a bike race and I continue clickitty clack down the road, the other racers a few feet behind.

We soon reach the dissection point and off I go, with three other riders in tow. All is well as I keep the pace high and I can see that two of them falter every time we hit a hill. As we reach a set of rolleurs, I roll on the gas and the two lessers roll of the back. And then there were two. I discuss the hills with the other rider, Bob is his name, strong guy too. We take turns pulling and he proclaims to be much stronger than most in the hills and over long distances and I think, Vee shall Zee meester Bob. Ten miles to go, nice rolling climbs, my turn at the front and with the patented “look”, I make my move, punching it up the climb and over the top. Bob cannot hang on, not even close. No sir, today is not for you meester Bob, but for me….. I roll across the line……….. First to finish.

Note: At my first (ever) triathlon in 2007, I see this super fit looking dude milling around packet pickup and I am thinking, "I know this guy, but from where", and then it hits me in a flash. "The 1997 Cherokee Foothills Ride for Life"! I walk over to him and introduce myself and say, "Did you do the 1997 Cherokee Foothills Ride for Life? Bob thinks for a moment and with a puzzled look says "Yes I did that ride". I then relate how we met,............. he says that's pretty freaky..............I agree.