I got off work around ten-thirty on Saturday night and decided to sit down for a bite and a few glasses of my latest love.
Come around one-thirty and it occurred to me that there was some sort of cyclocross race that I was supposed to be at in like, 9 hours.
Drunk as shit? Check.
Half-hour bike ride home? Check.
Stumble around and forget to set the alarm? Check, and check.
Wifey sticks her head in the bedroom door at 9 am and says two things:
"God, it stinks in here," and "You're gonna miss your race."
I did brush the dogshit out of my mouth, but didn't get a cup of coffee. Just suited up, threw the bike in the car, and left. Wasn't so bad, the drive. Herself had made me up a peanut butter and banana sammy and the heated seats are a godsend.
Hour's drive. Didn't get lost for once. Just follow the subaru with the bikes on top. A snap, really.
I missed my fuckin start. Ran into Huf, who laughed at me, but did get a couple of cups of coffee in me courtesy of CK. Stood around freezing my balls for a bit and loaded my clean bike back into the car.
I figure any successful day racing is one in which I don't have a ragged piece of my own collarbone stabbing me in the cheek, but I could have done without this whole fucking mess, really.
Next time I'm staying in bed.
Though, Astoria is next Sunday. Can I get a WOOT?
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