This morning I got up early to get an early start. I know about all the science about drafting and shit, but I've been surrounded by people 24/7 for 2 days and I just wanted everyone to leave me the fuck alone! I helped make the coffee, I helped clean up from breakfast, I cleaned up my little sleeping corner, dropped my bags off at the truck and was ready to go. I went up to the ride director, a real pedantic schmu--- gentleman and asked, "Do I go left or right out of the parking lot?"
"We as a group would really appreciate if you didn't leave early because we've still got to clean up and you'll be leaving us holding the bag..." And he continued to lecture me like I was a kindergarten class for another 2 minutes.
"I have already helped prepare the coffee and breakfast, and helped prepare dinner and clean up afterward. And I noticed you didn't do anything to help with dinner, and saw you didn't get your ass up till breakfast was served this morning, you sanctimonious fuck!" I didn't say.
I helped throw bags on the truck, then went to mop the snack room floor on my hands and knees with a paper towel. "Do you want to leave early with us?" asked a triathlete who had said she "wanted to ride with me" in a way that felt a little bit rapey.
"I got called out, so he'll be looking for me at pre-ride announcements," I grumbled. "Go on without me."
As everyone was wrapping up, the irritating director shouted, "I need someone to clean the bathrooms...!" Immediately I headed that way, hoping that if I spent 5 min in the bathrooms picking up TP, cleaning toothpaste out of the sink and taking out the trash I might get to miss his long-winded description of the route. This was a man that I had heard spend 5 minutes describing every inch of the route to someone who had just asked if they should go left or right. He may love the sound of his own blabber, but I sure didn't. If you're going to describe the 5 turns before and after, every market I will pass along the way, and the history of the geological formations 10 miles to the east, then I will not be able to remember if I was supposed to go left or right after all.
Unfortunately, I did not miss the speech. He described every significant feature of the 78 mile route, as well as several insignificant ones. The only thing that mattered was that somewhere up ahead in the desert I was going to have to ride over some REALLY shitty pavement. "It's worse than you think," said a triathlete chick next to me. "And it's even worse than that."
"What's wrong with it?" I asked.
"It's just really poorly maintained." I'd ridden in New England after a bad winter. I'd ridden Morgan Territory Rd in Milpitas. I was sure I could handle a bad road, but I didn't want to be with anyone when I did.
So when the route took us past some iron sculptures of monsters and dragons and everyone stopped for a picture, I rode on. "I'll steal some pics off Google and post them on Facebook later!" I shouted as I turned around. Buuuut... I missed a turn, and wound up hooking up with the back end of the group with 5 extra miles added to my route. Damn.
I could see a clump of neon up ahead, and dropped the hammer to catch them. For 15 miles I chased at my top speed, turning myself inside out to catch first one and then another rider who'd dropped off the back. I had about 500m left to close when I heard someone behind me, "CAR BACK!" I looked behind me: one of the first guys I'd caught had been sitting on my wheel for at least 10 miles and hadn't come up for a single pull. I mean, I probably wouldn't have let him, but the gesture would have been nice!
I passed the group in the most unsatisfying way when they all stopped to shed layers. While I had been chasing, we'd ridden over a few miles of consistent and aggressive frost heaves, so I was sure the terrible road was behind me and I was probably okay to be a little more sociable. I hopped on a few pacelines through the desert. I'm not comfortable in packs at the best of times, and after one particularly aggressive pull I decided that I really didn't have the power to keep laying down efforts like that, and I would rather spend this ride watching the scenery than staring at someone's back wheel.
It's a good thing too, because a few miles later the bad pavement started on a downhill. It was so much worse than anything I had ever ridden. It was worse than chip seal. It was worse than when they score up the road for repaving. It was worse than frost heaves, plus patches, plus potholes. It was worse than cobblestones. There were some cars up ahead doing some dodgy driving pulling out of a turnout and I thought, 'You'd better figure your shit out, because I'm pretty sure I can't stop.' I slowed to a crawl and did my best not to let the road kick the shit out of me for the more than 3 miles it took to get through it. I felt like I was getting beaten up. Some jackass passed me and said, "So this is what it takes to get you to slow down!" I killed him.
Shortly thereafter everyone stopped for lunch at a gas station fas food branch (the Blimpees at the chevron in Saltan City - where all champions dine!), and I grabbed some fun sized Almond Joy bars (like a grown-up who knows how to take care of herself) and went on alone. The sandy and rocky desert was still all around me, and the Saltan Sea of to my right, but I was on a 4-lane highway with only so-so pavement and tons of road debris, so let's fast forward through the next 20-30 miles to Coachella. I knew I was in Burning Man and (obviously) Coachella territory, so I thought I would be in a remote desert that would be friendly to hippies and drugged out professionals escaping responsibility for a few days. What I was NOT expecting was a town dominated by miles and miles of lush green polo fields in the middle of the desert. You know: polo. Where rich white people ride on horses with croquet mallets while other rich white people in funny hats eat unpalatable snacks with made-up names. That is Coachella for the other 49 weeks out of the year, I guess.
Then I got to Indian Wells, which I thought I recognized from Badwater or Furnace Creek or one of those other rugged back-of-beyond events held in terrain that kills people. What I was not expecting was Disneyland for old people: golf courses, fancy restaurants, gated communities, an antique store with a marble archway that looked more like it might be the sort of place where the queen of England would buy a tombstone... and more of those lush green lawns between the road and the sidewalk, tended by friendly Mexicans. Fucking Disneyland for old white people!
I was the second one in, and as I dismounted a station wagon pulled up with the pedantic fucker's tandem on the roof. So instead of sitting down and eating snacks and drinking buckets of water, me and the Mean Girl from the first day helped unload the truck of 100+ suitcases. I didn't even throw any of the heavy stuff at his rotten daughter whose constant stream of consciousness chatter amounted to her shouting, "look at me! Look at me! Look at me!" over and over, and getting underfoot.
Tomorrow I am riding out early.
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