Bikes, Blues[,] & Bayous

Forrest and I met at the conjunction of Weightman and Crocket at 6:30 a.m. That means we were on Main Street probably by 6:36. The date was August 7. The occasion was the 2021 edition of Bikes, Blues[,] & Bayous. When we got to Main Street, the announcer was telling us to get to the back. Don't start too far up. Start according to your pacing. He never mentioned that the color coding had anything to do with the ride you were registered to do. Maybe we should have known but since all he was saying was pacing, I thought it was all pacing related. He may have said it earlier, but not after we were there. It was all about pacing. Did I mention it was all about pacing? "If you start too far up, it's going to be bad," he sternly warned us.

Forrest, my fulltime son.

That is how we got cross threaded. The ride started. We were in the crowd, in the back of the crowd, and then we were headed north. 

"Did they change the route?" Forrest asked me as we travelled up the Boulevard.

"Not to my knowledge," I answered.

I know, I know. We should have looked up the course and we should have read the instructions in our packets. But who does that? Or who is too lazy to bother?

*Raises hand bashfully.

We saw other riders with the 62-mile bibs on. We weren't the only ones. 

Vicki Jee, my part-time swimming partner.

Forrest and I rode together for a while. I could tell, however, that he was itching to push the pace. I had been on my bicycle exactly four times the whole year. I had run, swum, and lifted a lot, but almost no cycling. A little past Money, I decided to stop chasing my son. He rode away while I dropped down to a 12-mile-per-hour pace.

A bit later, a couple came by going faster than me but not too fast so I jumped a wheel. They will pull me back to Forrest, I thought. I wasn't to be, though. When we got near Highway 8, I was searching the road ahead, watching the riders riding left on the highway, and could see no sign of his white jersey. Then when we crossed number 8, I latched onto some of those Memphis riders. We were booking it at 18.5. But after two miles of that, I fell off the back. I had to either ride home or hitch a ride. And despite my advanced age, I still have a little pride. Getting hauled in was not an option, or not one that I would willingly accept.

When I rolled up to Minter City United Methodist Church-- the best rest stop in the history of rest stops-- Forrest was waiting for me. He was upset about taking the wrong route. We looked at the map that was hung on a telephone pole in front of the church. We were supposed to go out Highway 49. "They got us at the start," I said. 

Someone standing nearby chipped in, "That's what a lot of them have said." He went on to tell us that some of the riders were doing the extra distance by riding past Minter City and coming back. Forrest was adamant that he wanted his 62. I realized that just getting back to town was a big order for me. I even found one of the SAG drivers, Mike Barranco, and asked him to keep an eye on me. "I don't know if I can pedal all the way back to town," I told him.

Shortly afterwards, Forrest and I mounted our steeds and began our journey back towards Greenwood. We chatted, and he decided to ride some side roads off Money Road to get his distance. He was worried about me. I told him I would get back one way or another. Then some wheels came by. I jumped and hung on for about a mile. When I dropped, Forrest passed me and the riders I was drafting. Wow. He was gone.

My ride back was slow and uncomfortable. I jumped wheel after wheel, but my  legs wouldn't let me hang. At the rest stop in Money, I ate and drank and felt refreshed. I had some pickle juice, a moon pie, and a sandwich. That gave me a little energy, but my leg muscles were shot. The distance from there home was only eleven miles. It was more of the same, however, and I finally dropped to a ten-mile-per-hour pace and limped on in. On the Boulevard, I was going eight miles-per-hour. You read that right. Eight, sometimes seven point five.

But I got there, was coronated with my finisher's medal, and grabbed some water. I chatted with a few folks, ate a BBQ sandwich, and then went home. Forrest was still out there somewhere trying to get his miles done. Mine were complete. I paid for 62, but settled for 48, the extra two coming from going and coming from home. Below are my results. Yes, they are embarrassing, but I had some fun, and I found some fitness. 

Thank you, Jesus for a good day, and good ride, and some good time with my boy.