The Fat Cat was not able to make the Grimpeurs Tuesday, but the show went on without him. No report has been filed as yet but at last word it was to be Charlie, the butt of all jokes Kean; Dave, from Fairchance, and anyone else who might show on election day. I e-mailed Charlie, requesting that he give an account of the day’s events, but have had no reply as yet. I don’t think he is dodging the chore. His lack of response is more likely due to the fact that he operates a computer that came straight from Jobs' and Wozniak’s garage. According to Charlie, this ancient cipherin’ machine has issues with Al Gore’s internet.
I imagine it was a spirited fight for the vacated polka dot jersey. I can see both riders on the lead in, exchanging the traditional pre-excuses/lies about how they haven’t been able to ride much this year due to some phantom obligation or conjured injury. Just as they approached Scylla and her imposing wall, one would joke about the legs already hurting while the other would suggest they turn back with a half smile and a nervous titter. They would converse in short breathless sentences, trying to look as though they were feeling fine. By the time they reached the hairpin and scaled Charybdis, words would likely have been replaced by heaves and grunts. I can imagine one or both riders, if they were still together, “resting” along the doldrums and recovering the powers of speech. Internal dialogs filled with doubt and thoughts of abandon would have been discordant with those given voice with regard to the fine weather or the great play of the Pittsburgh Penquins.
The riders would have found themselves cursing, wondering how long the damn grade could keep up, as they pedaled Le Elever Orange. Baby Bear would feel easy after the little descent from the pull off. Charlie probably would have given a testing acceleration over its “crest”: how foolish. Mamma bear would have put the burn back in the quads of the riders who no longer bothered to engage in conversational warfare. I can hear the audible if not ear-piercing profanities issued when the forgotten Papa Bear showed its teeth. In my minds eye I see the cranks of lithe Dave turning a fraction of a revolution faster while he inexorably pulls away from a gasping and demoralized Charlie. What would you expect from a triathelete anyway? At least Kean wasn’t there to try and use his (Charlie's) helmet as a latrine this time.