God Loves A Grimpeur

There is a God: his beneficence towards the Grimpeurs is evidence enough. He also has a sense of humor. The rain fell steadily all morning and the car wipers were working double time on the way to Mud Pike. Killer Bee met The Fat Cat at the base of the mountain. Unfortunately, he was in his pickup and not on his bike. No offerings of spare rain gear or other trinkets could sway him to trifle with the fecund skies. Wet is not his thing, apparently. He merely wanted to show The Cat the courtesy of a proper withdraw and, it seems, to say that his picture in the last report made him look fat. It is true. Killer Bee is a bit more trim than his photo would suggest. “Bad camera angle,” The Fat Cat assured.
As Bee Boy made his carbon fueled exit, the rain ceased. For most of the ride to come the clouds would hold their water like an eight year old’s stretched bladder at the arcade. It wasn’t until passing under the one kilometer to go arch in Fairchance that the practical joking deity emptied a bucket on the Fat Cat’s head.

The Cat had cleared out his bag of excuses with an eye towards winning the jersey today, or at least making Killer Bee suffer. Fast bike, check; remember to eat, check; not sick, check; water bottles, check ( well, half check: one of the bottles was culturing something brown); I suck, well, I guess that excuse is still valid. But, being that the jersey was out of play, a change of plans was in order.

The decision was made to try and make the trip without hurting. No burning quads, no burning lungs, no foggy glasses, no heroics of any kind—just a steady, under threshold, aerobic ride. It was just what the doctor ordered.

Mud Pike was taken at 31:28, no great shakes but there was plenty left for an up-shift and a strong kick on Papa Bear. Skyline north, the victim of heavy tar and chip was finally passable. The road was a lovely redish pink with freshly painted lines. It had, of course, been stripped of its glassy smoothness for half its length, but at least the chips stayed on the road and off the paint job. That silky ribbon of asphalt returned just after the Kirby road intersecton. It felt like no effort at all to spin up to 30 mph, or thereabouts, to the golf course. Enjoy it while you can guys and gals. The trip down the mountain at Jumonville was a little hairy due to the sheen of mud laid down by quarry trucks. From there it was across the mountain’s feet to Haydentown. No breakthroughs, no pr’s, no grand epiphanies or flashes of profound insight, just two happy hours of riding. Life is good.