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RaceTime
By the BeRZeRKeR
March, 2000
Nothing else on earth matters right now, not the job, not the bills, not the knee-high grass in the front yard. All that matters at this point in time is the six inches of pavement between the other rider and me. It’s race time.
At this moment, I am one hundred percent alive. I see all the other bikers around me, the curve in the road ahead, the dog running on the left, a car approaching. I feel the bumps in the road, the sun on my neck, the tape under my fingers, my heart hammering in my chest. I hear the wind rushing by, the sound of my wheels, the other guy’s breathing. All this in a single second.
I’m in a group of about fourteen riders, two abreast, traveling at twenty-plus mph. We are separated by inches, hurtling down the road. I work my way to the front and pick up the pace forcing the group to accelerate. As I lean over the bars and pedal furiously, an old song goes through my head:
"And the man in the back said everyone attack and it turned into a ballroom blitz."
After a long pull, I edge to the left and quickly drop to the back of the paceline. In order to get back into the last guy’s draft, I have to stand up and crank hard. I peg out the heart rate monitor and get a throatful of bile. But, I’m back in the paceline.
"And the girl in the corner said "Boy I wanna warn you" and it turned into a ballroom blitz."
We come to a steep hill. I accelerate into it trying to keep up my momentum. Slowing down, I change gears and try to spin up my rpm’s. It’s a long climb and I end up alternating standing and sitting while slowly cranking up the hill. I get passed by a lot of riders.
"Oh yeah, it was like lightning, everybody was frightening and the music was soothing and they all started grooving."
Now the pack has split up. The strong riders are well off the front while the rest regroup in twos or threes. I hook up with two riders and we start pursuing the leaders. We take turns doing incredible, superhuman, blow-your-guts-out pulls. It becomes an epic chase.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah"
We come screaming down the hill leaning into the turns at forty-seven mph. As we get to the bottom of the hill, we see some riders about a half-mile ahead. We accelerate as much as we can, but fatigue is settling in.
"It's, it’s a ballroom blitz!"
Slowly, we close the distance to the next pack of riders. We overcome age and pain and injury and the lack of training. We overcome inertia, fatigue, and the magnetic attraction of the couch. We overcome lost opportunities, bad decisions, and roads not taken.
"It's, it’s a ballroom blitz!"
And catch them.
"Yeah, it’s a ballroom blitz!"
Right before the nearly vertical rock face of the next big hill.
