On the patio in the sun. Listening to the soft, random tinkling of BB-riddled beer cans as they gently rock in the breeze. I squint. It could be the glorious light of the lazy, 68* Spring morning. Or, it could be the heavy ghosts of the failures of rides past.
Specifically the Sleaze Otter. I have spoken about this "race" and it's attendant issues at length with it's director, the elusive Carmel Bob, and certain parallels with my own experience in group ride organization and inter-personal dynamics within the peloton have come to the front and gone on a flyer.
I am reminded of the 1st time we put on the now annual White Rim Overnight (what's the date this year, by the way, Moabites?) which was the crucible in which the Church of the Sweet Ride was stewed and from which it emerged, fully and beautifully formed. It is a long story which I think we've already covered, so suffice to say that the group splintered at the first hint of trouble. A bunch of folks wanted to settle for some shitty soft option of Slickrock Practice Loop when we had just driven 2 hours for the event. Because they could scurry back to the car if it stormed. Drama, insults, excuses and bullshit ensued. Some folks rode, some folks took their bikes and went home. The folks who were all go were then treated (some would say "subjected") to a grand spectacle of a bicycle ride. Yes, it could have been the night-long wheel-miring sandstorm that loomed on the horizon, and that would have been miserable. Really and for real. But, it wasn't. It was too much for words.
Hey. Got a bike? Like to look at it? Talk about it? Uh huh. Keep talking.
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