By Luxo-DWho knows... what to expect when you ride outside your hometown. I don't know about you, but there is an unexplained confusion. In a way, a form of 'Cyclosis Delirium.' I for one had these thoughts recently, as I approached a town that I've been to many times before – but had not explored on two wheels. LaCrosse, Wisconsin. A city founded on the game, sorta, or beer. A classic mid-western river city – scenic and glorious, charming and quaint. The mighty Mississippi flowing through it's generous brew-master like veins. Even Mark Twain would relish riding it's awesome roads...if he weren't dead, or a 160 years late, or something.
Well I rode it! City streets, rambling roads, river boulevards, north, south, east and west. All the hell over dammit. 3 hours of solid scenic bliss! New shorts and everything. I was in a sublime state, glorious and satisfied, until... Mount DOOM!
A virtual mid-western Mount Ventoux before me – GRAND DAD BLUFF... I cried inside a little as I approached the entrance to the great bluff. Years ago, I had driven up the bluff, naive and childlike in memory, but had
since forgotten it's length, steepness, and unending hellish curves to the top. I adjusted my shorts and, alas...I set forth workman like and with vinegar. Panicking slightly, unsure of it's length, I pressed on, not knowing if a BONK was imminent. Tenacious, I prosecuted this mofo with a capital 'T' for tenacity. Spinning relentlessly, I made my way up, never stopping, not even to wiz – perhaps blubbering a little, I remained committed to the assent...CONQUEST & GLORY! I made it to the top! Hey where is everybody? The fans? The sweet ambrosia...?
Huh. Well I guess I'll ride down...
No comments:
Post a Comment