Fucking Hills Race
Every parent thinks his or her kid is the bomb; I’m no exception, but I have especially strong justification for my belief as illustrated today by her full-on rocking of the Fucking Hills Race, .83’s 33 mile-long checkpoint race on Bainbridge Island that follows the same route (and day) as Cascade Bicycle Club’s Chilly Hilly Event.
Mimi got right up today at 7:30, even after going to bed at 12:30 last night. She assured me she’d rise no problem because the race was something she wanted to do. And she was true to her word.
It took virtually no cajoling to get her onto the tandem by 8:15, even in this morning’s chilly drizzle.
We arrived at the sign-up location in time to get one of the few remaining pirate flags which we affixed proudly to the back of our bike and enjoyed milling around and ogling bikes as we waited to board the ferry for Bainbridge.
The race started near the Winslow terminal and we began threading our way through the throngs of spandex clad weekend warriors on their fenderless Treks and Cannondales, making solid progress on the flats and uphills, and major gains on the downhills.
The route was pretty up and down, with a few fairly serious steeps. At least twice I suggested we get off and walk, but the girl would have none of that; we pedaled up even the steepest grades and flew on the downhills.
About halfway through there was a rest stop; I was ready for a break, but my pint-sized stoker egged us on.
The last four or five miles were a test of my legs, her butt, and our shared wills, but we persevered, finishing a respectable 33 out of 40 or so, and would have done half a dozen places higher had we not gotten lost near the finish.
“Pretty good for my first race,” was the kid’s assessment; I’d say way fucking (hills) better than that.
Mimi got right up today at 7:30, even after going to bed at 12:30 last night. She assured me she’d rise no problem because the race was something she wanted to do. And she was true to her word.
It took virtually no cajoling to get her onto the tandem by 8:15, even in this morning’s chilly drizzle.
We arrived at the sign-up location in time to get one of the few remaining pirate flags which we affixed proudly to the back of our bike and enjoyed milling around and ogling bikes as we waited to board the ferry for Bainbridge.
The race started near the Winslow terminal and we began threading our way through the throngs of spandex clad weekend warriors on their fenderless Treks and Cannondales, making solid progress on the flats and uphills, and major gains on the downhills.
The route was pretty up and down, with a few fairly serious steeps. At least twice I suggested we get off and walk, but the girl would have none of that; we pedaled up even the steepest grades and flew on the downhills.
About halfway through there was a rest stop; I was ready for a break, but my pint-sized stoker egged us on.
The last four or five miles were a test of my legs, her butt, and our shared wills, but we persevered, finishing a respectable 33 out of 40 or so, and would have done half a dozen places higher had we not gotten lost near the finish.
“Pretty good for my first race,” was the kid’s assessment; I’d say way fucking (hills) better than that.
posted by Professor Dave at 4:57 PM
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