Catch-up Part II

Lets just pick up where I left off:

Friday: We sleep in for the first time in ages. It is pouring rain when we awake, but that lets up as we finish breakfast and it is hot and clear when we get to the beach for the "rest day." We are treated to the most incredible caribbean fantasy day ever. We take glass bottomed boats to the reek for snorkeling, stop in shallow water hundreds of yards off shore for an impromptu mid-sea dance party complete with free beers and Shakira, and then head to a little spit of sand straight off of a postcard and spend the day eating, drinking, swimming, jetskiing and generally having the time of our lives, all gratis, courtesy of the race promoters. Peter is crowned limbo king of the island (a joint win for the US and Guyana) and we all suffer severe whiplash from reckless jetskiing and bananafloat related accidents. A good time and horrible sunburn were enjoyed by all. Best rest day ever. EVER.

Saturday: Back to reality and a 5am wakeup call. The circuit is mostly flat, but with one steep kicker and a good deal of wind. I flat in the first K and my follow car driver is busy buying cigarettes and lewd soca cds. I miss a whole lap, and while I can continue the race and help Jamie I am not eligible for a stage win. Luckily the car was so far behind me that I could go through all 12 stages of grief before they returned and I was able continue the race with a clear head. Again, we ride like men possessed and again we defend Jamie's 38 second lead.

Sunday: Queen Stage. Last year I got dropped 10k in and I was determined to finish, determined to help Jamie any way I could, determined, in short, not to suck. This course cannot be described in words, but that will not stop me from trying. We rode only 70 miles. It took over 4 hours. There were close to 8,000 ft of climbing. Through the jungle. On roads so steep cars burn out in the hairpins and people have literally come to a stop and collapsed. In heat so strong it feels like you are being cooked alive. Down wet, moss-covered roads around blind hairpin turns at breakneck speed, with mudslides and parked cars lurking unseen around the corners and nothing but skill and luck between the riders and sheer drops of 30 ft or more. It is, in a word, insane. I made it farther than I could have hoped, and I like to think that I helped Jamie in some way by setting pace over some early stretches of road. Eventually I got dropped. On a particularly nasty descent my wheel became so hot from braking that the carbon melted and the wheel itself collapsed. With no spare wheels I was forced to abandon, and worse still I was forced to ride the rest of the terrifying course with Zap, our oft inebriated and unintelligible caravan driver. Hands down the worst car ride of my life. I did have the pleasure of watching Jamie ride with an otherworldly sense of calm over the most challenging roads I've ever seen and fend off attack after attack from some of Europe's most talented riders to hold on to the Yellow Jersey. Yes. Jamie F-ing won. I can still hardly believe it. We attempt to celebrate that evening, but we are dazed and exhausted and can only sip a few beers while floating in the surf and try to understand the magnitude of the last 10 days.

Monday: We sleep in. We pack up all our cycling gear. We revel in the knowledge that we won't touch our bikes for the next three weeks at least. We lie on the beach. We eat jerked chicken. We try to do as little as possible. I'm so tired, from these races and the 8 months of racing that preceded them, that it requires and effort of will simply to stand up.

Whew. Now that the season is finally over I have a lot to reflect on and a great deal to be excited about for the coming season. I promise that when I can get the strength I'll post photos from this trip and flesh out the bare descriptions above. For now, I'm going to lie on the beach, drink fresh fruit juices and ponder the future. Big things are afoot... but more on that later.