Hurts So Good

I missed all the CX action this weekend, abandoning my usual cheerleading post in the name of charity (I've only raced CX once... it was a small disaster). Instead of yelling "pedal, pedal, pedal!" to a whiz of blue, pink and boyfriend on the dirt sidelines, I chose to ride 100 miles for BORP, a Bay Area non-profit dedicated to creating competitive sports programs for disabled youth and adults. It was my first time fundraising for anything and seeing the people my fundraising efforts would reach during the after-ride gala gave me a warm fuzzy feeling and a small tear in my eye.

This was my second time riding a century however. I'll tell ya, that supported thing is quite nice, with the food and SAG support. Why can't every ride I do have a guy in a black Volvo drive by every 30 minutes, offer me a Cliff shot and ask me how I'm doing?

After my successful completion of the ride on Saturday, two questions still continue linger, left over from my first century and the last time I found myself sitting on my bike for over 7 hours in the name of enjoyment:

1. Why, at the end of the day's ride, does it sound so much more impressive to say "I just rode 99 miles!" rather than "I just rode 100!"? Perhaps the round number with two zeros takes the thrill away.

2. The last 10 miles of both centuries were miserable affairs, with lots of whining and whimpering. However, the age-old athlete dilemma continues to curse me... Why do I continue to think "I can't wait to do this again?"

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On another note, I took my bike on the train this morning so I could integrate a bike ride into today's evening commute by getting off a couple stations earlier than my normal R-dub exit. However, I forgot to pack my dress shoes into my messenger bag. So now I'm hobbling around my office in dress slacks, a sweater and Sidis. With toe spikes. They make an aweful noise on my company's fancy cement floors. I'm left to either shrug and apologize or run around hippie-barefoot style. But then everyone will find out how short I really am. I'll stick to the toe-spikes-on-cement-apologetic look since at least they give me a couple inches.