This weekend, as you of course know, was the High Dessert Omnium. As a quick side note, there was no dessert to be had. There were chocolate chip cookies and nutela, but I don’t really count that as dessert. In fact, I was definitely disappointed with the lack of cake, pie, and jello desserts. I’m not even sure why they call it the dessert omnium.
Anyways the crit and the time trial happened yesterday and the road race today. I don’t even want to talk about the crit or time trial, but discluding information is the same as lying, and on this blog you’ll only find fair and balanced news.
The crit was stupid. I wasn’t feeling it at all, and just sat in for most of it. I attacked and bridged a couple times, but didn’t get away for more than half a minute. With 300 meters to go, I lead Chris out (from 10th place) and he took 5th and I took 8th. Yeah. Nothing to brag about. Although he WOULD have won for sure if there wasn’t a guy off the front and I had lead him out a bit further up the line because he hit some massive watts. I won’t say how big, but they were the biggest watts I’ve seen on a power tap other than the time Tony got a very questionable 1999.
Later in the day: it got hot. My legs were being tired and my brain was being lazy. I started the TT, went hard for about half a mile, started slowing down, sat up, turned around after a mile, and soft pedaled back to the start line. My first DNF of the year, and it was a 9 mile time trial. I reasoned with myself the reasons for quitting: A) I had absolutely no aero equipment B) I was not putting out any power at all C) I should just save myself for the road race today D) I don’t feel like racing. The last won was the one that did it. It was the first time all year that I didn’t feel like racing. It’s getting to be that time of year I guess. Last week was a hard one, so that may have been part of it as well. This next week of tapering should do the trick and get my head and legs back in it.
Now for the laying it down part. I came into this race as #1 in the Oregon Cup standings (a season-long competition that consists of 6 road races. The winner gets to claim her or his dominance over the rest of OBRA and before each race, all the other racers must kneel down and kiss the previous year’s winner’s toes and proclaim their inferiority to the Victor before them. If a racer does not do this, they will be shunned and stoned with water bottles full of the Victor’s urine and snot). So as I was saying, I came into this last Oregon Cup race with 206 points. A number of the guys in the top 10 weren’t present, but Paul B. was, who was a mere 2 points behind me. Basically, whoever won today (between us) was going to take the Oregon cup. So as everyone else raced for the Omnium points or for the stage victory, Paul and I were battling for the most prestigious event in cycling. The coveted Oregon Cup.
I had a full team of guys working for me today, which was very cool, but at the same time very boring. I never attacked and basically sat in the entire day except for a couple of gaps that I had to bridge across. I felt lazy and lame, but in the end it payed off. Chris and Eli covered moves, set tempo, and kept the pace high in the last minutes of the race. Kenji and Jim were there too, getting into moves and making sure I was doing alright. Thanks guys. In the end, I won the field sprint for 4th place, slaying the other whip-lashed Oregon cup contenders like limp Raggedy Ann dolls. Boo yeah.
And now for something completely un-cycling related. This one time, I trapped my brother in a cardboard refrigerator box in our garage. We were playing “prisoner” and I cut holes in the cardboard box for him to eat out of (he was trapped in there for a while). I fed him some bread, some chips, some orange slices or something. And then I told him I was going to pour some Coke in for him. He should have known that we didn’t have any Coke, because as kids we almost never had any in the house. But he didn’t question me. His moral was broke. His fear of authority had been heavily instilled by his endless days spent cowering from the prison guard’s night stick. He opened his mouth at the hole in the box and I poured in a good mouthful of pickle juice. He instantly began vomiting and crying as he rolled around in the box, trying to get out. I let out an evil laugh and ran out of the garage, leaving him in the puke-soaked box for another five or ten minutes. He was still in tears when I let him out. Yes I felt bad. Yes, it was worth it. No, to this day my brother does NOT like pickles.
KENNETT PETERSON 