Sisyphusian

I got to tell the story this morning that has been brewing in my mind like a craft ale. It happened a week ago today. The seventh and final stage of the 2018 Tour of California. Sacramento. It was the culmination of 645 miles and 46,000 feet of elevation gain. As I mentioned in earlier posts, I continue to be amazed and awed by the tenacity, toughness and dedication that these young men and women put into their sport. 

Standing as close as one can get without being flagged for interference, cameras in hand with tally lights blinking red, they pass with such speed and power that the vortex created by turbulent condensed atmospheric pressure distribution creates a hurricane-like following wind, enough to almost knock you flat. The three cops standing beside me were pulling their first security duty and with each lap their visage of appreciation grew from raised browns to flat out wows. The mix of chemicals in that vortex includes dirt, road debris particles, vegetation, moisture, trace elements from moving parts; rubber, grease, lube, but the matter that most dominates is sweat. I have slowed the video down to just above freeze-frame speed and each of the steadfast riders, at 35 mph, elbow-to-elbow and side-by-side were dropping beads of sweat the size of pearls into the mix. 

I bring this up as back story to illustrate the work load involved in stage racing. This was’t simply a few fast laps around the State Capitol (yes, there were snipers on the roof) it was the crescendo of an orchestral suite of variations on a theme by suffering. Every day you go hard, as hard as you can, for 70, 80, 123 miles. Then you rest and recover. Then do it again. 

I stand humbled in the shadow of this awesomeness. 

On the way home, aboard Alaska flight 800, Sac-SeaTac, I sat and talked with one of the Trek-Segafredo riders, someone I have been training, filming and riding with since he was 15. He is now 32 and one of the old men on the team. We talked about the degree of difficulty involved with this level of professional cycling and about how, if this single week on tour is challenging, what a grand tour at three times the distance is like. He said some young riders learn the lesson the hard way, injure themselves and never quite return healthy. It is THAT demanding.

We fly into Seattle, I hitch a ride with his driver and volunteer to tote his TT bike as fare, least I can do, you know. His driver could be racing Formula One so we make it to the ferry terminal with ten minutes to spare. 

On the half hour boat ride we talk some more about the physical demands and I am left speechless with his detailed synopsis of what actually happens not only in the race, but before and after. It is a grind. He admits that the part that most of the public sees, the glamor of the podium, a sprint finish, the ultra cool counties as backdrop, the mountains, make up about 10% of the total. The other 90% is hard work by the unsung heroes, the domestiques, willing to carry the stars through hell and high water towards the finish line. The public rarely sees this, us here at midnight, getting home to grab a few winks, see the kids, and then pack for Flanders. 

We dock, home on our island in Puget Sound where a light drizzle falls. It reminds me of winter in Europe. I grab his bike case and start the final climb as my truck is parked near the top of a slight hill. I am walking slow and turn to say something, but the kid who finished a grueling seven day stage race just a few hours prior is not there. I turn further to see where he is and spot him about 200 yards behind me.

Head down dragging his carry on luggage with Sisyphusian body language that clearly says, “I’m done.”

It is vintage cycling noir and I am filled with pride at having the experience to participate, however slightly, in this grand and heroic drama.