Ice Man and work, work, work...

I'm still dealing with the newness of the new job, but I'm loving it! It does bite into my blogging, though, and forces me to post less frequently, with multiple posts at a time...

Another Ice Man has come and gone...

It was the coldest one I've ridden yet, but once again, we all finished. Barely. Nicole limped (can you limp on a bike?) across the finish line with a sprained knee, cracked rib, dented helmet, minorly concussed melon, a leg that had been transformed into one giant bruise and a pair of racing tights that were stiff with dried blood.

She hit some sand and endoed straight into a faceplant five miles into the trail. For those of you playing along at home, that means that once she climbed back on, she had a 23-mile death march to endure in order to finish. Finish she did. That is (and pardon my Italian, but I am practicing for my trip) fucking hardcore.


We sucked down a couple beers at the finish line, then went back to the hotel for a soak in the hot tub, where we were greeted by a twelver of Bell's Oberon, the official beer of summer for the whole world (and if you live in a part of the world without Oberon, that means you live in a part of the world without summer and it really sucks to be you), courtesy of Writer Mom and Zilla. They weren't there, and thus missed out, because had they been there when I found that cold happiness waiting, they would have both gotten a kiss - full on the lips. As it was, they only got hugs when I met them the next day.

All the Angry Monkeys were pretty beat down that night, especially our cheering crew, who'd been enduring the grueling challenge of standing and cheering us on while nursing hangovers. It kept the revelry to a dull chaos, and there were no needs to call Zilla for bail money as she had offered. We barely made it away from the hotel, although we did wander far enough out for a certain member of the Angry Monkeys to kick a stray pumpkin in a rather aggressive manner. You know who you are...

We didn't even manage to get thrown out of a restaurant or bar, although it was touch and go at our pre-race carbload the night before. Apparently not everyone who goes to nice restaurants considers graphic descriptions of various items that will not be repeated here to be appropriate dinner conversation, especially when it's being done loudly by a large boisterous group of people already gaining the effects of pre-race adrenaline. Oh well, I just don't get people sometimes.

The morning after the race consisted of breakfast with Zilla and brief meeting with Writer Mom, Dr. Tom (Dental Dad, but Dr. Tom is so official-sounding!), and the legendary Jack and Pickles. Forget what you read, everyone is better in person than their respective sites would have you believe, and we are making plans for a more extended meeting. Zilla has even offered up a place for couch surfing.

As this season draws to a close, I want to congratulate all of the Angry Monkeys who put in the miles this year, and thank out support team for cheering us on, and making sure that the beer and warm dry clothes were there for us. There was no better feeling than dropping over the hill that leads to the 17-mile checkpoint and seeing your screaming faces holding the Angry Monkey banner, and seeing your grinning mugs at the finish line as you simultaneously peeled me off my bike and handed me a beer.


You guys rock.

GO GO ANGRY MONKEY!

Next year, I'm thinking about riding Iceman on one of these.