Duality, thankyouverymuch

I lived last Saturday twice. Whitmore Cup Cylocross race in the morning, Erik's surprise party in the evening. Bear with me, dear reader, as I color-code my story for your entertainment.

It was bitter cold on Saturday morning /evening, and windy. Figuring out what to wear was going to be tricky, for reasons more functional than aesthetic; the compromise was a tenuous tradeoff between staying warm en route to the start / bar and disrobing (not all the way, gutter-mind) once I was safely racing / partying. The decision troubled me for hours, but it would prove to be the least of my worries.

After a final preride / round of dinner, I made my way to the start line / train station, not quite confident in my legs / tie. The whistle / clock left me no choice, though, and I took off like a bat out of hell. Not a fast bat, mind you - Lord knows I'm not a sprinter / sprinter. Nevertheless, I had a race to contend / train to catch, so I put forth my very best effort. Anyone watching was treated to the sight of a very intense look of focus as I puttered along.

Do you get it? I was slow! Too slow. By the time I reached the end of the first lap / Northbound platform, the train had left the station... figuratively / literally. It was my own damn fault; It would have been a much better idea to've ridden my bike in the previous week / left on time. Not one to dwll on the past, I went into damage-control mode, cruising around the course / New Brunswick for the better part of an hour.

I wasn't the only one having issues. Behind / Ahead of me, the C3 guys were / Bearded Megan was having a whole other set of issues. For entirely extrinsic reasons, namely drivetrain / train delay woes, their morning / her evening was not going any better than mine. It was, at least at some level, comforting to have company for my misery. Still, hearing them / her chat about it only served to emphasize my own self-inflicted difficulties in contrast.


Any last semblance of promise went out the window when I took the incredibly wrong line / cab. The C3 pair / Megan had passed / met up with me, and in the hope of making up some time, I opted to ride the dune / hail a cab rather than run it / hazard the subway. It was a bad decision.

The ride / taxi choice had been good in principle, but it came with the risk of slowing me even further. I realized, as I teetered precariously on the cusp of major time losses at the top of the dune / somewhere on Houston Ave, that I had to / couldn't bail out. As I slid down the side of the dune / sat in Saturday evening downtown traffic, I started to laugh.

It began as a quiet chuckle, then turned into a breathless guffaw. The improbability of it, the sheer ridiculousness of the situation was simply and objectively hilarious. Now, stuck in the shrubbery at the base of the dune / the world's slowest cab, I could see that humor.

After three-plus years at Rutgers, years of learning to think like a pro / New Yorker, I had rediscovered the simple pleasure of racing my bike / visiting The City. Here, trapped in knee-high underbrush / the only law-abiding cab in all the five boroughs, the last bit of pretension melted away and I let myself have fun, a pure fun unfettered by any ambition.

From that point on, the race / night out was sheer pleasure. My reward wouldn't be making the podium / shouting "Surprise!" when Erik entered the bar, and that was okay. It was more than enough to get an enthusiastic high five from Coach Ken / Erik when I happily rode by / entered the bar. The best things in life are free.

Nothing could ruin my mood. Not the dune crash / gentleman-cabbie, not the off-course excursions / bar's ridiculous No-Mastercard policy. Not even the twenty yards of caution tape that sucked into my drivetrain / obnoxious passenger in my traincar on the return trip could deflate this mood - although the pitch of the laughter did grow somewhat maniacal as I unraveled tape from the derailleur / listened to the jerk describe the hypothetical act of beating a schnoodle with a 4x4. Because honestly, even in 'cross / NYC, who expects such things? Nobody, that's who.

I shall conclude with a quote:

"When life gives you lemons, you clone those lemons and make super-lemons"
-Principal Cinnamon J. Scudworth