I finished the 94.7 cycle ‘challenge’. In four hours 23 minutes.
The miracle of God lives among us.
Sure, I’ve been poen-raped by my saddle, and I woke this morning wondering whether gremlins had thrust a giant watermelon up my peekachoo, but nevertheless I fucking did it.
I may be walking like a cripple, but I feel like a fucking hero.
Funnily enough the most painful part of my body are my hands. Two bruises from the handlebars, and having serious problems operating a mouse this morning.
Biggie up to my mates that phoned me on the hills and put up with my swearing and various “my poen is on fire china” rhetoric.
I had a docile weekend, no binge-drinking and ample carbo loading, as well as use the boyfriend’s uncle’s super-charged turbo racing bike, which I ultimately attribute to this achievement.
I feel however that the time is nigh to blow my own trumpet:
I did not stop once.
I did not push my bike up the hill once.
I did one training race – 40 kms, and virtually no other training.
I managed to smile about four times.
What got me through:
Thinking about all the people that have pissed me off in my life and thinking, “I’ll bloody well finish. That’ll show them.” Like that means anything to them, but whatever, it got me through.
Thinking about my boyfriend’s ass.
Thinking about the finish and how quickly I wanted to get there.
Proving to myself I can finish something gruelling.
Thinking of that first cigarette I’d smoke once I was done.
Thinking of the massive bender I’ll go on this week just ‘cos I can.
The first half of the race was piss. I stupidly thought, until halfway (the Dome): This is pisswilly. I’d been riding for two hours and I felt fine. But nobody told me about the Krugersdorp Highway – the road of hell, with hill after hill, and idly wondered why I hadn’t drawn up a will and last testament of my assets (Chad my rat, my iPod and a car half-owned by the bank) to my next of kin(s). That was the worst stretch of the whole race. Then of course, there were the hills before the finish, where it felt like my vajayjay had caught alight, and my hands ached like a bitch.
My lovely boyfriend, the cycliste professionale, met me for moral support for the last ten k’s, mentally distracting me as I swore at the final hills. After the finish, I fell off my bike, and people stared as I limped to a grassy knoll and collapsed in front of Moogs and the boyfriend. (Who both finished just after 3 hours earlier in the morning.) Thank heavens the day was overcast. My legs and ass felt like they were about to break right off my body – which maybe would’ve been relieving – we had to walk from Sunninghill (the finish) to Woodmead (the start) to get to the car. I forgot to read the fine print, having to walk after a race.
It also said on my little clock thingie, that ACTUALLY the 94.7 isn’t 94.7 kilometres. I had done 98.6 kilometres in actual fact – those little fraudsters.
So it took me twenty minutes this morning to get into my car, but hey. I live to see another day and I finished the bloody race in 4.23 hours. The boyfriend massaged my cramp-ridden legs with Arnica. I wonder whether it’s made a difference. We even went to the Borat movie (which was hilarious), and didn’t need to park in the disabled bay and push me into the movie cinema in a wheelchair.
Yeeouch. But my bottom is sore and my hands have taken a hammering.
PS: I was a dumbass. I really thought I didn't need to get a timing chip because I'd never finish, or only attempt half the race. So if I ever decided to subject myself to this hell again, I'd still be put at the back.