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The
Great Hoax of Quantum Psychology "If
you will it, it is no dream" Armed with the newly discovered truth that I need only to see success mentally in order to achieve success physically, the following events took place. The scene: I am sitting in front of the television, watching the replay of the Bahrain Grand Prix. It is one week before I leave for California to train and bike race. I have my lap top on my lap and I am of course half drunk. I am on the phone and checking e mail.
The scene changes to the spare bedroom in my brother, the Fuzzy Headed Liberal's, house in Santa Barbara. I am laying on a futon on my back, eyes closed, listening to Moby on my Creative Zen Mp3 player. I am visualizing. I have already won the CTC stage race. I was noticed by an official because I won in such a dominant fashion. The USA Cycling official referred me to national HQ, who extended an invitation to the Olympic Development Training Center. I have been in the program for 9 years. I am racing in the Olympic road race. Not just any Olympics, but the 2016 Chicago Olympics. Shortly after the race commissaire fired the gun, ending the neutral rollout down Michigan Avenue, across Congress Parkway past Grant Park and onto Lake Shore Drive, I attack. By the time we get to Waukegan I have 10 minutes on the field. They have ignored the fat, 53 year old riding for the US team and are keying on Tom Boonen who is favored in to win a bunch sprint for the Gold Medal on the 250k flat Olympic course. They have made a serious error in tactical judgment. As I hit the turnaround point in Kenosha, WI and race back along I-94 I see a lone chaser 10 minutes ahead of the field which is now 20 min back, still keyed on the Belgian team, struggling to make a cohesive chase effort in the unusual Summer Northerly wind. I begin to visualize myself on the podium, Lovely Kathy yelling that she loves me. I am being kissed by a gorgeous podium girl who resembles Courtney Love (pre ugly stick whacking). I am delirious with joy as I ask the podium girl who resembles Ms Love if she would care to join The Lovely Kathy and I that evening to enjoy the remainder of the partially emptied magnum of Dom that I'd sprayed on the adoring fans and then maybe a ménage a trios. I mean a California red wine blend made from Cabernet, Petite Syrah and Zinfandel. She thinks sex. She consents. Life is good. It was at this point that the motorcycle official broke the visualization in my visualization with a honk and a chalkboard, informing me that the lone chaser is closing fast. He's picking up 20 seconds on me per kilometer, which is impossible, since I'm flying! How is this happening!? I was distracted with the ménage! I've lost my focus. As I hit the North side of Chicago and race down Clark Street, the lone chaser blows past me just at the intersection of Clark and Addison, one of my favorite locations in the entire world. Wrigley Field. We are only 10k from the finish. I struggle to get to the wheel of the lone chaser. He drops me. I am completely demoralized. The Gold is gone. Why press on? Who remembers the silver medalist from any Olympic games? Crushed, I soldier on and am swamped by the Belgians as they lead out Boonen for the Silver medal. After the shower, I summon the will to turn on the TV and watch the medal ceremony. I hear the Star Spangled Banner played. An American? Who chased me down? What American left the peloton and chased me down? I see the victor step to the top step and receive his medal. He kisses the podium girl who resembles Courtney Love (pre ugly stick whacking). As he un bows from receiving the Gold Medal, shakes Olympic commissioner Richard M Daley's hand and turns to tearfully salute the crowd and the flag, I see the face of The Conscience of Cycling. DAMN him and his gift of superior mental tenacity! Visualization doesn't work when you're matched against superior psychological tenacity and will. The scene changes to the start ramp of the Conquer the Canons Stage race just off of Highway 1 in Malibu, CA. We are at Leo Carillo State Beach heading up Mulholland Drive. Mulholland Drive is an excellent, quirky David Lynch film starring Naomi Watts. The film features a tangled plot line of intrigue and a couple of tasty girl on girl scenes. Billy gives it two thumbs up. This was not a film or visualization however, this was reality. I was facing an uphill 4 mile time trial. 3…2…1…go. I rollout feeling sluggish. I struggle to find a rhythm and a gear. The road turns up. I fight with the machine. I am riding my brother, The Fuzzy Headed Liberal's Giant TT rig. It's foreign, but I'm mentally tough. I hit the first mile in about 2:15 and I hurt. It's all uphill from here. 3 miles to go and it takes 10:38. It hurt the whole way and all it was good for was 32nd place out of 65 starters. I am firmly entrenched in mediocrity. Had I raced with my age group, I would be 2nd. 6 seconds behind Hoodee Hover Hawk, who had entreated me to race with men my own age. But I had DIDJASEEMEE on my side. The scene changes to the start line of the Westlake Village circuit race. Stage two. It is a flat 2.3 mile loop with gently flowing corners. I am staged front and center next to the Rhino. A photographer snaps a couple of photos. I'm feeling Rock Star. Speaking of, just then one of the Rock & Rye pro team riders comes from out of the crowd in front of the staging area and puts himself on the front row. Those guys are bad ass. Though, this was not the A team of Clinger, LeoGrande and Bahati. This was the C team. They didn't even have tattoos; though it was rumored that one of them has a "Prince Albert" piercing.
The official blows his whistle and I take off like a bat out of hell. I lead 2/3 of the first lap. I spent the next half of the race anonymously in the middle of the pack until the pros ramped things up for the second of 3 time bonus sprints. I drifted to the back and spent the second half of the race next to last wheel. No matter, we all finished same time and I led for part of the race. Who cares if it was just to the final turn of the first lap? DIDJASEEEMEEE?! The scene changes to the Simi Valley. My brother, the Fuzzy Headed Liberal is driving and we are trying to find our motel. We are on the Ronadl Regan Highway. My brother is cursing Regan's name. We find the exit to our hotel and I learn with much joy that it is also the exit to the Ronal Regan Library in Simi Valley. My brother begins to froth at the mouth. He is cursing the shift in government spending form social welfare programs to defense which occurred under Regan. He ignores the victory of Democracy over Communism and the successful liberation of Grenada. After we check in, we pull his car around to the backside of the hotel and we find that it is adjacent to a Wal Mart. In the liberal world, the only place more evil than a Wal Mart is a ranch in Crawford, TX. My brother, the Fuzzy Headed Liberal goes into full conniption fit, looking and sounding very much like Yosemite Sam stomping on his hat after being bested by Bugs Bunny. I smile. The scene changes to the road race. The start/finish is at the Ponderosa Ranch in the Simi Valley just South of Thousand Oaks, CA. It's a scenic, mountainous area. The race starts and I'm losing ground on the little popper of a climb out of the Ranch onto the course. The race blasts down Mulholland Drive past the Peter Strauss Ranch and onto Kanan Road and the start of a 1 mile climb. The first 2/3 of the climb is at 10% the road then turns left and settles into 6% until it crests to a 55 mph descent. I am struggling mightily. Huffing and puffing like Billy on an overpass. I look at my speedometer and we are going 15mph. Just when I think I can't possibly hang on any longer the terrain settles down to 6% and we crest the hill at 20 per. Only 7 more times I tell myself as I close the gap that had opened up along with a rider from the LaGrange team and the Time Factory team. Securley back in the peloton, I am visualizing just finishing the fucking race. I'm not in for the win. I found out later that the first lap pace was so hot up the mountain because TS Fugger and one of his Chuckleheaded Dreamer buddies named Pebo Bryson thought there was a time bonus at the top of the climb. In sprinting for the imaginary KOM, they put guys like me and the Rhino - who was popped - in a world of pain. I popped on lap 2. I just can't go up that fast and by the time I crested I was faced with the choice of chasing the pel at 50 per down Kanan Drive and doing it 6 more times, or abandoning. I abandoned. After taking the descent with brakes on at 40 per, I was further humiliated by MKA . He was on his BMW motorbike at the base of Kanan Rd. He was yelling "DROOOBER! DROOBER! YOU CAN CATCH 'EM". He was joking of course; needling me for being afraid to race against men my own age. Visualization doesn't work when you're matched against superior legs. On the way back to the start/finish area, I was joined by Andy who has a nice girl friend that as I understand was the body double for Hillary Swank in the female boxing film "Million Dollar Baby". Andy rides for the San Diego Bicycle Club elite team. He finished 5th in the previous day's circuit race. He's an massive sprinter who had 4 dirty martinis and 3 beers the previous night. He never intended to finish the race. He rode two more laps after I bailed. Good for him. After the race I watched Hawk take an emphatic triumph in the race against men his/my own age. He attacked over the crest of the Kanan Rd. climb and held a 15 second lead for three plus miles all the way to the line. It was a masterful piece of work. I was happy for him. When he asked about my day and why I was in street clothes while the rest of the Pro 1,2 field was on the course, I told him that I was popped from the Pro 1,2 race going up the climb at a speed I pulled out of the air but felt fairly confident was greater than what the men my own age went up that same stretch of road. He looked into my eyes and I saw a mix of envy and sheepish embarrassment. No words needed to be spoken. I could tell that Hawk knew his win was roughly the equivalent of cheating. When you're more fit than guys your own age, it's cheating to race against them unless it's at National or State championships, or so the EPTR says. I also could see in his eyes the realization that it would have been nobler to be shelled from the Dreamer race than to do what he did - win against men his age. I felt sorry for him as I saw the thrill of victory drain from his face. "Hey, Hawk…It's okay". I said, squeezing his shoulder to reassure him. He bit his lip and said "Thanks, Druber. Thanks for understanding." "No problem Hawk, it's what friends do." With that, Hawk slowly pedaled off - head hung low - put his bike away and got into his car without changing. He didn't bother to attend the podium presentation for the masters' race. Meanwhile, back home, my team mate Stone Pony won the 40+ Ceraland Circuit race in a valiant and heroic way. He is now two for two. Next week, a product review on the installation and beauty of Delta Faucets.
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