Port-a-potty, Kaibo, Johnny-on-the-Spot, Porta-loo, Outhouse - all are nicknames for those wonderful portable bowl movement receptacles we all have come to appreciate before every race. Well, I have a new name for one in particular - Ambushing Assassin From Hell. That's right, not many people have the unfortunate distinction of being jumped by a port-a-potty - I however, am one such sap. As if getting worked over by a outhouse is not funny enough, it is the surrounding circumstances and self-talk that preceded said whooping, that really make this story worth writing. They say in cycling "its not if you wreck, its when you wreck." I now know this to be true but my first "when you wreck" could not have been more spectacular and entertaining.
Saturday, April 6, 2013, its the morning of the annual Final Four Party that we were hosting for the first time. Got to get the workout in before an afternoon full of BBQ and beer. It was an overcast morning, temperature in the mid-to-upper 50's, with consistent 16 mph winds out of the southwest. There was an occasional gust of up to 34 miles per hour. (They keep records of this stuff.) Not a fabulous morning, but for spring time in Iowa, it was just nice enough to lure a fellow out for his first long weekend outdoor ride of the year. The long winter mornings of sweating it out in the stinky hot garage rides or in the basement bicycling betterment bunker, had created a double-action, turbo-charged, bicycle propelling rocket legs and this engine could no longer be contained by four walls. It needed the open road!
It was chilly, especially with the wind, but tough guys do what tough guys do, and I was one such tough guy determined to ride outside. I was sure that everyone else was wither still snuggled up nicely in their bed or were pedaling comfortably on their trainer at one of the last garage rides of the season. Wusses! Decked out in tights, gloves, stocking cap under the helmet and a jacket, (tough but still have some remaining tropical blood in my veins from growing up in Hawaii) I headed out east and then north with the wind at my back. I was freaking flying. My turbo-charged pedal bike propulsion jets were stronger than ever. The entire triathlon world better prepare to be left in my dust. The first half of the ride was ego-inducing confirmation of my off-season forged, new-found awesomerness. (Sure its not technically a word but as you can tell it means a higher level of awesomeness than that which was previously attained).
When one pedals out to the north, one must eventually turn around and pedal back to the south in order to make a complete loop and arrive back at camp awesomeness. I did that and was instantly reminded that riding outside meant riding INTO the wind as well. The wind was so strong I couldn't hear myself think as it whistled through my helmet. I couldn't even hear cars approaching me from behind. "That's cool, that's alright, it's like running on a treadmill with 11 percent grade or something. It's what tough guys do." Tough, painful, but virtually certain to add that much more to my repertoire awesomeness. During the winter I even read an article about riding in the wind and now I was able to practice my newly found expertise. "Drop a couple of gears, keep the cadence up, head down and just brew ahead." Brew I did ... to the tune of 6 mph! "Whatchu looking at buddy, driving your mamsy-pamsy car up this here road?" "That's right I'm tough, I'm out here pedaling my face off into the wind cuz I am one bad-ass triathlon rocking son-of-a-gun!"
The ride back home took twice as long as the ride out, but it didn't bother me. In fact, it added that much more fuel to my unjustified, overconfident self-image of uber-atheletic awesomeness. Toes were number, fingers barely moved, and snot dripped down my nose as my quads burned and screamed out in speed-building agony. It didn't matter. Everyone else was riding inside, munching on snacks, watching a movie, while rocking out to their favorite play list. I, on the other hand was riding right into the eye of a freaking hurricane! "Who's going to crack an hour on his olympic distance bike leg?!" That's right I could do that right now if I wanted. (still to this day haven't come close). As I cruised back into our subdivision, my head was so big, there was no helmet out there that could contain it
Once in the subdivision, the wind subsided thanks to the shelter of the surrounding houses. Images of triathlon greatness danced through my head. Shoot the lazy neighbors were probably just now stirring from their slumber. Truly, I was in a class all by myself. Gliding up to the stop sign a block from my house, I niftily unclipped and slowed from warp-speed to yield to an approaching SUV. Up the road sat a lot under construction with a gray port-a-potty sitting immediately next to the south curb, door facing me. A car was parked on the north shoulder of the street so the SUV would need to come out into my lane to get around the car. The SUV driver and I made eye-contact and he waived me through. Surely he recognized my pedaling prowess and yielded to my superiority. "Yes, yes, I am awesome" I thought as I clipped back in and started to dance on the pedals on my merry way.
I hadn't sooner clipped back in and made my first, buttery-smooth pedal turn, when a surgically aimed wind gust burst forth from the south. As if being directed by God Almighty to bring me crashing back down to earth, the gust grabbed the Crapper door, flinging it open directly into my path. Like an alligator lunging out of the murky water to grab an unsuspecting wildebeest, the port-a-potty executed the perfect ambush. I didn't even have time to emit the schoolgirl scream that spawned in my throat. Brakes locked - two startled faces, SUV bumper, asphalt, sky, feet still in pedals, asphalt again - all flashed before my eyes for what little fleeting moment they were open. "It's not if you crash, it's when you crash" they say huh. Well this one's a doozie!
The SUV driver and his wife's face is still firmly burned into my mind. Eyes the size of Texas flapjacks, mouths agape, frozen in utter shock and surprise. I'm not sure what part of my body hit the pavement first but I know for a fact I did at least a half somersault still clipped in. It had to have been an epic scene. Where's the camera! That's Pulitzer Price winning shit right there! A few awkward moments passed as I did an internal once-over making sure no bones were sticking out. Toes - check; fingers - check; arms - check; knees - check; hips - check; pride - GONE! My attention immediately turned to my precious bike. "Please, tell me its not broken, please tell me it's not broken." Tires - good; gears - good; handlebars - little off centered. Nothing major, all-in-all, she's good!
"You alright?" The SUV driver asked, still in shock. "Mumble, mumble, mumble." "Yeah, yeah I'm fine, thanks." I muttered. Wish I would have had something cool to say or jumped up and yelled "TADAAAAA" or done something awesome, but I had freaking nothing. Image of awesomeness was in a gazillion pieces. "Should have pedaled in the basement." The couple had to have had an aneurism from laughing as they drove on down the street. Physically fine, but ego and perception of awesomeness now on life support, I plopped back onto the seat and rolled slowly back to the house.
The Oldest greeted me with: "Your pants are ripped, what happened? You crash?" "Mhmmm, that's why we wear our helmets, now go pick up dog poop!" Trying to sneak into the house unnoticed, I got a "How was the ride?" from The Wife. "Funny you should ask ... Bet you can't do a somersault on a tri-bike!"
Moral of the story - when you are having a good ride, watch out for flying crappers and make sure to make your first crash is one to talk about!
