2 hours, 20 minutes / 13.6 mph avg

Well, I did it. I rode the Tour de Heart today and shaved almost 40 minutes off of my best time. Of course, the wind was impossibly harsh; I could have finished 15-20 minutes sooner if nature didn't hate me.

By the way, of those riding the 32 miles, I finished dead last. Oh well. I don't have a $4000 carbon fiber road racer from Italy, nor am I a greek god who has stepped down from Olympus to grace the world with my perfect body shape and 120 lb. weight. I dragged myself and at least a husky teenager around that 16 mile loop twice. I'd like to see those guys try that!

On the way around the first loop, the tour sponsors had made stations every four miles and people were posted there to clap and cheer you on. That was very nice and it gave me quite a lift to have someone say, "Way to go...hang in there (fatty)." Of course that last word was only on the tip of their tongues, but it was there. Fat people have a sixth sense about these things.

On the second loop, I was quite lonely. All of the greek gods and goddesses had finished (probably in an hour to an hour and a half) and were sipping ambrosia and listening to the bluegrass band under the pecan trees at the court square. Gone were the cheerers. For that matter, gone were the police who were stopping traffic for us. And the only clapping was the sound of my knees and occasionaly the now limply hanging flaps of arm skin slapping my sides. (I sure hope all this loose skin sloughs off soon.)

Even though I was abandoned, I had strange hopes that maybe at the finish line, I would witness a scene from one of those cheesy sports films. There would be the lone bicycle racing fan who had told himself that that morbidly obese loser couldn't finish a 32 mile bike race. And yet he had waited to witness the last of racers come home. I would cross in a kind of wierd slow motion, our eyes would meet, and he would give one of those head nods that said, "I sure was wrong about you." Then, he would start that slow clap, solitary at first of course, but loud and strong nonetheless. Then the bluegrass band would stop as the crowd turned to see that the last rider had given all of his last bit of strength. Then they too would begin clapping and cheering and gathering in a circle around me. Someone would begin chanting my name (how they would know it I never figured out, but anyway) until the courthouse square rang out with, "JA-SON, JA-SON." And then two strong men would attempt to lift me up on their shoulders to carry me to the bandstand where I could give a crowd stirring speech about grit and determination and heart and never giving up and giving it all you've got and going full-steam ahead and...

And even though this was my dream (brought about by the delirium of riding 32 miles against the wind THE WHOLE WAY) the guys would fall under my enormous weight and be crushed so that they would have to bring out an ambulance to take them home. To pay for this fiasco, all of the money raised by the race would have to pay their hospital bill. Then the people in the crowd would just kind of stare at me shake their heads and walk sadly away mumbling mean things about fat people and such. Strange dream.

But, needless to say, none of that transpired. No one...nope, no one was at the finish line to see me cross the orange stripe taped across the roadway. They were all listening to the bluegrass band and eating bar-b-cue. Some were packing up their bikes or taking off their shirts in slow motion in order to give the sun a glimpe of their thin good-lookingness.

So, to misquote Robert Frost, my big race ended not with a bang, but a whimper. But it did end and I can carry the personal pride of knowing that I set a goal and achieved something that would have been impossible for me only a couple of months ago. So like Green Day, I'll walk alone with my head held high with silent pride at my accomplishment knowing that I gave my all to at least finish what I started.

SCREW THAT...I WANT ONE OF THOSE CHEAP PLASTIC TROPHIES. WHAT? WERE THEY SO CHEAP THAT I COULDN'T HAVE EVEN GOTTEN A PARTICIPANT RIBBON OR SOMETHING??? I MEAN COME ON!!! 32 MILES...32 MMMMMIIIIILLLLLEEEEESSSSS!!!!! Aaaarrrggh.

At least there's next year. :)