Acetaminophen is My Friend

I have posted 3 separate entries today, each from the last three days, with the order going from earliest to latest.....

Some may not get the reference, but much like Conrad's "Heart of Darkness", it's getting harder and harder to write about the experience of traveling deeper and deeper into the mainland, just as an internet connection is more and more difficult to come by. Like I said before, I am not really in control of my own destiny (save when I'm racing bike, of course). However, as arduous as these long bus rides on patchwork county roads between stages are, they allow me time to reflect on the culture shock, as long as I don't look out the window (i.e., we just now stopped for a moment because the road was down to a single lane due to a bunch of drying rice on the roadside!) It's going to be difficult to understand later what I now write. Turbulence is an understatement. "If this was an airplane," my teammate Gavi says, "we'd have to make an emergency landing."

Stage 2: Gannan (a little town of half a million)
Seriously, though, we have it made here. Treated like celebrities, not only in the police escort at the head of the 6-bus caravan, but each stage has a massive opening ceremonies with parades, music and dancing, speeches from mayors and village representatives, fireworks, and balloons. I think all this gimmick is to intended to draw focus away from the lack of air quality.

The 2nd stage is a 100km circuit through the city. Riding to the start from the hotel, I quickly realize that traffic lights are merely suggestions, and light suggestions at that. There are police at every corner, ushering the racers through the congestion, but there seems to be a plethora of grandmothers who could care less for their safety. The race starts and the "walking wounded" (yes, mom, it's that bad) is brought back to life. All my pain falls away as the streets are clear and lined with people and children screaming "Jyo! Jyo! Jyo!" but I hear is a roaring waterfall. The road narrows as we fly under the original gate of the city, easily 1,000 years old, and I glance at beautiful temple shrine as we make a sharp right turn. How can I not be inspired to push myself beyond the point where my body and mind says STOP!? The team works well together, I pull off another Superman for the moto camera during a chill moment, and all is ready for a speedy leadout with me at the head when the bad luck demons come again. With less than 5 km to go I feel that all-too-familiar "soft tire syndrome". Flat in the read wheel. Even with a quick change from Lane, our trusty team wrench, I'll never catch up to the front. To add injury to injury, I take another high speed spill trying to hold on to the team car pulling me back to the peleton. Yesterday's wounds reopen, and new ones are made. As Lane comes over to check out my bike, I don't even realize until later that I quote the famous Tommy Simpson, who's final words, "Put me back on my bike" came from the depths of pain and confusion that only a fallen rider can understand.

Bleeding over my white handlebar wrap, I manage to finish only a few minutes behind the peleton, but by this point, the People's Republic has indeed become that again. The road is reclaimed by the masses and I am forced to dodge and weave my way through to the finish line. It is another shock to the already damaged system: we are merely shooting stars here. Done and gone as soon as we arrive. Now on the bus for another 4-5 hours and the road rash on my left butt cheek is quickly adhering to my shorts. Yippy!