Feathery leaves crown
The ten foot tall slender stalk
Like a pharaoh’s fan.
Friday, November 20, 2015
For about 10 kilometers yesterday I was a professional bike racer.
It’s been one of my fantasies since Greg Lemond’s days to break away from the pack and lead a glorious solo charge up Alpe de Huez to victory. Although yesterday I was clearly neither in the Tour de France or in the front of the pack, it was pretty exhilarating to be part of the frenzy of a professional bike race.
Yesterday’s race was the Vuelta de Chiriqui. From a blog post I knew it would be coming through town soon, but from my web searches and questioning of ex-pat riders, I couldn’t figure out exactly when. And I had no idea I’d meet up with the race when I started off on my ride in the morning.
But on my return home, as I was approaching the main road to Volcan from Cuesta de Piedra, I saw two riders and traffic crawling up the road which only happens if there’s an event or an accident. And when I hit the corner and turned right heading up hill and people were outside cheering, I pretty much figured the race was on.
The two riders in front of me were moving away at a pretty decent clip, and since I couldn’t see any rider approaching from behind, I figured it couldn’t hurt to stay on the road and ride toward home. I must have veered onto the tail end of the race, but if I thought I would interfere at all I would’ve dismounted and become a spectator.
As it turned out there were a few riders behind me as I was passed by number 44 a few miles outside of town and #55 within a mile of Volcan. After #55 passed me the road flattens out and I was able to keep pace with him from a safe distance behind.
In Volcan there is a T intersection where if you turn right it heads up a mild grade to the small hamlet of Cero Punta. That’s the direction the race was headed. I was going to continue straight toward home. As we approached the intersection a race volunteer was waving his arm and yelling “derecha, derecha”, but I waved vigorously indicating that I wasn’t part of the race and continued straight toward home.
But for about an hour it was a thrill passing cars, receiving cheers and shouts of encouragements from the adults and children watching outside of their homes, and riding at a decent enough clip to be momentarily mistaken for a bike racer.
It has me dreaming again and seriously considering entering Master’s bike races in a few years when I turn 60.
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