The Squids and the Whales

Some stats:
U.S. Marathon Finishers (up 1,700%)
1976: 25,000
2002: 450,000

U.S. Triathlon Members (up 150%)
1993: 16,000
2002: 40,000

12- to 24-Hour Mountain-Bike Races (up 5,900%)
1992: 1
2003: 60

U.S. Adventure Races (up 19,900%)
1995: 2
2003: 400

Sources: USA Track and Field; Association of Mountain Bike Team Relays International; USA Triathlon; U.S. Adventure Racing Association

At mile 55 my quads dripped off my bones. The hill appeared and I wondered if I'd have to let go of even the appearance--of untapped strength--I'd struggled to impress on the other riders.

I couldn't see the top of the hill. It didn't disappear behind a curve. No, the road edges merged together at a horizon point somewhere far above.

Six had already popped off the back, the guys on Fujis with maybe five pounds extra, maybe their first group ride. I could still hear the loudmouth on the e-Bay wonderbike dropping off the back, wheezing from the ten beers he said he'd had the night before and his homebuilt wheels knocking and groaning on his brakes.

The lawyer and Chuck, the shop owner, raced ahead, all titanium and more engineering than the space shuttle, a part of it, but the glory of it was the engines, their lungs and legs, the ergo of five winters of three nights a week sweating over the training watching bad TV. Sweating and not talking to anyone, but watching 165 bpm on the heart monitor and then it was 500 watts on the powertap, counting the time, hanging up the clothes and hearing the drop of the sweat into the tub afterwards, opening the window and sticking bare chest into the winter air. And in summers it was riding five nights and five mornings a week, of weekends with nearly broken collarbones from the crits and shredded skin.

They went ahead of me, left me behind.

At the top they waited, and then I waited with them, where we breathed and coasted. Squeeky eBay came up eventually.