Of Barbecue and Ibuprofen

The Texas Sweet sauce at Vince Staten's is incredible. But what's a sauce without a finely cooked bony piece of meat to go with it? That was the best rack of ribs I've ever had. Best baked potato, too. The festival of flavors almost drowned out the panolpy of pain in my knees and shoulders.

See, we sat down at Vince's about 15 minutes after finishing the 100 mile bike ride. It was a perfect day. Started out blue and brittle. Only con-trails and geese in the sky, our words disappearing in puffs of vapor around our heads.

Unlike last week, the bike FIT me yesterday. She did everything I asked her to do.

"C'mon baby, lets crest this hill before my heart bursts."

"Lemme lean just a little further into this turn..."

"If you get me through these last two miles, I promise, I'll rub you down."

The first 25 miles spun by effortlessly. "Damn... quarter of the way done already!"
The next 25 were just as easy, as were the 25 after that. It was the last 10 that hurt.

River Road. Right shoulder burning so badly I wanted to bawl. Knees screaming in pain. Dump trucks and Harleys barreling by inches from my good shoulder. The fucking blue F350 diesel belching enough soot to warrant an EPA investigation. Did I mention that my knees hurt? And then, suddenly, there was the One Lane Bridge. I've come to love that little pockmarked wonder of engineering. Bumpy li'l bastard, but only a mile and a half from where the truck's parked.


I've finally done it.

I still owe the Nishiki a rubdown.