Last night may not have been the best preparation for the first race of the season. A pianist friend was in town from D.C. and he and some of his young gun musicians were performing at The Nash – a Phoenix Valley oasis of art in an otherwise cultural desert. Initially I had wanted see Lexie play, but as race day approached, I begged off, and changed my statement to, “we’ll see how I feel on Friday.” This bought me some time to reflect. But, my love of live jazz won out and come Friday night I had dinner at a new Jamaican bistro in anticipation of some front row jazz. The menu was not what you might find on the training tables of even the Jamaican bob-sled team, so I dove into jerked braised pork belly, butter bean mash with guava reduction and washed it all down with a cup that runnethed over with pre-race guilt. The jazz show was an evening of improvisation and cutting edge complexity, that somehow worked in satisfying ways, and went a long way toward assuaging my race meal remorse.
In so many ways this is stupid. I’m 58 and my racing age is 59. I love jazz. I love cycling. I love to eat adventurously. There has to be a balance in there somewhere. While I want to win every race I enter, the reality, in my many years of racing, is that I have only been on the top step of the podium once.
In the mid-90s.Read More