That Bullsh*t is Bullsh*t. It Just Goes by Different Names

So, remember how  in my last blog I said I wasn't sure if John or I were going to be too sick to do the races we signed up for? Well, we went anyway. Two of our women teammates and another woman we know from Iowa City showed up too. Yea!

I figured, what the hell. I like the courses and I love the women who race in Wisconsin. For the most part, they aren't all overly competitive and threatened by faster racers or snobby to slower racers. They are generally friendly and introduce themselves and are happy that we are there. I also love most of the women who race masters. Like one of the women said when someone commented on all the funky socks we were wearing, "Yeah. We're old enough not to take racing or ourselves too seriously." Amen to that, sister.

Here is me at the start already wiping snot. Such class. Such elegance. Such grace...

 So, if you want to get a sense of just how bad your cold really is I have some tips for you. First, get to the race just a little bit late, so you only have time to ride one lap. During the lap, your legs will feel like jello. No, they will feel like leaded jello. (I'm sure it's a thing) You will tell yourself you are just old and need to warm-up. You will be lying to yourself. The race will start and you will be in a fog. You will have trouble putting your feet on your pedals and you will not have much strength on the nice paved, gradual uphill. You will come to the turn with three women still behind you. "Not bad for being sick," you will think as they all quickly pass you. Damn.

You will try the only steep uphill, that wouldn't normally be a problem, but now, in your brain fog, you forget about your gears or a decent pace and you just say, screw it, get off your bike and walk part of the way up. You glance behind you to see if the cat 4 women, who started 30 seconds after you, are catching-up. Not yet. You hop back on your bike and by the time you reach where all the people are, the 4's are catching you. The announcer comments on your awesome socks (thank-you) and says he thinks you are the leader of the 4's. You shake your head and think, "No. I got dropped by the masters and am getting overtaken by the beginners and waiting for the juniors to drop me too. Sigh". You feel like someone has lassoed your bike and is pulling you backward as half the cat 4's fly past you. Your eyes and nose are running and if anyone could see you up-close they would think your face was as nicely glazed as a doughnut (EW!). You start to feel a little down and then you tell yourself to shut it. You notice that even while you feel so crappy, you are still trying to figure out which lines to take up the hill, how to pump on the downhill with the big bumps and then just ahead, you see the really nice woman who introduced herself to you at the start and said this was her first CX race in 4 years. She is dying. You feel badly, but you pass her anyway and think, "Hey, at least I'm not last." Hell, you'll take what you can get at this point. You finally finish the race. Your beautiful boyfriend is waiting for you with water and your jacket and he tells you what a stud you are. You know he's lying, but you appreciate the hell out of him for saying it anyway. So, that's how you know how sick you are...And by you, I mean me.

John was still too sick to race as well. Since we had some time to kill before we met my family for dinner at 5, and there was some kind of big football game  going on between Iowa and Wisconsin, we stopped for appetizers and a beer at Great Dane in Fitchburg. You may not know this, but I can be a bit on the loud and obnoxious side (yeah, shut-up) and because of that, other obnoxious people at bars seem to want to be my new best friend. We met a guy like that yesterday. He was actually pretty amusing. He made us try his cheese covered, gravied fries. He then set about showing us and the bar, just exactly how much cheese there was on his food. Lovely.

We were both exhausted and had some more time to kill, so we pulled the car over next to a park and took a nap. While John was looking at Google Maps for the restaurant, he commented on the fact that it was right across the street from the mustard museum. OMGEEEEE!

I love cheesy, kitschy, Americana crap. All of it. John is very patient and is nice enough to tag along to play at the 1950's putt-putt golf course, the largest assortment of pinball machines or whatever else weird shit I drag him to. He was not surprised that I wanted to see it, and I'm sure he was just relieved that it wasn't the world's largest ball of twine...Which I still want to see.

John imitating the creepy mustard lady behind him.

  The Mustard Museum used to be in Mt Horeb and moved to Middleton for some reason. It was closing in 8 minutes, so I didn't have time to read the blah,blah,blah about it.

There were lovely samples and videos and can you believe people actually get paid to work at the mustard museum? I bet you never find that on a survey: Please mark your occupation - hospital worker, office clerk, law enforcement, mustard museum worker...

Be honest, have you ever met anyone who gave out wedding mustard?

After we left the museum , we had a wonderful evening of Cajun style food and drinks with my family. It was one full day.

I know there are more single-minded people out there who would be bummed-out the rest of the day after having such an embarrassingly bad race, disgusting cold and knowing they wouldn't get to do the other race they paid for the next day. Lucky for me, I like to look at my life as one cheesy, kitschy, ridiculous adventure. One that doesn't always go my way, but takes me places that make me laugh and one in which I am most assuredly wearing awesome socks.