Ain't Pride a Bitch

So I'm in Jackson, MS Sun - Thurs this week in a Performance Management Workshop. I've traveled so much this year that I'm taking extra pains on these trips to find a way to enjoy them. I was able to get a hotel about a mile off the Natchez Trace Parkway in Ridgeland. The Natchez Trace is an old Choctaw Indian trading route that traveled several hundred miles - Natchez, MS to Nashville, TN. Now the NT Parkway follows this old road for the full distance and is a National Park. Speed limit is 40, no trucks or industrial traffic allowed, it's there for recreation first. I.e., great cycling road!

So after work today I went out with a goal of riding ~35 miles at around ~80% threshold. It was a gorgeous day. 80 degrees, no humidity, plenty of sun. Very rare combo for Mississippi in late summer. I even stopped twice to look at historical markers. So after seeing those sites, I got on with the serious business of riding. After about 20 miles I started closing on this guy riding a TT bike. No cars were coming so I passed him with a wide berth on the left. Next thing I know, this guy is out of the saddle and jumps on my draft! We were coming South around the Ross Barnett Reservoir and had the wind to our face. It's not that I'm not a friendly cyclist, but I really wasn't looking for company or a free-loading wheel sucker! I will always love my childhood home of Mississippi, but each time I come back with a bike it is apparent to me that the collective bike IQ in MS is about as low as anywhere, and that includes the cyclists!

So for the next couple miles, I turned myself inside out trying to break this guy off my wheel. I'm pretty sure I could have done it quickly with an out-of-the-saddle attack, but I'd made my mind up that the wheel sucker was going to suffer a slow and merciless pain this evening. I just kept gradually stepping up the tempo with no disregard to the fact that I had turned both of my legs into lactic acid production factories. As we started going up a false flat I could hear his breathing getting more laborious and hear his bike start to sway side to side as his pedal strokes no longer were fluid cycles but now were taking full effort from hips and upper body. As he started to break off of me he yelled, "Good pull dude, I'm not much of a hill climber". Flatlander. In 35 miles I didn't see anything resembling a hill.

So now 2 hrs after finishing the ride I'm in the hotel room, legs cramped and suffering from the effort I shouldn't have made 2 days after a race. Damn pride! But I'd do it again in a heartbeat!