Sweet.
We take a twisty-turny bus ride to the beach, where we start Stage I of La Vuelta. It’s humid as hell (I LOVE it!), and we sit down for some pasta and chicken (shocking!) and a mariachi band before the stage begins. Chicken in El Salvador tastes good. This explains the frequency of Pollo Campo and Tosty Pollo (KFC). And it is free-range, because I saw most of the country's flock along the roadways.
Everybody loves chicken
At lunch, Kike did some dancing and court-jestering while we played paranoid Americans and repeatedly used our Purell hand-sanitizer. But seriously folks, you can’t be too careful.
I had brought the TNA bikini, but didn’t get to use it. Dang. Sorry, cousin Lisa.
We roll out around 2 p.m., the hottest part of the day. Due to my stellar climbing abilities exhibited on previous days, we agree that Andrea, Megan and I can help keep things together until the final climb (which, we hope is the final climb as the race bible is the exact opposite of gospel). Then Kathleen, Anna and Hiroko can do their thangs.
We encounter roller after roller in the countryside. And 4 tunnels. UCI regulations demand that tunnels be illuminated so that you can see a car’s license plate 20 meters in front of you. The El Salvadorian interpretation of this rule is to station 2 random guys at the entrance, who then proceed to run alongside the peloton with flashlights. I’m not sure they paid more than $2 for said flashlights. Needless to say, those few pitch-black adventures were harrowing. It almost felt like a discothèque. Where was the E?
Many times I thought I was going to die from the exertion of climbing, and many times I was assured I was not by each teammate. I now held two jerseys: Most Books Read and Biggest Whiner.
Things calmed down a bit when we found some flat ground. We did some fun attacks, with Megan poaching some sprint points and me making an attempt, as well. That was fun. It’s not every day (actually, it’s NEVER) that The Mandy sprints in a UCI event.
The climb began on some cobblestones, right about the time I began to lose contact with the group. Oh man it hurts so bad! Suddenly, they are riding away from me, and I am shot out the back. Pete and Jorge do the usual drill, rolling by me and handing me a bottle of water for my long journey ahead. I am treated 5 times to the joy of having cold water dumped on my head, 39 times to calls of “mi amor” and “preciosa”, and once am dropped by a dude on an ancient mountain bike who is probably just running out for pupusas. Curses.
10k or so later I arrive at the mountaintop in Nahuizalco (Sweet Pete is there at 300 meters egging me on) and fight the urge to puke. I am hot, tired, and want to go to bed. It’s getting dark and we’re stuck on the side of a crumbling mountain while the townspeople stare at us like we’re a zoo attraction. Which we may be. Our strange post-race rituals of hydrating, eating, toilette, dressing, complaining (okay, just me), race-rehashing, jabbering, and whatnot must be a sight to behold for people used to plowing the land and sweating 20 hours per day NOT for incremental gains in their strength/weight ratio.
We roll down the hill to a hidden courtyard where we are served (yet again!) chicken and rice as well as some local delicacies (meatballs, crema, delicious tortillas, etc). I try everything and goad Pete into doing the same, claiming that he clearly IS NOT a man if he doesn’t want to eat processed meat in casings once in a while. He is, after all, from Pennsyltuckey. Anna and Hiroko nap in the Mitsubishi while Jorge drives. The rest of us take the bus home (1.5 hours!) with the loud Brazilians and two hilarious pee stops on the side of the highway.
Oh yeah, and Anna got 11th, KB and Hiroko close behind, and Andrea and Megan somewhere in the middle but WAAAAAY ahead of me.
Sweet sleep. If only the damn airplanes would stay off the roof this time!
Any number of nice ditches we may have ridden by
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