Riding a dirt-bike can generally be thought of as a pleasurable pursuit. There is great joy in twisting a throttle, feeling the rear wheel spin and the front wheel get light. It's the reason men in their thirties, forties, fifties and beyond keep at it, despite weight of age and call of grave. It's just plain fun, that never gets old. Generally speaking...under normal circumstances...
The mantle of competition, however, is not wont to provide "normal circumstances", in fact it would seem as if the great racing spirit squeals with delight at creating a polar opposite. Participants pit themselves against the whims of a random universe that knows not pity or mercy, forearmed with naught but experience, wits and luck to assist in dodging cosmic curve-balls intent on knocking your block off.
The curve-ball for Race #5 of the 2018 Virginia Championship Hare Scrambles Series was surely going to be the heat and humidity, coupled with a course so diabolically tight and rutted it promised only misery. Hedonism disappeared quickly in the rear-view mirror, giving way to a ghoulishly dank, hot kind of hell. Before the green flag flew, my stomach was sick and my head swimming, and it was only going to get worse.
One of the dictionary definitions of masochism is: "gratification gained from pain, deprivation, degradation, etc., inflicted or imposed on oneself". The key word being "gratification". This was not going to be enjoyable or gratifying in the least. Every single second held only the spectre of a new nightmare. I was still going to do it. Why? Why indeed...
It occurred to me that I just might have a fucking screw loose...
A picture is worth a thousand words, but this one leaves some out, like: dying, hallucination, poached brain, dehydration, drowning, among others. |
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