A Day at the Races (Revised)

(Thursday, when I first wrote this, I came away not completely happy. So tonight I found myself making revisions. My first thought was to replace the original. But, I've decided to place it along side Thursday's entry.)

Last Saturday afternoon (the 20th), I stood in the very wet rain looking at a very empty street wondering what I was doing. No traffic, no cars, zilch. One of the streets you see in a sci-fi movie after the nuclear apocalypse. In reality I was waiting for the cyclists of the Men's U. S. Olympic Team Trials for Road Cycling.

Suddenly to my right through the rain, I saw motorcycles and then two cyclists. They appeared so unexpectedly, and vanished so quickly that my brain almost refused to process what I'd seen. All I caught was a glimpse of two guys in skintight gear covered with logos whizzing by at an amazing pace.

I was standing at the top of a hill, and to my right the street dropped sharply and then slopped uphill in a reverse manner. (If you were to look at a cross section of this part of the street, it would resemble an inverted bell-shaped curve.) I strolled westward, moving slowly downhill and paused in front of a white fence. Now, I was about midway down/up the hill and could see the corresponding slope a few hundred feet away.

There was a curious, low-sounding drone, and as I glanced up I thought I was seeing a rain squall pelting the pavement across the dip in the street. But within an instance, I realized that the squall was a huddled mass of cyclists, very tightly grouped together, apparently only inches apart. As they petaled up the hill toward me, three or four bikes skidded; wheels and frames caromed across the asphalt in one direction while the downed cyclists literally slid across the pavement to the curb.

By now the cyclists were directly in front of me. Dozens of men clad in similar logo-covered, body-fitting garb, with neon-colored helmets whirling by in a blur of pumping thighs and calves. I was instantly conscious of the swirling air created by the riders. But I also felt I could almost smell the adrenaline. Most likely, I was picking up male pheromones.

Behind the riders were numerous cars and motorcycles, several of whose passengers came to the aid of the victims of the slippery street. In a few minutes, the felled rejoined the race, and the vehicles zipped on, and the street was deserted again.

As the rain increased I retreated to the car and drove home. Since I knew the race was a long one (137 miles), I decided I go out again later. Shortly after 5, I drove toward the finish line and managed to park a couple of blocks away.

Here the street was thronged with fans behind steel barricades. To one side was an area of vendors' tents. Across the street were vans and television production units. Down the street I could see a large screen showing the cyclists from left and right and overhead. In the earlier confusion, I'd missed the camera operators on the motorcycles. And I'd completely overlooked the helicopters. After awhile I was able to piece together where the riders were. It was not too long before they appeared and swept between the barricades.

I would like to have stayed, but the clouds were becoming darker and darker. In addition, I had noticed within the first few minutes the overpowering odor of freshly cut grass. My nose was already partially blocked, and I could feel the start of a sinus headache. Back to the car I plodded. And home I went.

I'm not sure what I has expected but certainly nothing as galvanic. It was both exhilarating and highly charged. And erotic. And I'm struggling to explain why I found it so. It may have something to do with the skintight outfits. Or it may have something to do with the closeness of the group. Or it could indeed be that with that much physical effort, you do catch pheromones.

PAX!