My first day walking into junior high, through the front doors I pass the office. On the right, a glass wall to look into. The office. Hanging on a wall was a beautiful paddle. The word "good" was painted on it in olde English lettering, it had a waffle 9 holes. I suppose to reduce air flow on the swing, on the way, to smack righteousness into your ass.
My days at school seemed like as long as you did wrong, respectfully, outside the boundaries, clandestine, nonchalant, you got away with it, no one looked too hard for it. Maybe no one had the time to deal with it.
In public, wrong was made an example of, swiftly and sometimes unjustly, and it made its point.
Cooper River cx racecourse is a long narrow ground along a river, straights, turns, some steps, a little sandpit of fun. It's not intimidating, and somehow, it seems, people let down their guard, dropping a bit, and blend together, socialize.
I dropped my chain twice during the race, once in the beginning of the first lap and once, in a collision coming out of the sandpit, with a long hair single speeder, on the last lap. Finishing 12th. Definitely my own fault.
I had good battles, I got a homerun compliment, that "I guiled" the corners impressively (Podium!), from one of our groups members.
I road up to the longhaired single speeder, post race, a younger class rider, the dude who chopped corners, and I chopped his corner and dropped my chain on the last lap. And smiled, "good racing" I said. I think it is important, for your opponent to get a compliment for beating you. To show, let him get a look at a 61 year old, bit chubby, foe. That despite his eye blinder desire to be ahead of me, that after the race we are all just crossers, staying out of the eyesight, over the fence behind the baseball field, sitting on milk crates sharing one can of beer lifted outta someones garage, warm, breaking the rules, together.
Cheers,
dlowe
Thx for the fine, in the grid photo, Gorka!
