It is Saturday morning, car packed with bike and race items, I take off with my wife to the beautiful city of St. Petersburg, FL. I’ve raced here the past three years. Keep telling my wife how much she is going to love this venue. Great organization, great people, the best pre-race expo, great water front, gourmet restaurants, nice clean city with modern construction and roads. How could anyone not love it? I figure the only risk is wanting to stay.
It is the day before the race and perhaps I’m understating it by saying: ill faint beau! --it’s a God-dam beautiful day (and i never use such language). I feel so fine -I already know I’m going to have the best possible race I’m capable of. Driving along the way I’m distracted by the day’s bright colors and pleasing scenes while pointing out the beauty of this flat-bare-wet-lands. I’m reminded of the Genesis. It’s no wonder how God felt proud after creation.
We might have been 25 miles from St. Pete when I first thought of taking a peek at the state of the gas tank. There is a bright yellow warning dot light up next to the gauge all the way down. We are on empty. The car computer estimated enough gas to drive 7 more miles. The navigation system showed that we were about to enter into what seemed like a long-never-ending bridge leading into St. Pete. Quickly maneuvered off the highway in search of gas. My eyes fixed on the dashboard computer readout while the countdown to a shuttle take off was underway --7 miles, 6 miles, 5 miles... nothing.
With my heart pounding and 1 mile worth of gas I found myself in the middle of a Florida ghost town. I never knew that place only seen in movies really existed. Barefooted little kids playing and running around wearing only their underwear. I approach a couple of lonely Mexicans migrant workers sitting under a blue tarp. Apprehensive at first ---I ask for gas. I eventually manage to solve the problem. It was just a matter of throwing a little money mixed with some Spanish to it and we were back in business.
With my heart pounding and 1 mile worth of gas I found myself in the middle of a Florida ghost town. I never knew that place only seen in movies really existed. Barefooted little kids playing and running around wearing only their underwear. I approach a couple of lonely Mexicans migrant workers sitting under a blue tarp. Apprehensive at first ---I ask for gas. I eventually manage to solve the problem. It was just a matter of throwing a little money mixed with some Spanish to it and we were back in business.
All the while I kept thinking --I’m not going to let anything ruin this trip. As a matter of fact, somehow I sort of enjoyed the whole experience. Yes, my wife was a little disappointed at me and I can’t blame her. But she was also rather amused by the new discovery of this Florida ghost town. She later thought that we should have taken photographs of the place.
Finally at St. Petersburg, proudly, I announce: “You see?”. It feels good to be alive. I’m thankful to have the opportunity to breath this magnificent air. I want to take it all in. “Let me take you to a restaurant by the sea... enjoy the best gourmet food money can buy... you’ll soon forget we ran out of gas”. “Waiter... bring me a plate of your best pasta and a glass of wine”. There is no denying I’m a frugal person. But I also like to enjoy the finest things in life at the appropriate times.
The food arrives. Its appearance is not what I expected. The pasta sauce was absolutely horrendous and the chicken was burnt black just like a piece of charcoal. The waiter comes back, --dares to ask: --”how is the food?” --my wife looks at me, frustration written all over her face. “Well... it is terrible” --I modestly admit. We ended up ordering another plate... 20 minutes later and it turns out the burger and fries were really good on this joint. “You see? ... this is what I call great American gourmet food” :-)
Back at the car the parking meter was a few minutes overdue. In this wonderful-well-managed city, five minutes of overdue parking meter comes with a request for $25.00 in a greeting card attached to the windshield. I had already decided not to let anything ruin my trip. I feel happy to be alive, it is great to be breathing this air and it is a beautiful day on a beautiful place. I will consider the $25 as my small contribution to this advanced society.
A few days before, when booking a hotel, I soon learn that there was nothing available at the race venue. It is the age of information so it didn’t take much effort to find the nearest inn with a room untaken. “Let me take you to the hotel, dear. You’ll feel fresh and rested in the morning”. The age of information also comes with some misleading or sometimes omitted caveats --room is right in front of a busy highway in a not so nice part of town. She is a little tormented feeling insecure.
So the room doesn’t smell very well... but so what. I’m not going to let any of this ruin this trip to this beautiful location. This highly valued geographic area is one of those places most people watch on TV and only dream of visiting in person. I’m going to enjoy it to the fullest. Again, I’m really not disturbed at all by any of this. Actually I’m somewhat amused.
You never really get used to the street noise, but by 3 am, when finally falling into a light sleep there is a knock on the door. It is a woman’s voice: “I’m your neighbor... I’m on the room next to yours... please open the door... I just want to ask you a question...”. I get up, walk towards the door --and again: “open the door you’ll see I don’t have a weapon”. It takes a second to register --did she just said “WEAPON”? I don’t remember the last time I had heard that word used in a sentence that did not include a brand of very fast bicycle wheels.
I usually carry a sleeping pill when traveling. It is to be used only in case of emergency. I’ve had this one stashed on my travel bag for almost a year. I reached for the pill -swallowed it whole --went back to bed. Next morning my wife wakes me up. Good thing she couldn’t sleep at all keeping watch. I was knocked-out cold and would’ve surely missed the race start.
We hurried up to the venue. I soon found myself in front of the beach about to press on the red button on my wristwatch. BOOM! --race starts. I have a great swim. Off to the bike. It is windy, but I’m feeling so fine, I can’t seem to get tired no matter how hard I try. My legs felt like pistons on a wild-mad-race-car that won’t stop for nothing. The front wheel looks like it’s flying and the disc echoes that distinctive whooh-whooh. I’m on top of the world passing slower riders all alone the route. I’m inspired. It is a good time to be alive. It is also the first time I wear these beautiful LG
carbon tri-shoes. I can feel my toe is scraped pretty bad from the constant sliding back and forth. I’ve heard how no one really has two identical feet. Obviously the shoes are too big for my right foot. But this is wartime and I’m not letting the hammer down; ...surely not for some minor discomfort.
I start the run and considering the windy conditions, I’ve done well so far, but by mile 1 I realize how I just couldn’t take a step with my right foot. My toe was bleeding pretty badly and it hurts like crazy inside my racing flats. My usual macho-style running without socks is not working this day. This time is more like red-blooded stupid and painful running without socks. But I wasn’t going to let any of this ruin this trip and much less this race at this beautiful venue. I’m a problem solver. I mean, that’s what I do for a living. Took my right shoe off and ran barefooted shoe-in-hand. At the finish line, my foot was bleeding evenly, --on the top as well as the bottom. Still, I felt a deep sense of well being, of happiness, --content with the world, with the people, and with being alive, with having the opportunity and great fortune of being part of the greatest race on earth. Thankful for the great health I’m enjoying and the experience as a whole. I’ll take it whichever way it comes. I want it --and I want more.
It was time to head back. We had walked for a while when I realized that I could not remember even getting up that morning, much less where I had parked the car. I thought long and hard... “Are you sure I drove the car this morning?” --She smiles and makes fun of me thinking that I was only joking. But she can’t hide her frustration. She tends to worry. I soon learned that the only thing I could remember, for the love of God, from that morning, starts after jumping in the water. I could almost say I woke up swimming. But then, who setup transition for me that morning? How is this possible? I’m I getting that old? Is it Alzheimer? “But this is never happened to me before...” I feel confused. It is an enigma that I still can’t explain.
We walked for hours. Couldn’t find the car. Stopped for coffee and some rest. Took a few pictures of birds while sipping coffee. Walked again. We saw the good part of town and learned the bad part of town with the homeless, empty lots, sad people and beggars as well. I finally decided to take her somewhere safe while I searched for the car on the bike. Could not find a “safe” enough place where she would feel at ease. But a spot near the beach simply had to do.
Tired and battered by winds, day turned to dusk. I had tried different strategies; north-south, east-west, riding into every single high-rise, low-rise, flat-rise and any-rise parking place when I finally found my car. It seemed lonely and sad and disappointed just as she did. ...And I don’t blame them.
--“Want to go somewhere?” <...pause...> --”Just take me home”. It was a short conversation but I don’t think she was mad. I have the sense that she actually felt relieved to be headed back home. Again, --can’t blame her.
On the way back I stopped at a restaurant that is not any of our usual suspect. “Hey... want to try this place?” It was sort of a risky proposition. The Cracker Barrel --who would have thought it. No, never would have guessed the food here could actually be this good. We both liked it. No, let me rephrase that, I should say, we both REALLY liked it a lot. It is southern food, but surely not Florida southern. Florida southern would be Cuban --right? . This southern food seems to be cooked by Parisian chefs. This stop became the highlight of the trip hands-down.
It isn’t very altruistic to enjoy something while frustrating family and taking some risks. Oddly, I remembered Tiger Woods. I many times can still hear my father’s voice too. I don’t mean rhetorically. I mean I can actually hear his voice. I heard it many times this day again. Maybe that’s what the bible means by eternal life or when clergy talk about going to heaven. In a strange way he hasn’t really gone anywhere. He’s right here... in my head. Like Tiger’s dad on the commercial. Only he is NOT asking: “Did you learn anything?”.
Reinaldo.
