Double Endo

• What does this mean?

  Five of us clown-car'd it over to the Palos Meltdown, which turned out to be a fine event, as always. Armed with three fixies, a tiny TATI custom, a gigantic lilac single speed, a backpack full of vuvuzelas, and enough wool jerseys to outfit your average late-60s continental team -- what possibly could go wrong? Except for the fact that one of our riders, a newbie, would be sporting road pedals and cleats. Except that I was still smarting from a neck injury earlier in the week and was addled with Advil. But except for that, we were ready. And so we headed West, enjoying the mellifluous tones of REO Speedvagen and Journey.

  Upon arriving at Bullfrog Lake, however, we were mystified by the armada of MTBs. Our stats just wouldn't cut it:

• Brakes per person: 1.2
• Disc brakes per person: .2
• Average tire width: 31mm
• Camelbacks per person: 0
• Gears per person: 6.2
• Number of riders with no brakes: 1
• Number of fixed riders: 3

  Just as we were nearly completed with the bike prep, I realized that I'd lost the car key. While this is hardly unusual, I noticed that I'd been more forgetful than usual over the past few days: losing keys and documents, missing meetings, and generally walking around in a haze. I'd also been suffering from some odd mild vertigo, which had already made its presence known on a recent ride. We eventually found the keys (they had fallen into the horn section of a vuvuzela) and I popped a handful of Advil for good measure as we rolled out to the course.

  Settled under a shady tree, we snacked on gummy bears and practiced dismounts while waiting for the 10:30am heats to start. Dan would be racing Sport on his cross bike, and the TATI Vuvuzela Orchestra would be ready. On this day, our harmony was a B+. We still have work to do, but there is still time to improve in time for the CCC.

  And then we decided to jump in. Or, well, I decided to jump into the race. My teammates rode for a bit, but abandoned me, and so I had no other choice but to carry on and race the fat tired beasts. A few riders were off the front, so I carefully stayed out of their way as they passed on a particular rocky descent -- but this was followed by a 1km rocky ascent, and I surprised myself by bridging up to them. Noting that the gap to the chase was over two minutes, I didn't think it would be troublesome to keep a respectable distance and spectate, at speed. Up and down and up and down we went. We dove through some singletrack, and into and out of Three Ravines. It's this part of the story where things got interesting, because earlier in the day, I asked a friend if Three Ravines (a more technical and challenging part of the Palos trail network) was part of the Meltdown course. And he said, "Of COURSE it isn't!"

  He lied.

  Barreling down into the first ravine, I did a flying dismount (and if you've never seen a brakeless fixed gear downhill dismount, believe me, Flying is the correct adjective) and recovered just before hitting the flat, slippery stones and the base of the ravine. I ran the second ravine. And then I forgot how to count to three.

  I saw the third ravine around the left hand turn too late, and registered a spectacular endo into a tree. There were some marshalls sitting on a log on the other side of the ravine, and they just shook their heads. I scrambled back to my feet, shouldered the bike, and clambered up the other side. In the heat of the moment, though, I didn't see that my handlebars had been twisted 45 degrees by the tree, and when I went to remount, I just threw my hands where I expected the bars to be, and...

  "Oooooooooooohhhh! DOUBLE ENDO!" remarked one of the marshalls. "So intense." said another, without missing a beat.

  Bloodied and shamed, I straightened the bars, cursing under my breath, and continued. I looked down to watch a steady stream of blood slowly covering my handlebars, front hub, and lovely+indestructible Velocity B43 rim. "What does this mean?" I asked myself.

  Much later, over ceviche and horchata at an Archer Street taqueria, the team went over the day's events. My head was pounding and I could barely follow the conversation. My shoulder ached. My ankles burned. My hip clicked in time. The morning's dose of Advil wasn't cutting it, so I pulled my trusty bottle out of the jersey pocket. "Anyone want some," I asked.

  "Some what?"

  "Advil."

  "That's not Advil. That's Zyrtec."

  "Oh."

  "How many of those do you take per day?"

  "Four to six, or sometimes more if my neck really hurts."