Outside the cicadas' droning fills the evening with the suggestion that, despite the sunny days and hot breezes, summer is moving into its final, fatal, stage, preparing for its imminent end, sort of like the way stars flare brightest before dying. Public radio has a show on about barbecues "for these final days of summer," and commercial radio is filled with back-to-school ads. The calendar says August already. And that means the Centurion is approaching. This Sunday. 7 a.m.
As I anticipate Sunday's ride, I think about one of the old movies I've been watching as I walk the treadmill, John Wayne's Alamo. I recall the scene in the movie the night before Santa Ana's attack. Wayne (Davy Crockett) and his Tennesseans have opted to stay and fight, despite the overwhelming odds; that, Wayne had told them, was what they came for, not to cut and run when things got tight, not to let their fears get the best of them. He said something like, "A man's got to do what's right. If he doesn't, he's not really alive. He may be walking around, but he's not alive." So that night they all sit in the gathering gloom, some talking, some alone with their thoughts, all contemplating the approaching battle and their almost certain encounter with mortality. Some no doubt cursing Wayne/Crockett or themselves, but all still resolved to go through with it. Waiting.
I feel a bit like that. Common sense tells me that I ought to opt for the 50-mile ride, which would be a hard but managable choice; my heart tells me I need to go with the 100 as originally planned, that to try for less would be to fall short without really trying at all. Though my odds of survival are probably better than they were for the Alamo folks; I've completed a couple 50s already and finished with plenty of energy some more. The hills will be a challenge, but so long as I remember to hydrate and pace myself, I ought to be able to do them. My bike's in good shape. I've got a sherpa.
And it's what I came for.
The Duke would be proud.
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