Twice Scrambled Eggs
by Rob Schott, M.D.
report filed November 1996, San Jose, California
It's time the Low Key Hillclimb series came out of the closet. I used to
associate the concept of "low-key" with leisurely, non-competitive, perhaps
even lazy. Kevin Winterfield has helped me redefine low-key. Kevin and Dan
Connelly, a congenital organizer and an
obsessive number manipulator, have done a great job putting this whole thing
together. I'm sure Kevin could put together a
successful figure skating champtionship in hell. But this is "Low-Key" like
finding your backyard was formerly a toxic waste
dump is low key. Then again, if it really were just a "fun ride" I wouldn't be
there.
Today's event was a scenic sprint from the San Gregorio Store to the top of Old
West LaHonda. Except today was rather
chilly and foggy so there wasn't much scenery, except perhaps the other
participants, many of them milling about the stove at
the General Store trying to keep warm before stripping down to the bare
essentials for the sashay to the top. I looked out the
window to see the fellow with the "low-key" disc wheel warming up, right next
to the gentleman with the "low-key" time trial
helmet on.
I set out at the assigned time with little water and no spare or pump, in
keeping with the low-key tradition of absolutely
minimizing the weight for the climb. I wandered along, splayed out over the
aerobar with a heart rate at a touristy 173 BPM
sucking in air like a Harrier Jump Jet. I passed perhaps 10 or 12 riders along
the way. When one came into view, I thought to
myself "target acquired". I zeroed in but fortunately had no missiles to arm
and fire. I kept waiting for faster riders to pounce on
me, but they were far enough back so that I wasn't overtaken. One fellow
periodically appeared behind me and seemed to be
gaining. This inspired me to bound along perhaps a bit faster with the sense
that I was being stalked by a stronger predator in
keeping with the Darwinian nature of these low-key undertakings. I sprinted
across the line and seized up by the side of the
road trying to figure out if my time was a good one. This hasn't been done
before so nobody really knew.
Mark Rodamaker motored across, drowning in his various secretions and
momentarily breathless.
Once restored, we chatted for a minute and watched Mark Anderson dash across.
He pulled up,
looking a bit gray. I asked him how he did and he opened up and out gushed
breakfast, by all
appearances quite a calorie-fest. I applauded him on his effort up the hill and
then realized he was
tottering on his bike. I helped haul him off the bike and into the dirt, where
he lay in quiet repose,
next to his twice scrambled eggs. Mark R. and I then stood nearby admiring the
totality of his effort.
Shortly afterwords Liz Beneshin came over, and after being steered away from
the accident site which she nearly trod through,
commented, "How can you guys sit next to that spew!" before wandering off with
a "eeewwwww". It's a guy thing, I guess.
Mark R. commented that Mark Anderson deserved a yellow jersey, perhaps chunky
yellow, or maybe egg yolk yellow.
We waited for the Low Key cycling god, Tracy Colwell to appear to gauge
precisely how meager our efforts really were.
Amazingly he beat me by only a minute. This is amazing because he had a flat,
or rode on a flat and still kicked my butt. I was
told he fixed it, did a hundred pushups and then saved several children from a
burning orphanage before jumping back on his
bike to then speed up the hill, turning in a respectable time.
I drove Mark back home and he seemed to recover nicely. His last comment to me
was, "Gee, I'm kinda hungry now".
