Centuries for the chardonnay cyclist

Received my race packet today for the inaugural Denver Century Ride this coming Sunday. The low bar I have set myself is to keep from being the absolute last finisher, and to avoid detachment of labia or other long-distance ailments. Bring such lofty ambition into an event of "citizenletics" means that my eleventh-hour fights-to-the-finish are usually against an 80-year-old man (who is, undeniably, very fit for his age).

The "fight to the finish" is a rite of passage for the fun-runner, mini-triathlete and cyclist alike. For 30 hot seconds those approaching the finish line can forget their woeful pace and joust a senior citizen to pull an o.22 improvement on their "time," clawing their way up the finishing list by one place and finishing mildly hypoxic. It is an important act of diversion for competitors still out on the course when the winners have already consumed their post-race carb buffet and beers, podiumed, and returned home to watch "The Bill" re-runs.
In the back of my mind, though, is the realization is that one hundred miles is a long way for someone lazy to pedal. This realization is jousting the idea that sitting atop a fencepost for nine hours is heroic. Back to the ride packet, though. Pictured above, allow me to explain why the clod of coupons and pertinent ride-day brightened my spirits.

1. The t-shirt. This royal blue light-weight cotton jersey has been custom designed for the American Dad that completes one act of heroism a year, and spends the other 11 months wearing the resulting t-shirt to company events and barbecues, no matter how unattractive the design. The "medium" assigned to me could generously fit an endomorph with ease, and the picture appears to have been assembled via PowerPoint clip art. Nice to see they didn't just bang in the gratuitous Rockies silhouette, but managed to squeeze the Qwest building in also.

2. The ride bib. On closer inspection, the ride motto can be deciphered: "Safety. Identification. Lifestyle." Well if I didn't think I was heroic, safety would not be my number one priority. Followed by identification. Clearly my ride mates will be that wholesome Neighborhood Watch bunch who enjoy sheet cakes with the faces of loved ones printed in marzipan. I expect an entourage of dad-beards, helmet mirrors, and neon cross-reflector vests to keep me company on Sunday.

3. (Not pictured: assorted coupons.) Straight into the bin went the Lasik eye surgery coupon, real estate brochures and $5 real buxxs to some Denver restaurant I've never heard of. Also, advertising for bike servicing priced to match your position on the corporate ladder: for a quick tune-up, the "Executive Tune"; for the deluxe treatment, the "Golden Parachute True and Tune." For the woman who has had a hard day - either riding 100 miles, or simply downsizing the firm - try the "Chardonnay Tune" with complimentary Yellow Tail aperitif.

All of which convinces me that the ride organizers are not expecting much of me, and will be placing more port-a-loos around the course than is strictly necessary. Between the textureless energy food, weak cordial and constant bathroom breaks, I'm looking forward to it almost as much as old age, which I may have reached by the time I finish.
Here's another Denver gem - my first siting of a Denver B-Share bike tour. Note the matching helmets and cheery white baskets on the share bikes. Now this is a group that says "Safety! Identification!" and relegates lifestyle to the bronze podium.