Disappointment

Sending a text to Yago goes something along these lines:

I end up texting him with whatever it is I have to ask or say for one of two reasons: One is that I don't feel I have the right to disturb him on a Saturday. He's a coach, but he's not a family member who can be rung up whenever I feel like chatting about something. The second reason is that I don't really believe that what it is I have to ask about is all that important - I probably know the answer to the question I want to ask; I just hate having to bother him for a reality check.

No, I'm lying. There are three reasons. The third reason is that I'm scared as hell of making him angry or disappointed in me.

Saturday, 5:00 AM: I probably would have been woken up by the kids doing wheelies in the plaza with their Vespas, had it not been for the Hiroshima happening in my stomach. I don't know what I got into yesterday, but it's not making me particularly happy today. By 6:05 I've made three shuttle runs to the loo, and am lying in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking, Ohhh, this is not good. It's never pleasant to have the trots anyway, but today is the Clásica de los Puertos, which means 154 kilometres of riding up and down and up and down in 35ºC heat.

I'm not stupid. I know that the combination of 35ºC heat and a case of diarrhea is a recipe for disaster. I know that going out today and risking severe dehydration is beyond moronic. Yet I cannot shake the feeling that I'll end up causing disappointment and anger if I don't take the start today, even though I've got the option of doing the Etapa Reina tomorrow. That's just the feeling. In my mind, I know that I'd get an even bigger chewing out for killing myself this close to QH.

After all, I don't get paid to do this. And he genuinely wants to see us succeed and triumph next week at Quebrantahuesos. So why do I feel like I'm back in Grade 6, continually cowering from someone who's perpetually on the verge of exploding, even though I probably have the coolest, most supportive coach on the whole peninsula?

So I text him anyway, an hour after I've sent him an e-mail which I know he's not going to read until Sunday night, and give him an abbreviated rundown of what happened. I know what's going to happen: He'll call, ask me how I'm feeling, we'll weigh the options of what we can do and then he's just going to tell me to do the Etapa Reina tomorrow. So where does the fear of being chewed out come from? I don't know. Maybe because I can't shake the feeling that I'm not doing enough, even though I don't know that I could have done more. Maybe because I'm worried about alienating my most trusted ally. Maybe because I'm so desperate to show that I'm not a loser that I need to behave like a total loser and continually seek reaffirmation that I'm not.

Anyway. He hasn't called and I need to go to the bathroom. Again.