Fight

Elvis was a hero to most
Elvis was a hero to most
Elvis was a hero to most
But he never meant $#¡% to me....

There's no Group B today. There's only Group A, who are headed up to Abantos, me....and quite possibly some other bodies still staying upright on bikes from here to Guadarrama. God knows where anybody is. I got dropped right at the VOR airplane beacon just south of Colmenar Viejo. For various reasons, I only slept about four hours last night. I'm premenstrual and exhausted and hungry and bitched off. Remind me, again, why I pay over €85 a year to ride with a bunch of guys who can't seem to get away from me fast enough?

Armstrong was a hero to most
Pantani was a hero to most
Perico was a hero to most
But they never meant $#¡% to me....

There are two options: Option One is to return home to a blaze of indignation from various parties. Today was the day I was supposed to take my revenge on Abantos. "Let's see if we can finally kill the ghost of Abantos," wrote Yago in the training plan, and it's not that I'm against killing any ghosts, but damn, do I have to commit murder starting from so far away?

Option Two is to keep plodding along, wind and weariness be damned. And given that the body of the Ex Mex, splayed on the floor, was still generating snores that made his blankets vibrate when I left the house this morning (much as it did for all of last night) if I manage to get a couple of hours of peaceful riding in before I get home, then the day isn't totally lost.

Connie Carpenter was a hero to most
Mari Holden was a hero to most
Jeannie Longo was a hero to most
I gotta fight the powers that be....

But I resent this. I don't resent riding alone; I resent riding abandoned. Alberto, Alfredo, Moncho, Vicente, Miguel Ángel, Rafa...granted, they've all been riding at a higher level than I have, and for longer periods of time. I don't want to be coddled, but there are limits to how many times I can get dropped and feel happy about it. Especially when there's no one else around riding at my level. I'd even make a crack about being happy to have some girls to ride with, but Eva showed up with her dad this morning, and both of them took off like shots at the first opportunity. And I'm not even sure I understand why Eva is allowed to ride, since she doesn't have a license.

Get used to it, my inner cynic thinks. You think it sucks now, you just wait 'til it starts happening in real competitions and those young things start looking at you like the mutton you are...and wait for the showdown to begin. Mental advantage? Ha bloody ha, girlfriend. Either get faster or get lost.

My inner cynic is usually shut up by caffeine and food. Right. Breakfast run to Guadarrama, and if no one else is around, say screw it and take the train back from Villalba.

At least this time I know it's not personal. Or at least I don't think it is. Not like with the Saturday Bunch. It's just carelessness - no one called the B group this morning, everyone took off like a shot, the bodies will start showing up at some point in time.

Pee break just outside of Becerril de la Sierra. Couple of slugs of energy gel/food/something which is basically peach compote in a foil packet and doesn't taste that bad. Uphill through Becerril, Collado Mediano (what the hell is a collado, anyway?) Downhill into Guadarrama, and then I hear the beeeeep-bee-bee-bee-bee-beeeeeep! of a car horn. Too many beeps to be unfriendly.

It's Zurdo, who never misses an outing; he's driving the club car. You alone? Zurdo has a lot of problems understanding my accent, so any attempt at sarcasm will go flying straight over his head. I nod. I'm gonna park over by the big fountain; you know where the big fountain is? This is a bit of a dumb question - Guadarrama has at least three big fountains that I can remember. I just nod, and try to follow him into town.

Zurdo leaves me at the same bar where Luis Ali and Moncho and I had coffee before climbing up Alto de los Leones about a month earlier. The bar is hopping. The waitresses are stressed out, the owner isn't hearing much of what anyone is saying to him. I leave my bike in the presence of an older couple who are a with a boy who suffers from some kind of extreme cerebral palsy and I remember that Contador has a younger brother who suffers from mental paralysis and how scared his parents were, after Conta suffered a stroke, that they'd have two sons in wheelchairs. I let myself feel slightly ashamed of my attitude, and go in for coffee and tortilla.

The owner of the bar told us, when we were here before, that his niece rides with Bizkaia-Durango, but seeing me today doesn't ring any bells. I try to make myself small, eat and drink as fast as I can.

Bingo. Two magenta and gold-clad bodies walk into the depanneur next door. It's Alfredo and Jorge. If Alfredo's here, then Alberto #2 is around somewhere.

That's more like it.