Eye opener
I'm at the hotel and will be probably posting this a day late because the Wifi doesn´t work and there´s only one crappy internet terminal in the lobby of the hotel. This whole situation is a bit intimidating: this is kinda a big time tour.
I'm in a pretty sweet hotel room with two other guys on the team I'll be racing with, Viveros Alcanar. They were all very nice from the start, when the two directors met me at the hotel doors and ushered me up to my room before meeting the rest of the guys at an all-you-can-eat buffet where all the other teams were too. The food was a highlight for sure after living in Gringolandia: fresh salad, as much pasta as you want, yogurts, deserts, fruits, olives, lots of good stuff. Even jello was exciting.
But as soon as you look up from your food, you're not sure whether to laugh or be nervous. Have you accidentally walked into a mullet festival? No, there's only a few dozen amazing mullets, and they're scattered in a room of athletes. The darting eyes signal that people are sizing up the others in the room; the confident come in two forms, either laughing and enjoying their food and setting the tone for their team, or quiet and ready to let their legs do the talking. Both intimidate me because I know both forms will be causing me pain in only a few short hours.
The directors gave me some team clothing, including a skin suit and a sweat suit (hilarious corduroy-style getup, retro at best). After dinner they gave me my racing numbers. The team's from Barcelona, so their Catalan (especially that of the director's) was way over my head and might as well have been jibberish.
The Cafemax guys (the Alcoy riders that include the Cuban) came to say hi during dinner, and rub my head for fun. A few days ago, I lost all the hair on my head as part of an initiation ritual and to the great pleasure of Jose and the guys. It feels pretty good under the helmet, but I look like a fat Rasmussen (if you know cycling) or an underage marine recruit. Regardless, it reminds me I'm about to go to war.
I'm in a pretty sweet hotel room with two other guys on the team I'll be racing with, Viveros Alcanar. They were all very nice from the start, when the two directors met me at the hotel doors and ushered me up to my room before meeting the rest of the guys at an all-you-can-eat buffet where all the other teams were too. The food was a highlight for sure after living in Gringolandia: fresh salad, as much pasta as you want, yogurts, deserts, fruits, olives, lots of good stuff. Even jello was exciting.
But as soon as you look up from your food, you're not sure whether to laugh or be nervous. Have you accidentally walked into a mullet festival? No, there's only a few dozen amazing mullets, and they're scattered in a room of athletes. The darting eyes signal that people are sizing up the others in the room; the confident come in two forms, either laughing and enjoying their food and setting the tone for their team, or quiet and ready to let their legs do the talking. Both intimidate me because I know both forms will be causing me pain in only a few short hours.
The directors gave me some team clothing, including a skin suit and a sweat suit (hilarious corduroy-style getup, retro at best). After dinner they gave me my racing numbers. The team's from Barcelona, so their Catalan (especially that of the director's) was way over my head and might as well have been jibberish.
The Cafemax guys (the Alcoy riders that include the Cuban) came to say hi during dinner, and rub my head for fun. A few days ago, I lost all the hair on my head as part of an initiation ritual and to the great pleasure of Jose and the guys. It feels pretty good under the helmet, but I look like a fat Rasmussen (if you know cycling) or an underage marine recruit. Regardless, it reminds me I'm about to go to war.
posted by Unknown at 9:56 AM
2 Comments:
Wow, Chris--sounds intense. Who's taking pictures?
PICTURE of the head. Post it.
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