Le Tour de Nampa

I can only assume that The Live Acorn got her competitive spirit from The EMDAMOTLA*, because trying to be the first to say “I give up” is about as competitive as I get. That, combined with the fact that I try to avoid any physical activity not involving a refrigerator and resulting in a fresh frosty beverage being in my hands at all costs, would lead one to logically conclude that my voluntarily waking up at 6:30 am to go on a 35-mile bicycle ride would be highly improbable at best.

Inexplicably, the LA and I found ourselves lined up for the 9:00 am start of the Bob Lebow Bike Tour on Saturday, two cotton-clad lost souls awash in a sea of lycra, pilgrims in an unholy land. Much of the lycra was aesthetically pleasing and worn well, though some was an affront to humanity (to be honest, I was wearing lycra shorts, but had regular shorts over them, as I like to believe that I am a considerate cyclist).

The ride itself was not without incident. I heard the tell-tale “ping” of a broken spoke early on, though the wheel stayed as true as a love-lorn traveler pining away for his betrothed in a lonely hotel room. (It had a slight wobble, so we can allow the traveler in our analogy to splurge for some pay-per-view softcore.) I had a lapse in judgment regarding beverage choice, and the quinine from my gin-and-tonic made a mess of my bottom bracket. The Live Acorn’s water bottle cage snapped off, causing a massive crash in the peloton a little panic when she stopped fairly abruptly with a couple of riders close behind her, and finally, she was the victim of a flat tire at around mile 20. Oh, and perhaps the Weather Bunny can explain how there can be a headwind the entire time on a goddamned loop route!

Luckily, they had sag-wagons, and the LA finally showed up at the post-ride bar-b-que, just as I was getting ready to drive home. Maybe next year she’ll be more prepared – I truly considered giving her my spare and letting her use my pump, but sometimes fathers have to invoke a little “tough love” to teach life’s lessons. There’s no coddling in cycling! You know who coddled his kid? Hitler’s dad, that’s who.

She rode extremely well, keeping her cadence up around 90 rpm, and seemed hell-bent on turning my lovely spring jaunt into Paris–Roubaix. At one point, a gentleman passed us and asked “Are you having fun? Because that’s all that counts!” She apparently didn’t take that well, as she asked “Is he saying we’re going slow?” and climbed out of the saddle and took off. Thanks, buddy. Thanks a lot.

So we’re now at four years in a row participating in the ride, and I don’t think I’ll be able to dissuade her from the metric century (62 mile) event next year. I guess I’ve got a year to come up with an excuse – it was a true bit of good fortune that the US/England fútbol match was that afternoon, though the eye-rolling as she sarcastically muttered “yeah, dad, you’re such a huge soccer fan …” led me to believe she may have doubted my sincerity.

Maybe I’ll try to bluff her and suggest we ride the full century … what could possibly go wrong? It’s not like she’s competitive or anything.

*Ex Mrs. Dead Acorn, Mother Of The Live Acorn