Hillsboro, Illinois. One hour east of St. Louis resides this tiny untouched Midwestern town and the destination chosen by Kris and I to start off the road racing season.
How illogical it could have been on Kris’ account not to bring his wife and two-year-old son, Max, on the five hour journey to a race that the race official said you had a “slim chance” of even getting the opportunity to participate.
If it weren’t for Kris’ optimistic personality that sold me on the “If you build it, they will come” principle, I may have thought the trip could go in vain.
Likewise, it seems reasonable to use the logic that if you kept little Max up past his bedtime the night before the race, he would sleep even harder when he hit the bed leaving quality hours of uninterrupted sleep. I feel fairly confident to surmise that in the “eye of the storm” Kris concluded that perhaps Max just caught his second wind, so to speak. A second wind that lasted well past 1A.M. the morning before Hillsboro. For Kris, it was just more time to carb load.
The morning came quickly, and using our atlas and road map, we navigated towards Illinois. The drive felt like a dark cloud of reality hovering over good intentions. Four days prior, we received news that our race licenses were not valid. Hillsboro: No Vacancy. ‘The man’ was just putting Kris down, and these were the times to push through the adversity.
Out of the fifty pre-registered, we were fifth and sixth on the waiting list. I tucked my tail to Denny’s with Max to wait until thirty minutes pre-race to see if I get a shot.
As I was swimming in thoughts of apprehension, Kris was ordering Max cheeseburgers for breakfast. Family time...ohh...of course. What else could he be thinking of?
Driving back to Hillsboro to get our race verdict, I could only expect our trip to continue down its natural coarse of disaster. To my amazement, I thought I was wrong when our race numbers were handed to us.
Besides noticing that Kris would be racing in a burnt orange pullover with florescent yellow edged shoes, I remember hearing him shouting, “I told you Jeff, I told you they can not let us not race!”
Honestly, I do not know how I could have doubted Kris. I mean the word “slim” does imply that there does exist the possibility.
I must regress to mention that I thought I was wrong assuming that things were going to change for the better until I spent a solid hour waiting on the start line with hundreds of other race-hardened riders in my spandex braving the sub-40 degree weather and 30+ mph gusts of wind.
I believe my last words were uttered through a quivering mouse voice.
“I’m freezing Kris”.
Before I could realize the race had actually begun, Kris was ramping up to head the peloton down the pot-hole ridden, gravel-cornered country roads.
Within a mile, the wind and cold temps had convinced my body that it would prevail. Twenty-one miles later I told Kris goodbye as I bowed out with a wheezing cough, partially paralyzed lower back, and a terribly painful urinary tract infection.
Even Kris’ wife, was shocked as he rode to the front midway to the 44 mile finish as she watched warmly from the idling car.
We later found out he was in third with one mile remaining.
After the race, Max body slammed Kris as he lay prostrate in the grass basking in the overcast skies retracing his top ten finish. Kris recalled, through his chocolate energy gelled lips, “I’m tired. Max was a monster last night... possessed even.”
Like son, like father. Doesn’t that make sense?
posted by Jeff Tanner
