Packed to the Gunwales.
When I pack my car for a race, even a local race two miles away from my house, I'm usually pretty organized. I make lists that are constantly revised. I have a milk crate full of stuff that I can use if various contingencies arise. I have a separate tool kit specially packed for races. Usually the car looks fairly organized initially before it devolves into a state of chaos by the end of a stage race.
Not this time. This time I bypassed the initial orderly stage and just piled stuff into the back of the car, hoping that by the nature of the pile's sheer mass I would have everything I need. That's one way to do it.
Today after work I drive up to Fairbanks for Donald Trump's favorite stage race. Eight hours of work followed by seven hours of driving (it's road construction season in Alaska) means I'm going to arrive in Fairbanks fresh and ready to tear the legs off the competition. Riiiiiight.
The race bikes are on top the car. The mass of bike-related junk in the passenger compartment may or may not shift violently in transit and send me into the ditch along the Parks Highway, to be covered over by earth moving equipment widening the road in some isolated stretch between Talkeetna and Nenana. A mangled piece of carbon fiber frame will be my only grave marker, visited periodically by brown bears as a convenient place to defecate.
I'm as ready as I'm going to get. Let's do this thing.
Not this time. This time I bypassed the initial orderly stage and just piled stuff into the back of the car, hoping that by the nature of the pile's sheer mass I would have everything I need. That's one way to do it.
Today after work I drive up to Fairbanks for Donald Trump's favorite stage race. Eight hours of work followed by seven hours of driving (it's road construction season in Alaska) means I'm going to arrive in Fairbanks fresh and ready to tear the legs off the competition. Riiiiiight.
The race bikes are on top the car. The mass of bike-related junk in the passenger compartment may or may not shift violently in transit and send me into the ditch along the Parks Highway, to be covered over by earth moving equipment widening the road in some isolated stretch between Talkeetna and Nenana. A mangled piece of carbon fiber frame will be my only grave marker, visited periodically by brown bears as a convenient place to defecate.
I'm as ready as I'm going to get. Let's do this thing.
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