The Cheq 40 - 2006

Because I recently returned from am amazing weekend up north and because I will be starting a three-day alcohologolf weekend in sunny Phoenix but mostly because I haven’t posted in forever - this is going to be long. Take your time. You can even read it over a number of days or you can just skim for the words sex, blowjobs, and drugs like you always do and just read those parts. And sorry, Blogger's picture feature is not working and I knows hows yous likes them pics.

Alas, I am back. Seriously, I think the clean air was getting to me… or the alcohol… but probably the marijuana. Upon my arrival mid-Friday evening, I was greeted with a variety “hot dishes” (of which, only a true Midwesterner can appreciate) and my friend's eager Mom who had been anxious for my arrival, as she did not want to be the only one drinking. And you guys thought my alcoholicness was a joke.

The eve of the Chequamegon 40 scene was as follows – 2 parents, 5 racers, 2 girlfriends, 3 strangers, and 4 people ready to drink. Guess which lunch table I sat at? The wine was corked and in true Nicole form, I allowed the alcohol to start talking for me. Halfway through the third bottle of wine, I ostentatiously declared that next year I would not arrive as a mere spectator, but as a competitor. Umm… let me clear up one thing, even after a few bottles of wine, I am not so foolish as to think I could do the 40-miler. I was refering to the the short-&-fat course, 15.6 miles. Nevertheless, another drinking gal (a wife of a 40-mile racer) piped up and volunteered to join me in the venture. Fuck – now I’m held to it.

And then I remembered why I wasn’t racing this year – oh yeah, because I’m fat and lazy and hate getting into shape. Granted, I haven’t gotten into shape in the better part of ten years, but the memories are as vivid as if it were yesterday. But then I thought about how motivated I have been lately to get my fucking shit together and strangely enough, racing next year seems totally plausible.

I know what you’re thinking, especially you marathon/ironman types, – 15.6 miles is nothing. While this is true on a road bike in Flattly mcBoring Illinois, it’s not so true on a mountain bike course through northwest Wisconsin. But I’ll talk about all this later… like later in 8 months.

Saturday. I was the only one who woke up early with the racers but I’m like a sappy [insert ethnicity] mother and like seeing the boys off. It also gave me a chance to meet the bearded latecomer who slipped in during the night; and we all know my thing for guys with beards. Since I know how to work the charm, within the hour, I was driving his truck and naming our children.
I’ll skip the detailed race montage, you get enough of that from the honorable trigeeks – everyone finished, two better than expected, one worse than expected; the casualties included one set of lost back brakes, two popped chains, one broken rim, and a tough spill.

With that out of the way, it was time to get down to business, the business of being fabulous and drinking as only Wisconsinites and Canadians know how (as if there were a difference between the two). Two years ago, I brought a bottle of liquor. Last year, I brought weed. This year, I brought both. Do I need to remind you all of how this story ends up? I didn’t think so… but I will, as I would want to disappoint my legions of fans (read: 4 people) or those of you actually still reading at this point.

After being fed countless Angry Minnow Honey Wheat beers from the keg by the bearded beauty, taking endless Jag shots, and inhaling a few pulls off the ol’ bowl, I had my game face on. And by game face, I mean "on the hunt for some making out" face. Believe it or not, I’m not typically the one who chases after a guy’s favor. If he’s feeling it, I may oblige, but I generally play it pretty low key. But it was Saturday and I was totally turned on by the testoterone and athleticism of the day and oh yeah, I was also drunk and little high.

Even though the old roommate of whom I have “history” with was up for the race, I just didn’t want to put the effort in. He tends to like the chase and with inconsistent rewards, I was just not that into him to put forth quality time... although he was kinda begging for it. Maybe things would have been different had I not had been in crush with bearded beauty since I first laid eyes on him. There was just one minor side issue – I was pretty sure my bearded beauty was gay.

During an intimate setting, my approach for landing a guy is telling an elaborate story about recently being diagnosed with a rare disease and that I just want to fool around with a random guy before I get too sick. Add some waterworks – they’re putty in my hands. However, by the time I'm actually horny and ready to make the moves on a guy, I’m far too into the night to string enough logical sentences together to tell a story so, “Yes, I’ll make out with you,” usually does the trick. (Did I really just say, "make the moves on a guy"? What am I like sixty years old? Fuck.) On this particular night, I found myself alone in the hallway the bearded beauty and went for it and of course, my advance was met with little resistance. Later, we found ourselves hidden between the trucks and after that, in the kitchen and then finally, in the tent. I guess you can say he "finished" twice that day. The next morning was super fucking weird and you know what else - I still think he’s gay.