Dear Lord

The dates have been changed to protect the innocent.

The howling wind woke me at four. It wasn't difficult as I had been listening to the trees dance since around midnight. My humble cabin in the woods is built around two massive fir trees and when the wind gusts, the noble ones shake, bump, grind, rock and rumba the cabin with what I can only interrupt as glee. They seem to enjoy the dance and most of the time I don't mind being a partner. Except when I need sleep. Then I have been know to shout, "Don't make me get the chainsaw. You two could be firewood by this time tomorrow if you don't knock that shit off RIGHT NOW."

Ah, the wonders of nature. Usually as soon as the dance stops the rain starts. Cooling down the dancers after a feverish mambo, no doubt.

So I was up. RGs Suzuki was outside, cameras were locked and loaded, Garmin charged, coffee awaiting. I intentionally overdressed, anticipating the cold. Cotton turtle neck, fleece pull over, down vest, scarf, my official Navy pilots jacket, terrorist mask, two pairs of gloves, goretex pants, wool socks and boots. I looked at the thermometer as I left at 0800. 38 degrees. Dear Lord.

I waited as long as possible for the sun to clear the top of the trees, even stopping at brother Michael's to borrow a helmet with full face mask. He, still in bathrobe, just said, good luck, dude.

It is only 40 miles from the cabin to the Dungeness State Park, where the pace line practice was to begin. I had 90 minutes to get there, get set up and follow the team for some juicy video.

I knew I was in trouble by the time I got to the highway. The winds were still gusting to twenty, deep shadows lined long stretches of the road and I was thinking how nice it would be to feel my fingers again. The video, I thought, was to me what the gold of the Klondike must have been to Jack London. I wondered what the boss would think when I turned in an expense report for a 10,000 dollar emergency frostbite operation.

"You lost two fingers? Doesn't that expensive camera I bought work with the OTHER ones?"

I can make all this stop, I cried, bringing my focus back to the painful present, all I have to do is simply open up the throttle over that patch of ice right there and turn the bars tight right. Done and gone. Over. Heaven, at last.

I hope, maybe. Oh no, what if Hell is this ride for eternity and that is what I get for my sometimes less than saintly behavior? Alright, too harsh a side-effect, just bite the bullet and press on.

But I see the sign that laughingly says, Sequim 19 miles, and now my eyes are watering and my heart rate is 439. I have to stop and thaw. I look at watch and see that I can still make the start time but I will have to hustle. Hustle means wind chill and I am not sure my suddenly shaky stomach will stabilize sufficiently to allow the effort. I have no cell numbers for the guys, We ran out of morphine six years ago and the sun is still an hour away from creating any additional warmth. My breath looks like an escapee from a Chinese steam bath. I am sure I have been this cold before, but I can't remember when, or why.

I re-saddle the Suzuki S-40 and de-ice the face mask. The margin for error is now zero. A measly 10 miles to go, fifteen minutes to go it in.

I feel better. For about thirty seconds and then it all piles back on like kids in a dog pile. I have to stop again and put my hands around the exhaust pipes. When I pull my hands up one of my gloves has caught fire. (insert your expected response here). I put it out on my pants and singe a ten inch hole in them. (go ahead I can take it). Once that drama has passed I pull back onto the Highway and try to create a workable tactic. Five miles out and I am going to be late. Probably with frostbite and maybe on fire. It'll go for a good story.

I head into the parking lot at 10:37. Lotsa SUVs with bike racks, no bikes and no bikers. I was seven minutes late and they were gone. I had no advance intel of the course but I cruised where I thought they might ride for twenty minutes before I headed back to 101 for coffee and a pancake or two. What I really needed was a hug and wondered if there might be a app for that.

I walk into the Sunrise Cafe and sit at the counter. I wrap my hands around the mug of steaming Boyd's and order two whole-wheat blueberry pancakes. I check e-mails, one from CarRentals.com and the other from Zappos. The touch pad is difficult with fingers that feel the size of King Kong's so I look for something analog.

I look at the menu again, thinking that I might need some browns to go with the cakes and see this at the top of the menu:

"Dear Lord, thank You for giving me this day, because I sure loused up the one you gave me yesterday."

Like I said the dates have been changed to protect the innocent. Amen and amen.

No pictures today. Ice on lens. Back tomorrow for the dramatic conclusion.