I have finally recovered from the 24 Hours of Fury put on by 4 Peaks Racing up at McDowell a week and a half ago. Team Squid Pro Quo had penciled this in as our prep race for the 24 Hours of Old Pueblo and we were pretty excited. On the same course four years ago, in the 24 Hours of Adreneline, we put in 23 laps farting around and figured being in better shape we could contend for at least a good placing.
The Squid Pro Quo Compound in about the most perfect racing weather imaginable:
I won't bore the reader with how we did, but I'll only say I got sick during the first lap, barely finished the second lap, slept for ten hours and never darkened the track with my presence again. Fortunately, I had three Warsteiner Dunkels in the cooler to soothe my fevered body Sunday morning (It turns out I had gotten an infection).
I had a feeling we were doomed when Keir called just before the noon start and said he couldn't show up (he traditionally always does the first lap). He had a work emergency arise just before the start of the race and wouldn't make his appearance until late afternoon where he did one lap and promptly disappeared again until Sunday morning. Cesar stepped up to the plate and attempted to give us a strong first lap, but two flats killed his effort.
Cesar at the start pulling away (Lee is across the way taking a picture of Cesar's "good side"):
Cesar and Lee carried the torch and kept us in the hunt for third to last place. But, alas, without Keir and I to spell them, we slipped into second to last place late Sunday morning despite their best efforts. I just stayed at the compound and moaned and complained to everyone.
I was reminded of Macbeth's soliloquy after the death of his wife. It seemed apropos with references to "the way to dusty death" etc... We strutted our way upon the stage for each hour that a lap took but in the end with all of our sound and fury, it signified nothing. But maybe I doth exaggerate. Next year we will be heard from again!
The Soulcraft ready for battle with the S-Works waiting in the wings behind:
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,