I could write it in the style of several chroniclers, this story I have. It’d be autobiographical, exciting, visual with a reasonably happy ending. The easiest style would be a la Parkin using a straightforward, somewhat predictable style leading from point A to point B. Minimally descriptive though repetitive in colloquial adjective use, his style has the potential for creating tension but usually, whether due to an inadequate story or lack of writing skill, the climb to the climax leaves one wanting. It makes for quick reading; easily identifiable in tone and subject. It might read like this:
“I’d been leading the race for at least the last 40 kilometers. I was wearing the yellow leader’s jersey and carried a slim time advantage over 2nd and 3rd place. At about 40k to go 3rd place leapt off the front followed quickly by 5th place and two others. Racing without team mates, I knew then my job was to bring them back without emptying the gas tank. I needed to keep the pace high enough to discourage other attacks but not ruin my chances in the finale. I soldiered on at tempo until 3rd place finally came into view. The others in his group kept looking back and I knew the catch would be made shortly so I eased off slightly. With 20k to go we were all together. I was still on the front. If I slowed too much the assaults would come quickly. I could feel 2nd place plotting his move. He shot up the left side violently. I swore loudly and darted across with 30 people in tow. Another rider rolled in front of me and blocked the wind for a few moments. I thanked him. Years of riding at the front of category 3 races did not prepare me for this. 2nd place went again but the guy in front of me mercifully pulled him back. All together again I went to the front on the steeper part of the long climb to set tempo and hopefully shed a few also-rans. At 5k to go we were a lead group of 8 or 9 and I was still making pace. We rounded the bend leading to the final climb, 2 plus miles at 8% gradient. I upped the pace a bit hoping to keep everyone at bay but knowing my vision would soon begin to blur. At 1.5k to go 2nd place hit out again. I said aloud ‘now would be a good time’ knowing I wouldn’t have the reserves for a hard effort in response. He opened a gap of 20 meters and a couple others went with him. I kept him in sight, remained seated riding the only tempo I could. Finally, the 1k to go sign. He was still in sight and I had picked up three of the five who went with him, most them had popped like balloons. They whimpered as they tried to stay on my wheel. I make it to the finishing straight, the road finally leveling. I’m 300 meters from the finish and he is crossing the line. A few seconds later another crosses the line. In the final 50 meters I muster the goods to sneak around a would-be 3rd place finisher and take the 4 second time bonus for 3rd. I’d lost the yellow by 50 seconds.”
Or I could rely more on whimsy and indecipherable, if not mixed, metaphor like Bob Roll:
“My unexpected effort the day before laid waste to all comers in the time trial. Usually I feel like a bowling ball going uphill in time trials but by the grace of someone important in the netherworlds I came out swinging and strutted like a cool chicken. Who would have thought that I’d be wearing the most important of colored jerseys in such a race? I kept my rage in check and avoided an angry group wanting a nature break with riders up the road, crashing pre-teens in the very uncool warp-speed feed zone and a furnace of heat not yet welcome after the months of monotonous monsoon that has been our meteorology. Heavy was the crown as those philistines kept trying rip the legs from the dragon. In the end, they finally took me down in my nearly unsuccessful attempt at keeping from blowing chunks sky high all over Mt. Hood. But I was still dipped because 2nd place overall is pretty peachy for a guy who never should have been the leader in the first place.”
I toyed with the idea of mimicking Graeme Fife, a superlative writer with a deep passion and devotion to the sport and the idea of the Beautiful Machine. His style is thick, intensely historical and referential and descriptive to the point that when one discusses his writing one feels a close kinship:
“The race of truth travelled the span of the historic highway used directly by Lewis and Clark during their monumental exploration to the West. Flanked on my south side by the mighty yet dormant volcano Mt. Hood, often conjectured that the “hood” of clouds that frequently vail its peak is the mountains true etymology, and to my north the powerful Columbia river, this day alive with the sea-like white cap waves inspiring its reverence by water loving outdoor recreationists. Their glorious wind was my mortal enemy this day. The lung-searing tempo of the climbs was a welcome relief from the headwind that seemingly deflated my tires and filled my shoes with cement. The kind of argument in resistance usually reserved for feeble acts of diplomacy in warring nations rather than reducing the average speed of a waif-like bicycle rider. Finally reaching the car-free stretch of splendid tarmac, I powered up the climb to the Mosier Tunnels. Used now only for pedestrians and cyclists, the tunnels offer a more direct if not terrifyingly technical passage to the finish line. The wind blasted through the portals, pushing bike and rider side to side through corridor made even darker by sunglasses.”
In the end though, I guess I should probably tell the story in my own style. Whatever that may be.
