It's time again for the 24 Hours of Kincaid.
Noon Saturday to noon Sunday; nearly 2,600 feet of climbing in every 10.5-mile lap; plenty of moose; maybe a bear or two; and an added challenge this year—plenty of pulverized, powdery trail thanks to the heavy equipment that's pillaging and plundering the park. (But hey, disc golfers need another place to wander around stoned, and the Nordic skiers desperately need another freeway for their enormous trail groomers, so who am I to complain?)
Last year, I rode this beast for the third year in a row while muttering profane vows to not enter this year's race. So, I'll go out Saturday night to check on my fellow Clydesdale and former teammate, Rob, who's racing solo this year. And I'll watch all the pained, strained faces rolling through the checkpoint as I feel really good about going home and sleeping as the sufferfest rolls through the night.
Despite the pain of the race, I love being among my own kind. A small part of me might miss being involved in the whole scene. But I'm pretty damned sure that a couple of glasses of wine and the feel of my pillow will clear up that affliction very quickly.