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Sustaining Sanity in Iraq: The Chow Race
It doesn’t get any easier, you just get faster.
Eddie Merckx
I set a personal best this week. 36:04.
I was sucking for air at the end, but I’m pleased with how quickly I recover after riding hard. I’d be willing to take on just about any climb right now, my legs feel good. Instead, I’ll deal with the headwind and heat. June’s tally at week’s end: 800km.
Should I go for 1600km—1000 miles? Ridiculous.
This segment has opened correspondence with a number of deployed cyclists and I must admit I am blessed with a tremendous opportunity to ride here. While there are many deployed with bikes, most are resigned to small circuits inside the camp because it is just too dangerous to ride on the perimeter. Others, like the Navy lieutenant in Friday'sMailbag and the command sergeant major who contacted me personally, are limited to a trainer because of their conditions. It’s humbling to realize how good I have it.
I even met a lieutenant colonel with a similar deployment-cycling story, only to discover my office occupies the same building his staff used in OIF I. I feel a special connection with history knowing my perimeter ride has comforted American Soldiers since at least May ’03 (By the way, if any of you have a better time than my 36:04, just keep it to yourself.)
The horror, the horror. ColonelKurtz never experienced horror like this.
The chow hall ice cream station has been closed for three days!
Nobody can beat me to chow. Nobody. Not the shuttle bus, not armored gun trucks, not SUVs, not four-wheeled ATVs, not fork lifts, not cargo trucks- with or without the trailer. And they all have tried.
It is 1.5 miles from the brigade headquarters to the chow hall and there is an unspoken rule: I must defeat anyone who challenges me along the course. Originally, I opted to ride my bike because of the fierce competition for seats in the coveted SUV. Getting the colonel’s vehicle to get a haircut or pick up laundry is like asking dad to use the car for a date. Actually, sometimes we ask “dad” for the keys as a joke. It really is quite funny to hear field grade officers groveling for permission to take their underwear to get washed.
Riding a bike beats groveling.
Anyway, I have an advantage in the chow race because the route is riddled with speed bumps; Hors categorie speed bumps. Attempting to crest these beasts at more than idle speed will take the exhaust pipe off your vehicle. I’ve seen a Turkish employee desert his car sitting on one after finding “high center,” two opposite wheels completely off the ground.
If I can stay within eyesight of my prey until “speed bump alley,” I will catch them like Robbie McEwen on the final 400m stretch. Sometimes people think ignoring the speed bump will make it go away and it’s nothing short of hysterical watching seatbelts restrain my competition at 15 mph. This technique never lasts past the first speed bump.
I’ve raced generals and dignitaries, all oblivious that any level of competition ever occurred. There is a tremendous satisfaction sitting at the table with a general officer knowing that you smoked him to the chow hall, even if I am sweaty and disheveled. Style? Heck, I gave up style when I moved into a shipping container.
The most perilous chow race moment of the year came back in the fall when I grinded through a turn and snapped my chain just as I came out of the saddle, racking myself on the top tube at 40kph.
I somehow managed to avoid the concertina wire only feet away and dragged my feet to a stop—still riding the top tube. Without hesitation, I policed up my chain, shouldered my bike, and calmly hobbled back to my hooch.
I repaired my chain and then rode to chow… gingerly.
Speaking of chow, I had a little high-adventure traveling to Tikrit yesterday. I flew around the battlefield in Blackhawks and Chinooks. Good stuff. Before the Chinook took off, the safety brief was about three minutes long... about 30 seconds of safety information and two-and-a-half minutes of what to do if you puke. By the time he was done, we were all about ready to cough up dinner, which I suspect was his intent.
Sitting in 110 degree heat, covered in kevlar, the dude next to me says, "suddenly I'm wishing tonight wasn't Mexican night at the chow hall." I laughed, recalling the enchiladas I downed only an hour before.
A quick commentary regarding haircuts in Iraq. The name of our barber shop is the “Déjà Vu Barber and Beauty Salon” as in: “I believe I’ve had this bad haircut before.”
The barbers don’t exactly speak English. Once, I sat in the chair and pointed at my head and said,
“It doesn’t really matter what I say because you’re going to give me the same haircut as everyone else.”
To which the barber smiled and replied, “Okay,” and began to buzz.
Finally, we bid farewell last week to our staff leader, coach, mentor, left-center fielder, and friend. I know he’s thrilled to rejoin his family, and we’re happy for him - but we’ll miss him here. Of all the reasons I can list to end my military service, special people like him are enough to make me reconsider. The boss biked his first circuit around the perimeter the day before he left, just for me.
Later, when the staff loaded up with the boss for the final ride to chow, I defended my crown against my fiercest competition. Did I concede the victory? No gifts.
Colonel Patterson, take care, sir.
Earlier EntriesSustaining Sanity in Iraq: What a long, strange trip it's been - June 12, 2006Sustaining Sanity in Iraq: A Soldier's Bicycle Journal - June 7, 2006Letter from Iraq: Not your usual road hazards - June 5, 2006
