I'd be lying if I said I didn't spend a good eight or nine miles on the bike this weekend trying to come up with a clever intro for my post about the MS Ride. Clearly I failed, and came up with nothing.

I'm also trying to wrap up the weekend in one coherent thought so I can post about it, but I have yet to be able to do that, so for now you shall get some observations.

Ready?

Good.

OMFG DAMMIT SHIT HELL CRAP ASS BITCH SHOOT BARF! (That is precisely how I felt during miles 51 through 100 on Saturday).
OMFG DAMMIT SHIT HELL CRAP ASS BITCH SHOOT BARF! (That is precisely how I felt at 5:45 a.m., when the alarm went off on Sunday and I had to do it all again).
These are a few things that kept me alive on Saturday: rest stops, Udder Cream and a pulse.
One hundred miles is far, but it's farther when you're riding into intense headwind that forces you to actually work on the downhills.
When you're working a rest stop at about mile 85 of a century ride, and rider after weary rider come wobbling in for nourishment, the best thing to do is NOT remind them, "Oh, well, the course is closing at six! Just so you know! Giggle! So make sure you all skidaddle and get back out on the course! Giggle!"
Bitch.
Get YOUR fat ass on a bike.
OK, I feel better now.
If I never have to stare at another ass on the bike ahead of me, I am OK with that.
Don't remind me that I was the one who said, at mile 50, when we had the option of ducking out and riding only 75, "Oh! LET'S do 100! I WANT to do 100! Wheee!"
Because at about mile 79, I could have cut myself. Deep.
Actually, I could have cut myself at about mile 61. And again at mile 63, 66, 71, etc.
I don't even have allergies, yet I spent the night congested with a sore throat from all the wind and particles in the air.
No, I did not wear sunscreen on Saturday. And yes, yes I do realize I am sunburnt. So, no, you don't have to tell me. Yes, I wore sunscreen on Sunday.
When you stop along the road to talk on your cell phone, get the fuck out of the path of other riders because I don't have the energy to not run you over.
Or learn to use your phone while riding.
Like I did.
I have never in my life had sexual relations in my, you know, (butt), but I now know what it would feel like if I did.
Because having a bike seat rammed up your ass for a good 140 miles is a clear indication of how that might feel.
Oh, and FYI, that feeling is not good.
Here is the best way to kill me dead: make me wake up at 5:45 a.m., while I'm sunburnt, hungry, tired, sore and have internal bruising in and around my nether regions, and tell me I have to get back on my bike.
REALLY!? YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT!?
Sigh.
Thank God for BethJ and her knowledge of all things cooter-related. (As they relate to cycling, of course).
If you had to ask me which was more difficult - running a marathon or the experience I had during Saturday's century ride - I would not have an answer.
Because they're both pretty miserable.
I say the "experience" because I'm willing to bet that had it not been for the horrendous wind, that ride would've been a breeze. No pun intended.
And by "breeze" I mean "painful," but not torture.
Wind and hills make me go to my dark place.
It's very dark there. And I swear a lot.
I dare say, looking back on the weekend, it was enjoyable. I'd totally do it again.

More to come once I can gather my thoughts and remove all the swear words.

krittabug