Racing for Negative Time

Their faces have long ago lost expression. Decayed by heat and exhaustion, muscle droops. Flesh once taught and lean is oblong and atrophied. Sweat is everywhere and the hot van is bathed in heavy metal music.

Kentucky recedes into memory. Canada awaits.

Against failure, dark humor becomes the final respite. Each has his dream. All share a common joke: What sport could a flabby fellow excel in?

Luge is considered, but this fellow cannot turn. Competitive eating is a candidate, but he can only eat kosher hot dogs. And sadly, at the peak of the sport, such meat is not served. Diving sounds promising, but the flab would prevent spry movements.

Time trialling is his strength, but he is simply not strong enough. Decent results are doable. Anything more is unachievable.

So dejected and without answer, they continue on.

Canada recedes into memory; each goes his own way. One flees to the forests of Wisconsin to train for another sport. Another reaches into the near professional ranks of cycling. One returns to conquer the beast. Another is beset by injury. The wisest heads to Arizona for school.

The final fellow—the fellow of the flab—retreats into mediocrity, enjoying every moment. But his happiness is tinged with an unpalatable sadness. Something goes unaccomplished.

He searches for fulfillment—the old quest resumed. But nowhere can it be found. That is, until he happens upon a race—The Tour de Donut, scheduled for September 18th.

His eyes water in joy: A 30 mile TT punctuated by two donut stops where each donut consumed counts for a five minute reduction in time.

The master of mediocrity may have just found his niche of excellence.