RHC BCN RACE REPORT: EVAN MURPHY Sep 11, 2017 Categories: criterium, Photo, Redhook Crit 0 Comment why does my neck moan with stiff pain after *only* fifteen hours of sitting still and yet the burning scratches and punches all over my ass and shoulder –(ripped clothing i packed in my bags anyway)– bring me joy and cockiness; honor. leaving for home through a well-lit funnel, self-corralling into groups (Did i forget anything?) how much for the fridge magnet? I hope the memories stay with me forever why did the road smell like the sweat of all my nervous buddies playing war games with their skin and toys — eating and drinking — re-checking, tighten this, tie that, clean, wipe, walk, sleep. a small set of ticks and distractions****** ***** * * * ** *** ** * how will all the other visitors experience Barcelona? those three thousand tourists a day? Not lucky enough to come around the world to choose pain and exhaustion over shopping and mojitos and more pictures of those old churches five hundred “Brave Knights,” no swords, no armies, no fight for survival, find only results on a piece of paper ripped or maybe the tape failed (at midnight it will be piled up with the rest of the advertisements and beer cups) Why can’t I feel the same emotion when I visit Sagrada Familia? that i feel when I see friends and acquaintances and strangers *rip muscle fibers and convert glucose* on a pavement beach north of the city? Why is it more meaningful to hear banging and whistles and a man on the microphone shout my name (!!) why does the fear of other people’s desire to win put me higher up than the roofs, give me more than artworks made two thousand years ago? how does the floaaAAT FEEL WHEN YOU got to… slow it downnn, (ouch. ouch. ouch. the twing*!shin!* in my long tendons or the strain of my legs and back–like the scratching of a rope as he pulls the lobster catch over the edge <We pay for the opportunity not to ride anywhere we want but inside a metal cage> –screaming at each other to GO! (WOAH) fuck you–GO *shit* (holy shit) OoahH!–fuck. meanwhile, the asphalt waits to catch us if we slip. once all the light is gone, we force ourselves into spaces not large enough to fit our desire to be the first out of corner 8. –who chases us? —Where are we going? —-What is wrong with you? —–What the fuck you fucking asshole? There isn’t even enough time to look up to see when it will be over. I walk off full of the minutes I just lost to the complete focus on making wheels spin. The absurdity of the race sprints up to my face faster than we were ever travelling. I already can’t remember why I tried so hard to find the front when I did. I will do this again and again as long as they will let me.