I was talking to a guy at a post-Donut Ride pancake party. Pancakes after donuts are pretty hard to beat, especially when I didn’t even do the ride and therefore skipped the beatdown and went straight to the gluttony.
“This was my first Donut,” he said.
“Cool,” I said.
“Yeah, it is an awesome ride.”
“When did you get dropped?”
He was a bit taken aback, and almost, just a tiny bit insulted. “What do you mean?”
“At what part of the ride did you get dropped?”
He looked perplexed, as people do when they are trying to cram the squre peg of what they imagine into the round hole of reality. “I didn’t get dropped,” he finally decided.
“That’s cool. So you were first up all the climbs?”
“So when did you get dropped?”
“I was never really dropppppped,” he said, laying heavy accent on the “pppppp” syllable to distinguish it from the blunt, brutal, awful, lonely, humiliating variant, which is simply the curt word “dropped.”
Jaycee stepped into the conversation to help interpret. “What he means is, were you ahead of Pornstache? Or was he ahead of you?”
“Pornstache? He was ahead of everybody. I mean, he was by himself, way up there.”
“Okay,” said Jaycee. “So where did he drop you?”
“There were a bunch of people in small groups,” the guy said, struggling.
Jaycee and I looked at him. A couple of other riders came up and watched. Then he threw in the towel. “I got dropped the minute we hit the Switchbacks. I went backwards, man.”
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good place to get dropped.”
“But not dropppppped,” he hastened to add. “I never got dropppppped.”
“Of course not,” I said. “No one is ever droppppped. But everyone on the Donut except guys like Pornstache eventually get dropped.”
“Right,” he said.
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