Grandma W and I are out doing one of my "favorite" workouts last night, which I lovingly refer to as 'The Crown Of Thorns.' I have to name pretty much everything I do, as it helps me focus. The workout consists of a good warmup while you head out to the heated bridge on MacArthur (long - well actually pretty short, but very funny - story behind that particular name. Once you cross the bridge, you ride tempo out Mac. At Seven Locks, Persimmon Tree, Eggert, Vendome, Mountain Gate and Brickyard, you make a right turn and go 100% effort until things get flat, and then turn around and go back down to Mac. Once back on Mac, you ride to the next road on the list and hit it again.
While we are going up Persimmon Tree, we get passed by a nice Quattro Porte with two guys in it. Windows down, sunroof open. The two of us are going hard enough that we're in oxygen debt, so it takes a little while to realize that they're offering us a bumper tow. Sweet. The issue of course is that I'm standing and absolutely pounding the 53x17 or so, getting all of 18mph out of it, totally maxed. But they're pretty sure they want that moment of driving around with two cyclists drafting off them. So when it flattens out as you get to the Eggert intersection, we get a little draft. I don't think they necessarily got that we were going full out to die at the stop sign, and probably thought we were huge wankers when we got to the stop sign and totally died. But it was a little bit cool that someone with the style to be driving that car (apart from the Aston Martin Vanquish, my favorite), accepted my being the guy he was motor pacing, from an aesthetic perspective. It was cool.
The rest of the ride was considerably less stylish, what with the puking in our mouths and all.