It turns out nothing derails a spectacular Sunday morning hammerfest quicker than a big ol’ steaming pile of shit.
My riding partner had just been blathering away about how stopping for more than a couple of minutes during a long ride is just unnecessary, and how on his last long ride, there were no coffee stops or snack breaks or standing around staring at each other.
Me, I like a nice coffee break in the middle of a long ride.
I like to stand around for a minute, feel the sun on my face, sip a little java and give the stink eye to all the other bicyclist standing around. If I’m in a spiffy, matchy-matchy kit wearing some baller socks, well all the better.
But I agreed to just roll through town, flip my 510 handsign and hammer on.
However, at some point I needed a quick port-o-let relief break so I pulled over. After I finished my business and rolled back out onto the main strip, I took one pedal stroke and started looking for my companion—the guy I was going to tuck in behind so he could drag me along for the next 40 miles.
He was gone. Nowhere to be seen. I turned around. Backtracked. And there he stood next to his bike. A smooshed face. Standing awkwardly. He was dragging his feet in the dirt.
“I’ve stepped in poop.”
Yes, yes he had. I’ve heard people talk about taking giant ones, healthy ones, massive ones, ones the size of this or that and this one was certainly all that. It had rolled up over the sides of his shoes, as it if were trying to engulf his poor foot.
Now to say my riding partner is a more civilized person than I is an understatement. My riding partner is sensitive. I can easily be referred to as a bull in a china shop, but he is a gentle soul, a person of exquisite taste and excellent education.
So the next 10 minutes were some of happiest bicycle moments of my life. I stood in awe as he tiptoed about, doing the shit-shoe dance and trying to find a hose. Or some napkins. Anything that would help him out of this shitty situation. I watched with glee. Internalized joy, but joy none-the-less.
He finally found a hose and delicately attempted to spray the poopie from his shoes. Now if you know shit, like I know shit, the one thing it does not respond to is delicate. It clings to everything like, well, like shit.
He finally sat down on the bench next to his bike and stared. He seemed to be willing the shit to go away. He was holding it together as best he could, but I could sense he wanted to put his shoes, his bike and everything he was wearing into a dumpster, call a cab and go home. He wanted desperately to put the whole crappy situation behind him.
Once the stink of this incident attached itself to those shoes, they were dead to him. So I did what any good riding partner who cleaned toilets through high school and college would do. I picked up his shoe and dragged his bike over to the hose and I cleaned that shit. I let the shit have it. I removed any trace of it from the shoes and the bike. I got aggressive.
I can’t say I enjoyed it, but I knew it had to be done. I had to do what I know how to do—get shit done.
In the end he was partially appreciative and partially upset. I mean I did get his shoes wet, after all. And he hates wet shoes.