September 16th, 2009: Today I made a trip back up to the 15,180 feet high parking lot on Mt. Cotopaxi, but this time with a bicycle tour company called the Flying Dutchman - strange because none of us on the tour were Dutchman…not even our Ecuadorian guide. I saw this company here my first time I made my way up to this magnificently scenic parking lot. Yes, this is the reputable company that I originally deferred to experience the cheaper bicycle tour with the faulty bikes down a different mountain.We started our journey in this snowy parking lot that did not resemble the windblown mountain I previously recall. It was obviously the same mountain but with a different face. This time I was able to see the entire mountain without me having to use my imagination before it pulled the clouds back over itself to hide.
Heading down the mountain the snow dissipated as the elevation decreased. Thinking that I was going reasonably fast, pushing my body and bicycle to its limits, a blur flashes by me. This blur ended up being my guide, a flying…Douche - destroying my vision that I was the fastest person on the mountain with the least amount of brain cells. The race was on. Going faster and faster, not listening to my brain, I was slowly catching up. The speed I was obtaining was becoming more and more uncomfortable. With just enough space to make one of the tight turns down the wide gravel road, I almost unintentionally tested the safety rating of my bicycle for a head on collision into a hastily made dirt bank that strongly resembled a wall for those automotive crash test dummies.
I realized that by riding a mountain bike around the city for half of my life does not technically qualify me as a downhill racer. Pulling off to the side of the road, I stopped the race that my competitor never knew started. I looked back up the road pretending to wait for the rest of my group as my I caught my breath and let my shot of adrenaline work itself out of my system, accepting defeat by the Flying… Doucheman.
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