I’m riding along on my first lap of Sunday morning. A guy passes me and gives me a friendly hello. A few moments later, he’s pulled over digging in his pack. He pulls something out, opens it, and starts munching.
“Snack time!” I yell at him.
He catches back up to me a moment later, and he launches into a Ricky Bobby-esque spiel (aided by a very Texan accent) about his snack: Honey Stinger waffles.
“They’re like two crispy waffles with a bit of honey between ‘em,” he says (further reminding me of Ricky Bobby talking about a crepe suzette). “They’re delish. Know what I’m talkin’ about?”
I tell him I do indeed know what he is talkin’ about, though I haven’t yet tried them – but I do know and love Honey Stinger gels and protein bars.
Here’s the kicker: He passes me again. When he’s about 75 feet away, he lets out a sonorous, cheek-slapping fart that nearly blows the chamois out of of his shorts. You know it’s a monster when you can hear it over the hum of fat tires on hardpack and the whistle of the wind.
This, of course, makes me start laughing. He issues a sheepish “sorry,” not realizing that I consider flatus the height of humor.
Definitely my best on-the-trail encounter during the race. I have to wonder if his team was sponsored by Honey Stinger … or should I say Honey Stinker?
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