24 Hours of Booty, Part 2; The Final 100

Jill: “Hey, I was just calling to see how you’re doing.”
Me: “I’m at mile 215.”
Jill: “Oh, you’re doing so good. Is there anything you need from me? What can I do?”
Me: “You can get off my phone because holding it to my ear is killing me.”

(I have apologized to Jill for the above gem of a conversation and my apology was accepted, thank goodness.)

My dandy-ness dwindled quickly. Everything on my body was so sore now that even my breaks weren’t alleviating any of the pain. I could feel the bruising on my sit bones and tail bone. If I removed my gloves, I could see the black and blue on my palms. I’d try to reposition my hands but that made my wrists sorer. Getting up out of the saddle was an excruciating but necessary action as the bones would sear for a few seconds as the blood came back through them. At one of my breaks, I turned right without signaling and got yelled at by a course marshal. “SIGNAL WHEN YOU’RE TURNING,” she said. I didn’t have the energy to explain to her that if I could possibly raise my arm to signal, I most certainly would have, but my shoulders simply were not working. The one saving grace I had and tried to focus on was the chamois cream (although technically it’s udder cream…keep your jokes to yourselves) I used was incredible (thanks for the recommendation, Stacie). Very little chaffing over the 300 miles. Hardly any at all.

Before I go on, let me pick out some more positives of the experience because, let’s face it, you know what’s coming up next – a 100 mile Jodi pity party. This year I was stoked to have 3 friends camping with me in Bootyville; Steve, Jen and Stacie. We had a good time hanging out before the ride and I hope they enjoyed their experience at Booty, even if they went home with sore butts (they were all first timers). Other positives: The volunteers for this event have got to be some of the best humans on Earth. They cheered constantly. I mean CONSTANTLY for the riders on the course. There are 2 in particular, both course marshals, that stand out in my mind and I really wish I knew their names. The first was a woman working the Croyden/Selwyn intersection. She was there through the night cheering each rider as they passed…for about 6 hours. It got to the point where she saw me so many times, she would cheer for me specifically. At least that’s how it felt. She would start yelling as soon as she saw me come around the corner and wouldn’t quit until I was out of sight. I started cheering back at her, too. I kinda felt like we had bonded through the night. The other volunteer was a guy working an intersection on the Hopedale hill. I don’t know where he got his lungs, but he was the loudest human I’ve ever heard…he yelled for hours and hours during the afternoon on Saturday. Again, he saw me so many times at one point he said, “C’mon, keep working your way up this hill. You’ve gotta be near 300, right?” I nodded and from then on each time I passed he called me 300. “Here comes 300! GO! GO! GO!” There’s one other person I want to mention and then I’ll continue the pity party I do so well. There was a spectator at the Start/Finish line who was there from the start until about 4 in the morning. Each time a rider went back out on the course, she would clap and say to us, “Thank you and have a magical ride.”

Because I was relying on adrenaline to carry me through the final 100, I figured that the second 100 would be the mental challenge. No so. The second hundred was just a warm up. The third hundred was the real deal. When my adrenaline failed to show up for the party, I knew I was in trouble. Now my muscles were aching. They were drained. And I still had hours and hours in front of me. I decided to take it in tens. Every 10 miles would be a milestone to shoot for. I hoped this would keep me motivated. It didn’t. At 90, I was thinking, “Crap, you still have 90. But once you hit 80, you’re into training ride distance.” Then, I hit 70. Crap I still have 70. “but you’ll definitely feel better when you hit 60 – that’s a typical ride for you. No sweat.” But my body was shutting down. I could feel it and my stomach was not going to have another Power Bar or Clif Block. It wanted nothing but to go home to the A/C and lay on the living room floor for about a week.

The last break I took was at the 263 mile mark. 37 to go. Four hours left. This was the first time since mile 130, that I had no doubt I was going to finish. I would no longer entertain thoughts of quitting. It was all mind over matter in dealing with the pain and exhaustion of it all at this point. I WILL finish because I don’t ever want to do this again. During that last break I knew I had to eat, but my stomach was tired of the same ole same ole. There happened to be a few white bread turkey and cheese sandwiches left from lunch and I thought, awe what the heck. I’ll try it. My stomach accepted them graciously and I felt the energy from them hit my legs at about 25 to go. I put in a huge effort for some reason. I guess because at the time, 25 didn’t feel like that far, but it was still an hour and 45 minutes of riding, which I hadn’t taken the time to calculate. I went all out for about 10 miles and then bonked again. 15 to go. 15 of the slowest miles of my life. Hopedale hill, which on a normal day I’d go up easily at 15 mph, 19 or 20 if I was trying, was giving me problems at 9 mph. I was actually using my 27 cog in the back to get up Hopedale Drive. The course marshal cheered, “Go 300, Go! Drop it a gear and spin up this thing. You’re gonna make it!” My phone rang. I physically couldn’t answer it.

The last few miles were insanely demoralizing. I thought the Booty Loop was supposed to be 3.2 miles so at 15 to go, I was thinking – 5 laps. I did a lap. 4 laps. I did a lap. 3 to go! I looked at my odometer: 289.8 miles. I still had 10.2 to go. What? By my calculations, I should have under 9 to go. I guess the loop isn’t 3.2 miles. Start again: 4 to go. I did a lap. 3 to go. I did a lap. 2 to go. I look at the odometer. 293.8 miles. Is this a joke? Did time just stop. What the hell? My last time across the start/finish line, I needed about 1 mile and some change to hit 300 which meant I had to go up Hopedale one more freakin’ time. I hit it as hard as my legs would allow. 10.8 mph. That was all I could do.

Odometer reading after the ride.

I hit 300 on the straightaway of Selwyn Avenue just before the light at Queens College. I threw my hands in the air. My shoulders burned with that action. Nobody watching would have any idea what I was doing or what I had put myself through over the prior 24 hours. And it didn’t matter, because, despite the impression you might get from this blog, this wasn’t about me. It wasn’t even solely about raising money for Cancer research. It’s also, for some of us, about finding inspiration from the experiences and hurt of others and using it to physically and mentally push yourself past your breaking point. Because, I can assure you, when you’re at that point, you see things so differently. Unfortunately, most people won’t put themselves there purposely. For most, they don’t see it until its thrust upon them. Like when they lose a loved one to a terminal illness.

For me, when I’m in the place that I was for about 170 miles of my 300, in pain and in tears, then the littlest acts become enormous. When I’m there, getting the nickname 300, having someone take notice of me and cheer for 6 hours, and being granted a magical ride from complete strangers who I will likely never see again, is…is…well, it’s a lot of things but mostly, it’s deeply, deeply moving.

I got off my bike and collapsed into a chair under the Booty tent. A couple of volunteers brought me some bottles of Vitamin Water and asked if I needed anything. I told them I was fine. I sat there and looked toward the Bootyville camp as I realized my phone had rung earlier. It was Steve. My friends had decided to go home (I didn’t blame them, it was hot and they’d done a lot of riding themselves). However, before they left, they took the liberty of breaking down my camp and had loaded it all into my car for me (*insert big sigh and tear of exhaustion*). Sometimes the biggest gifts come from your friends.

Booty 2009 is in the books and as I sit here the day after, most of my aches have already recovered. My legs are cement logs and my shoulders are still killing me. In fact, I went to get the milk out of the fridge this morning and nearly dropped it. “Whoa, that’s heavy,” I said surprised. Jill just laughed. Walking is quite an effort as well.


One last thing. I rode in memory of my Grandmother who died of Cancer when I was 13. “An American Tail” was the last movie I saw with my Grandma before she passed away. I can’t listen to the song “Somewhere Out There” without crying. At some point in the middle of the night, I think she was singing it to me…or maybe it was just playing on my iPod. Either way, it broke me.

24 Hours of Booty, Part 1: Gypsy Road

Booty Volunteer: “How many are you going for?”
Me: “300.”
Booty Volunteer: “Are you going to make it?”
Me: “No doubt in my mind.”

And I didn’t have any doubts through the first 100 miles. In fact, that first hundred was quite easy. But somewhere around 130, things started going downhill fast and I began to strongly consider abandoning my bid for 300.

Anticipating a huge calorie output during my ride, I spent Friday morning and afternoon fueling myself with as much food and water as my stomach could handle. By 2PM we arrived in Bootyville to set up camp. At 7PM, the ride started and within 5 minutes I saw the saddest thing I would see during the course of the ride. A middle-aged gentleman was riding a tandem bike by himself. A white bike helmet sat lazily on the empty saddle behind him. Attached to the frame of the bike was signage with his wife’s name and the day she died; it was just this past April. I got choked up for a second and began preparing myself for an emotion journey. Late in my ride, I would press on relentlessly by telling myself that no matter how bad I was hurting, it was nothing compared to what many of my cohorts have experienced fighting cancer.

Aside from the first few laps (avg. 8 mph), the first 100 miles went by somewhat quickly, mostly because my friend Stacie was setting a blistering pace – one I knew I could not keep for 300 miles – to help get my speed average back on track after the slow parade-like start. I had to force myself to slow down. After our first break, a couple hours in, I knew that my very carefully laid out plan was going to have to change. I would have to stop more often than I thought. And each time I stopped, it took about 20 minutes to get back on the bike…I had not planned on it taking that long. Because of the longer breaks, I started falling off the pace I had set out for myself. In fact, the first 100 took about 7 hours (including the breaks); a full hour longer than I anticipated. But, if I stuck to that pace, I could still be done with 3 hours to spare. No sweat. Throughout the night, though, riding by myself, I started to panic a little that I would run out of time. I kept re-calculating my timing in my head to calm myself.

Somewhere around the 130 mile mark, about 3:30AM, my body realized what I was doing to it and it put in a protest the likes of which could be compared to an anti-war rally. The protest wasn’t coming from my legs, though. It was coming from every joint between my shoulders and fingers – my knuckles, wrists, elbows and especially rotator cuffs began aching tremendously from the jostling of the handlebar. Despite my pre-emptive action of loading up on 8 hour Tylenol, I could barely keep my hands on the bars for more then a few seconds at a time. It was also at this point I realized exactly how bad my sit bones and tail bone were aching. I was already to the point where my comfort had gone out the window. I, of course, had expected this, just not quite so early in the ride. I wasn’t even to the halfway point yet. I had my first thoughts of quitting. “You’re the only one who will care if you don’t make 300. No one else cares.” Then I’d retaliate with myself, “The faithful reader of my blog (Hi Mom!) will be disappointed.” And with that, I tried to laugh it off and keep going all the time asking myself, “If I feel this bad right now, how on Earth am I going to survive another 170 miles?”

Another harsh reality hit me as I saw the first rays of dawn. I had stated that by breakfast Saturday, I wanted to be as close to 200 as possible, with 175 more of a reality and 150 as a worst case scenario. Well, breakfast came and I only had 155. I was really thinking I would have more than that. I know what you’re gonna say. “That’s only 20 miles off.” But, my pace was slower than I expected. At the rate I was riding, 20 miles would take an hour and a half and I was already in so much pain that if I hadn’t been so doped up on Tylenol, I’m sure I would have had a headache from clenching my teeth so tightly. I put it out of my head for long enough to have a huge plate of food – scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, cheesy potatoes, a banana, some coffee and a doughnut.

I was halfway through the ride and barely halfway through my goal. I had 12 hours to ride the 145 miles I needed to reach 300. Knowing I would keep slowing down as fatigue overtook me, I became very emotional when I realized there was a good possibility I would run out of time. Tears tried to form. I fought it off. Quitting was certainly on my mind, “Oh, it would feel so good to go to sleep.” I fought it off. “There are people here who have suffered much worse than this.” I pressed on, barely able to sit and barely able to hold the handlebar.

Breakfast must’ve done me good cuz I was able to stamp out 45 miles to reach the 200 mark by 9:30AM. I kept telling myself if I reach 200, I’d finish the last 100 on adrenaline alone, after all, it was in the plan, clearly written and labeled with a cute little bullet point. I knew the second hundred would be hard because most of it was done during the night, riding alone in the dark when the only thing your body wants to do is go to bed, but instead is suffering through an activity in which it clearly doesn’t want to participate. The second hundred is purely mental and when I hit it, I was elated. I rewarded myself with a Coke at the break. After the coke I was feeling all fine and dandy until I got back out on the course with 100 miles yet to ride. I awaited the arrival of my adrenaline.

So, it was 10AM. I had 100 miles and 9 hours in which to do it. I began to feel confident. However, I think I put too much reliance into my adrenal system. As it turns out, adrenaline alone is not enough to get you through 100 miles of pure pain. I figured this out rather quickly at mile 203. There was no adrenaline. My body was simply not going to do this. I had been so convinced that if I hit 200, the rest would be as good as done. Not. So. At. All.

Read Part 2: The Final 100

24 Hours of Booty Prep Time

Well, I'm in the middle of packing up the car, but I wanted to take a quick second for an update before I go put in 300 miles in the name of cancer survivorship.

Once the ride starts, I can expect to burn about 15,000 calories and lose gallons and gallons of fluids from my body over the following 24 hours based on the goals I've set for myself. As such, I've been eating and drinking non stop since I woke up this morning. I don't want a repeat of a few years ago. That year, I called Jill at 7AM, after riding all night in thunderstorms, drenched, disoriented and completely wiped having nearly collapsed when I got off my bike. I sat at the breakfast table with my head down, unable to eat, while Jill made her way to the Booty Loop, around the traffic, broke down my camp, loaded my shit in the car and then helped me into the passenger seat to take me home. That was my worst year at this event.

I have detailed out a plan for reaching 300 miles. I won't write each detail here, but basically it goes like this - get as close to 200 miles done before the sun comes up and the temps hit 90. To do that, I've allowed myself numerous short breaks throughout the night, with a good long break for breakfast; a breakslow, if you will. I will change clothing often. Eat often. Reapply chamois cream very often. I'm happy with my plan of attack and I'm happy to have several friends going for 300 with me. I'm also happy to have discovered Uncrustables, the world's best cycling food, at the Blood, Sweat and Gears ride. I have packed a box of the peanut butter and honey on wheat in my cooler.

The last 100 will be done on a combination of adrenaline and absolute anger at cancer as I listen to stories of loss and pain and surviving from my fellow riders. I hope to be coherent enough during the event to take a few photos and videos. So, for now, I'll say good bye and good night. I'll see you on the better side of 300.

Boonen?...Boonen?...Boonen?...

They say you’re in the Tour this year, but I have yet to see you do anything thus far but crash. Perhaps more time training to beat Cavendish and less time suing the Tour Organizers would have served you better?

Your team suggested the Tour de France would be much better with you in the race – that Cav wouldn’t have any competition without you there. But you haven’t added a lick of interest and we’re already half-way through. If I didn’t see you’re name on the start list, I wouldn’t even know you’re there. You’re not being shown on TV. You’re not riding anywhere near the front. You’re team hasn’t even attempted a lead out train for you, much less given any effort to disrupt the Columbia-HTC train. Why are you handing the sprint stages to Cavendish?

You’ve been quoted as saying, “All sprinters are having the same problem and that’s 2 words: Mark Cavendish.” But, you’re not even contending the sprints. Farrar and Hushov are there every time, but the best you can muster is 16th? So, be honest with us. You weren’t actually expecting to get into the Tour were you? So you weren’t training for it, right?

Just tell us that’s the case so we can lower our expectations and quit being disappointed.

Okay, Tom. It's time to pull that thing out of your ass and get to sprinting.

Bruce Rosar: Not an Asshole

I did not know Bruce Rosar personally, but from what I’ve seen in comments about him, he was highly regarded, well respected and an all around really good guy. He was a leading cycling advocate in the Triangle area of North Carolina who allegedly turned left in front of a car last weekend, got hit and was killed. It is without a doubt a tragic event for all involved. His death has lit a fire under the “Share the Road" debate. And opinions are strong on either side of the argument. I’ll give you one guess as to which side I’m on.

I’ve been reading through the comments on the article related to Bruce’s accident and I have to say that the self-righteousness of it all is startling. “Well, I had a motorist chase me with an ax handle.” “Well, I saw a biker run a stop light.” “Well, just yesterday someone honked at me.” “Well, 2 days ago, I had slow down for a cyclist.” “Well, this just proves bikes should NOT be on the roads.” “This is a public safety issue.” “Well, I pay taxes on these roads…”

SHUT UP! Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Listen to yourselves.

The motorists accuse the cyclists of being the assholes. The cyclists say, no, it’s the motorists who are the assholes. Get off your fucking soap boxes. We’re all assholes. We may not be assholes all the time, but we’ve all had our moments and we’re all assholes (with a rare exception here and there). We would all be better served to check our egos at the door and realize that the people on those bikes and in those cars have moms and dads, sons and daughters, families and friends who love and care for them. And every motor vehicle death, whether it involves a cyclist or not, is tragic.

Admittedly, I will never understand what it is about a cyclist that drives some motorists into a frenzy of hate and anger. Reading through the comments though, two things seem to be the big culprits - cyclists slowing down traffic and cyclists disobeying the rules of the road. Like I said, we’re all assholes. I’ve broken the rules of the road in my car and on my bike and I’m certain you have, too. I mean come on, nobody, and I mean nobody, drives the speed limit except maybe my grandmother. So, since we’re all breaking the laws, let’s just call that argument neutralized.

Cyclists piss you off because they slow you down. You know what slows me down when I’m driving my car? Here’s the short list:

• Other cars.
• An accident during rush hour (as if the stand still on the Interstate isn’t enough).
• Dump trucks on slim country roads.
• 18-wheelers trying to make their way up a hill.
• Pedestrians in crosswalks.
• Stop lights.
• Drivers who don’t understand how a traffic circle works.
• People who drive the speed limit.
• People who turn right.
• People who turn left.
• Squirrels.
• Deer (although I hear they're willing to start paying taxes).
• Possums.
• The occasional skunk (actually, I usually speed up for skunks).
• And assholes.

Unfortunately, the roads weren’t built for me alone. Hence the whole “Share the Road” concept. I like to extend the philosophy beyond just cyclists. And it’s my opinion, when you’re granted the privilege of a driver license, you assume the responsibility of respecting all vehicles and pedestrians on those roads. And if you can’t agree to that, well, take the bus…or get a bike.

But, the accusations have got to stop in lieu of more constructive conversations. Conversations like the ones Bruce Rosar used to have. Because Bruce wasn’t an asshole.

1/2 Day Facebook Auction

Today is the last day for fundraising for the 24 Hours of Booty. I’m very close to my goal so I’m going to try and woo you so I can take your money and donate it to the cancer community. Introducing the “HALF DAY FACEBOOK AUCTION!”

My Father suggested I offer up my sweaty Booty socks. I think it’s a GREAT idea, but this is for charity and I feel I should give a little more. So, up for auction is:

- One pair sweaty Booty Socks
- One BRAND NEW "New Belgium Fat Tire Ale" Cycling Jersey (pictured below)
- One pair BRAND NEW "24 Hours of Booty" cycling socks

Go to my Facebook profile page and put your bid in the comments section of my status update. I’ve made it public for today only, so you don’t have to be my friend to see it: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1437165804&ref=profile

Opening bid is $20. If you’re not in Charlotte, I’ll pay shipping. I’ll close the auction at 8PM tonight!

If you don’t wanna participate in this nonsense, please feel free to visit my personal donation page:
http://hob24.convio.net/site/TR/Bike/General?px=1002716&pg=personal&fr_id=1060

A Slice of Humble Pie with Whipped Cream and a Cherry

I raced the Charlotte Mountain Bike Series last night. I crashed 4 times. Well, 5 if you include when I fell over before the race by losing my balance while standing still. I couldn’t get my stupid shoe unclipped. I guess technically, I laid the bike out twice, crashed twice, and fell over like a dumbass once.

We haven’t had significant rain in Charlotte in several weeks and the course was showing it. The corners were mostly loose sand so navigating some of the sharper ones was a little tough. I laid out the bike twice in 2 such corners. Maybe those aren’t really regarded as crashes, but both me and my bike were on the ground, so call it what you want. Also, I was warned before the race of a new bridge that had been built that wasn’t quite right yet. I was told to beware of the tree on the inside corner because as you approach it, it looks like you’ll clear it, but at the last moment you realize because of that tree, you can’t lean your bike into the turn. Insert my first crash. On the first lap. I didn’t pre-ride the course, so I wasn’t familiar with this obstacle. I hopped onto the bridge, saw the tree and the off camber slope of the wood planks and thought, “What’s the big deal?” Then my handlebar hit the tree and I endo-ed off the bridge. As I pulled myself back onto the bike, I laughed at myself for not heeding the warning better.

At the time of that crash, there was one girl, Suna, with me in the lead of the race. By the time I got myself situated back on my bike, she had drawn to within 10 seconds of me. And she stayed there the whole race keeping me in a constant state of panic. I don’t think I ever got more than a 30 second gap on her, so on the second lap I had to play it smart. I had to go fast enough to keep the gap, but not push myself so hard that I crashed again. If I crashed, there was a good chance Suna would close the gap and I’d lose the race. So I spent the whole second lap telling myself, “Don’t crash, Winterton, don’t crash.” Side note, when I say my own last name in my head, it comes out as “winnerdin” which is how my brothers football coach used to get his attention back when we were kids, “Hey, Winnerdin! What are you doin’?” Weird that it has stuck with me all this time.

The last and worst crash came just before the finish. I was about 4 minutes away from winning my second mountain bike race of the season when my left wrist, handlebar, and brake/gear lever slammed full on into a rather hefty tree a full speed. There I was, flying over the handlebar…again. Once I finally hit the ground and came to a complete stop, I picked up the bike, keeping an eye behind me. I could hear Suna, but not see her. I jumped on the bike and took off like I stole something. I just had to get into the last singletrack section first. She wouldn’t be able to pass me in there. I sprinted on the short road section. I felt like she was right on my wheel, but a glance back and I didn’t see her as I entered the final section. As I finished the race, I could still hear her bike behind me rattling over the rooty course.

I’m pleased with the race. I had to work for the win. Suna put up a great chase. I could do without the crashing, though. The damage - a nice zinger on my left calf and right shin and small scrapes up and down my arms. More importantly, my bike ended the day with a bent brake lever and busted gear indicator. Oh, well, that’s bike racin’, right?

Tour de France: The Soap Opera

If you’ve never watched the Tour de France before, you need to watch this year. Only 3 Stages in and this years Tour is already heads and tails better than the previous 3 versions (except perhaps Floyd’s comeback victory in 2006, but that one’s now been erased). By comparison, last year’s Tour was a month long snooze-fest. But, this year, Team Astana is back. Contador is back. Lance is back. And the drama is back.

When Versus coverage of the Tour started at 8:30AM last Saturday with Lance declaring, “Oh, yeah. I’m here to win,” I got chills and realized, man I’ve missed this guy more than I thought. Watching him in the Individual Time Trial, I found myself hoping he would scorch everyone. Those 20 minutes while he was on course had me pacing my living room and shouting at the TV (and I usually save TV shouting for football season). He didn’t scorch everyone. He wasn’t even best on his team. He wasn’t even second or third best on his team. Perhaps he really did come to the Tour to support Contador? Lance as a domestique in Le Tour? That thought makes me nauseous. Then Contador set the best time in the ITT for Astana. I took some Pepto to settle my stomach.

Stage 2 – pretty much a formulaic sprint stage won by Cavendish. It would be more of a surprise if he didn’t win. Then, stage 3 comes. Which, by and large, was expected to be another formulaic sprint stage. And for most of it, it was. When Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwin start explaining why French flamingo’s are white and not pink, or why the long horn bulls we’re looking at provide the best beef in the world, you know the stage has gotten to it’s boring point and there will be no action until the last few kilometers of the stage. So, you sit and wait.

And wait I did. I was writing random thoughts for this blog when I heard Phil Liggett’s familiar excitement. “There’s a gap! They’ve got a gap!” What? Who’s got a gap? “The peloton has been caught out. Team Columbia has turned the screw into the cross wind.” I looked up to find the entire Columbia HTC team in an echelon powering them selves into the wind. They were pushing so hard that a time gap opened up to 30 seconds. And, holy shit, Lance is with them…and he has 2 teammates with him! More holy shit – Contador missed the move, as did most of the favorites. What the hell is Columbia doing? There’s 30k to go yet. They must be pissed about something. I did not take my eyes off the screen for the duration of the race. By the end, the break had 41 seconds on the peloton – a significant gap on what was supposed to be a sprint stage. My breathing returned to normal and I basked in the glow of Lance’s unmatched ability to read a race. Have I mentioned I’ve missed this guy?

Whether the “duel” between Lance and Contador is contrived by the media or not, the drama of it all has already made this Tour one of the best in recent times. Today is the Team Time Trial. Astana is the heavy favorite to win. There is a high likelihood that Lance could end the day in yellow. Did he attack Contador yesterday? I personally don’t think so. This wouldn’t be the first time Contador read a race wrong. Lance didn’t make much of it after the race when he said (I’m paraphrasing here) – when the entire Columbia-HTC goes to the front, and you know your about to hit the wind, you have to expect they are up to something and damn, you better be at the front when it happens.

Well, there you go. It’s like Days of Our Lives. Except without Alison Sweeny’s teary eyes, illegitimate children (as far as we know), and the hair is shaved from the men’s legs instead of their chest.

PostSecret Cyclist Hater

According to the website, PostSecret is an ongoing community art project where people mail in their secret anonymously on one side of a postcard. It was started by Frank Warren as an experiment and has grown into a worldwide phenomenon that has turned Mr. Warren into a best-selling author and a highly sought after speaker. I visit the website every week to see which new secrets have been posted. Today I saw this gem:

I had to snicker a little when I read it because, in my experience, when I ride on Sunday’s it always seems to be the people with a Jesus fish sticker on their car that cause the most problems and this secret just confirmed it for me. My most recent incident was only a couple of Sunday’s ago. I almost ended up in the Catawba River after a pick-up truck with a Jesus fish came WAY too close to me on the Wilkinson Boulevard bridge (despite 2 open lanes of traffic without another soul on the road) and sent me swerving into the barrier. I was able to keep the bike upright, but when I experience an incident like this, I tend to think things like, “How about some good will toward men throughout the year and not just on Christmas, asshole.” Then I wonder if they are on their way to church or on their way home from church. And if they are on their way home, exactly what was said at the church service that has made this person so angry at me that they’d like to make an attempt on my life? Or, if they are not going to church at all today, do they even deserve to display their fish?

I’m glad this person submitted their secret for me to see. It makes me feel better about revealing mine: I’m prejudiced against people who display their faith, but don’t practice their faith – especially in considering that one commandment about not killing others.

For crying out loud, find the source of your anger, deal with it and quit taking it out on cyclists – surely you can see the ridiculousness of yourself when a person on a bicycle sparks enough rage within you that you’re ready to kill or seriously injure them. And if you can’t, you may want to take that Jesus fish off your car – cuz you certainly aren’t Christian.