When Heroes Fall

So, Lance Armstrong is circling the drain, allegations of doping snapping at his heels, like the pair of dogs that would lay in wait for me nearly every weekend on my once-routine 25 mile Sunday ride. As I drew near their favorite ambush spot, I’d begin looking closely. They were good, remaining hidden until the very last moment. They’d spring to life, greyhounds chasing me, the mechanical rabbit.

I’d pedal my butt off, running on the pedals for all I was worth. They lived for it, and I lived to out-run them. There was more to it than just pedaling faster than they could run. There was anticipation, the adrenaline rush, and back of the napkin algebra. Staying on their side of the road, I would pedal as fast as I possibly could. And as they drew near, I’d begin to change the angle of departure, lengthening the distance and increasing the speed, twisting the geometry on them. There were a few times when I was nearly dog-chow. They were beginning to understand math, which wasn’t good. It was close, and fun in an adrenaline junky way, I guess. It made me faster, no doubt.

Now I have a bike that I can’t really ride because it’s not the right size. And my mountain bike was taken from my storage unit by some enterprising neighbor. Careful friend, she will throw you, breaking ribs and such along the way.

So, the dogs are gaining on Lance. Maybe he can outrun them, he’s still faster than I can even dream of. And probably better at math than I am too.

The pictures are of my friend Jeff several years ago, taking a short cut in a cyclocross race up north. I’d like that video in slow motion…

Proof that shortcuts can hurt you. Or at least get you all wet and muddy, to where your pants freeze to your seat. What a great story!

About Chuck

Aha! Look what I've created. I... have... made... FIRE!!!
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