I’ve been in Oregon for over a week now, bikeless but at the same time oddly happy. True, my exercise regimen here has resembled the kind of midget-size political and military power Napoleon had when he was exiled to Elba. To run, I have decided, is to beat one’s joints into an irreversible trash-heap state, so instead of running, now I’m just walking. If I had to stay here for another full week, I would be crawling. A month, and I would turn into a mushroom that not even a starving animal would want to eat. Ah, the tragedy.
So what does a cyclist do in a ten-day period off the bike? He plots out an ambitious training program, sets a plan for the upcoming season, and decides on a number of equipment purchases to make this training program a success. Fuck yeah! I’m going to buy a new Trek Madone and a shiny new Radio Shack uniform and a bunch of Nike undergarments, and I’m going to race in the goddam Tour de France this summer. No shit. I think this is a reasonable season goal, not only from a financial and physical standpoint but from a mental standpoint because that’s key, having your mind in the game before your put your ass in the saddle. So I’ve been studying the Tour’s route fairly carefully and targeting a few stages for stage wins, which is embarrassing because I would prefer to compete for victory in the general classification, but at this point I’m going to be realistic: take a few wins in the first week of the tour, enjoy a few moments of glory, and hey, if opportunity presents itself, I might go for the whole shebang. Why not?
See you in France this summer!
Allez, my friends.
Oh, YES! Take her down, Mag. Do it for recovering fat girls and boys everywhere. I need to know it's possible.
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