The sad, rainy, gloomy, snow-crusted, mud globbulous month of January ends in 58 hours and 30 minutes. This usually excites me. And it should excite you too, whoever you are. But really, the bike was good to me this time through what is, without a doubt, the worst month of the year. Some bike-worthiness to document:
A few long and one epic dirt road ride that didn't fizzle out in pain and misery like most January epics do for me.
Built a hillbilly ladder stunt out on the local goods that is doomed to structural implosion, but so far has only lost a slat or two.
Raced a couple mid-week night crits on sloppy private singletrack that didn't result in dismemberment or death.
Took off to Sedona, AZ with my girlfriend for some R&R, upgraded to fiancee status on a big hike over pb&j's and oak creek microbrews, and then rallied a loop the next day on a rental haro X-1 to rival any I've ever put together out there.
And you know what? It's only looking up from here.
Pantani would be proud. Somewhere, I think he IS proud. And he's looking down on you, tubby, and he's wondering what you're going to lay down for him in sacrifice on 2/14. If you think that's got anything to do with Valentine's day, you are sadly mistaken. Did Pantani need a sappy card and some roses to go out and stomp Lance's scrawny American derriere up Ventoux? No. Did Pantani insist on lovey-dovey kisses and a bottle of red wine before he'd climb Galibier? No, but he would drink the wine anyway. Did Pantani chase his whole life through a smelly, drug infested, broken bone-riddled peloton only to succomb to depression and cocaine and booze and assorted other pills on a day that we, here in America on our rotund derriers, like to think of as our day of love?
Come do him proud. The 2/14 Pantani ride. Details to follow. Up, up, up.