Editor's Note: This report is reposted from The Prinner Posts
It still hasn't quite occurred to me that I'm not actually in Tucson anymore; I continue to wear shorts and run outside on random occasions only to realize it's not 70 degrees. Though I'm in serious withdrawal from Tucson paradise it had become obvious in my last week there that it was time to go home:for one, most of my waterbottles have grown cultures of microorganisms due to both my own neglect in cleaning them out and Accelerade's reluctance to detach itself from plastic.Plus my supply of earplugs had diminished greatly as they always seem to mysteriously disappear in the night, never to be seen again. My back wheel wobbled precariously (I still insist I had nothing to do with it) and my handlebar tape continued to unravel despite my attempts to fix it. I sensed the urge from some greater being that it was my time to move on as the Tucson pavement continued to attack me relentlessly (although it's more probable that I keep attempting to attack the pavement and never seem to learn that I will always lose).A fortnight ago my Wednesday night training crit was short lived as I succeeded in embarrassing my cat. 2 status in blatantly trying to pedal around a 180 degree turn and paid the price in even more skin.So not only did I bear the scars of the Shootout crash on my left side but I now had a full set on the right side to complement it.So I dejectedly rode home that night kicking myself for such a novice mistake as I now had no clean side to crash on.Of course my next option would be to wear arm/leg warmers in the stifling Tucson heat in my next race as I didn't feel like having road rash on top of my road rash.But at this point most of my wounds have healed and have that wonderfully pink hue that you just know will turn purple and stay with you for the rest of your life.
On my last week in Tucson I was joined by my dad as he was to help me drive 27 hours back to Chicago.I decided to take him up Mount Lemmon for less sadistic reasons than you think, and as it was a high of 90 degrees that day I was confident I wouldn't die on the side of the mountain as I almost did several weeks ago.I could only shudder as I passed that scenic pull-out where I had sat huddled in the fetal position waiting for either 1) death to find me or 2) a friendly ride to hitchhike down with.Seeing as though I have lived to write this you can probably infer that option two occurred.Roughly 25 miles of climbing later I arrived at the Cookie Cabin, arguably the point that's considered “the top” for all cyclists daring such an endeavor.The idea is to suffer and toil endlessly for 25 miles and then stuff your face with a giant cookie and perhaps a Dr. Pepper and then refrain from throwing it all up on the swift ride down.What a wonderful life.
And then my time ended in Tucson and I prepared for a marathon drive back home. After driving through the night, the sun rose the next morning to display gloomy overcast skies in Missouri, though I still refused to exchange my flip flops for shoes. I'm not devastated, though, as some may think, because in two and a half weeks I begin my next European adventure on the National Team.
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