Doping

Apparently, professional cycling is imploding in a ball of fire, like a TIE fighter in a Death Star trench. Oddly enough, my life goes on.

I once again drove my bike to work, didn’t ride it, and drove it home. I’m embarrassed for myself. I get to work a little before nine, poke at stuff, get really rolling on something at 11:10, and go on that while everyone else is at lunch. About the time I think I can get away for an hour, I realize I can finish up three things before the afternoon meeting that might get into those issues. I do that, have the meeting, work on the things that came up at the meeting, do the team building thing, then work more, then go home late, all without having ridden my bike. Total fail.

The CEO was at the meeting, wearing his half-marathon shirt and shorts, since he actually knows how to put the big rocks in the jar first, and went for a run about the time I should’ve gotten the bike out of the car. I really need to work on that.

Oh yeah, Lance. I actually like him better now that everyone hates him. Maybe deep down I really am a Democrat! Dammit. I’m reminded of arguing with family members whose only knowledge of cycling AT ALL was “Lance is clean!” “You weigh 400 lbs and swerve to hit cyclists like they’re armadillos, and you’re telling me Lance is clean? Tell me about the WMDs, so I can calm down a minute.”

So. In summation, Sinead O’Connor was right about the Pope, and Greg LeMond was right about Lance. On Sunday, I’m going to go into the Trek store and ask them if they can special order me a Lemond ‘cross bike. Then I will laugh in their face and send that money to the Oregon tax board.