The VIP start line at the 2013 Hincapie Gran Fondo, which for some reason included me.
Photo cred: Brian Hodes
My weekend was unraveling. And fair warning, your day might unravel after reading this.
This is not what you’re used to reading here. And it’s probably NSFW to read aloud (except for that one guy). No apologies are made or given.
So, the Friday before the fondo, taking the boyo to Donuts for Dads at the elementary school, I ran into Tyler, who looked pretty rough. “Would you be heartbroken if we don’t go?” he asked through his nose.
Not really? … I guess. But I already had momentum that direction. And I have to admit, I was kind of looking forward to it.
Tyler had approached me a couple of weeks back about joining him at the Hincapie Gran Fondo. We’d have VIP passes, which included breakfast, the ride, post-ride massages, various other perks, plus entry to the VIP after-party Saturday night.
A pampered 80 mile ride on some beautiful mountain roads? With free beer and food and massages and parties and stuff?
Was I in?
Do noses bleed when you punch them?
When I told a friend what I was up to, he called it the “Dopers’ Fondo.”
And while I should have very strong and vocal opinions about George Hincapie, pro-racing, doping, etc. …. I just don’t. I mean…. I do… but they’re not particularly earth-shattering or vehement. (kids… doping is bad, m’kay.)
Some shit just isn’t on my radar. I’m not saying that it’s not important…. just that at present, I have stronger opinions about whether you call it “Cilantro” or “Rocket.”
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