A LIZARD IN THE VALLEY: When it rains, it pours on your head as you do 400 watts in a time trial.

EGAD, another day and again I must tell the tale of what happened! This is an exhausting circle, as it feels like I am living everything twice. I am filled with sleepies, and write only out of duty to you, my attentive audience, and so you all must be sure to yammer me with requests for entries and/or unending praise so that I do not get tired and stop writing!

WEDNESDAY, the crack of dawn

I awoke, and saw 5:55 on the LED clock near my bed. A tiny heart attack struck me--FIVE FIFTY FIVE?! HAD I SLEPT THROUGH THE TIME TRIAL?! I blinked several times and realized that it was 5:55 AM  rather than PM and I had not, in fact, missed the prologue of Nature Valley. It gets sunny here at a disgustingly early hour! My servitude was not yet a total failure. I stirred, and Lynnette and Michael gave me coffee and cereal to fuel my lizard self. POWER CARBS.

Vanessa and Lapars arrived just after seven, and we took off through the hellish morning traffic of St. Paul (or, I think that is where we is. I thought we were in Minneapolis at first. But who can ever tell.)

I navigated to the course with all the skill and delicacy of minced ginger. Is that a thing? It is now. We parked, and promptly set to business. I noticed the Lululemons across the parking lot and fainted at least six or seven times; Laura used her feminine wiles to secure trainers for warm up. I suppose this duty falls under a managerial jurisdiction; however, I am not one for wiling.

The skies, gray since I'd rolled from my dusty slumber, opened up in a sort of non-committal rain. It was like, "Well, I guess I could rain on you. Whatever." This was quite rude, as it intensified as the time trials went along. I huddled, in my soaked hoodie, and fangirled over various cycling superstarlets.

Vanessa was set to go off at 8:56; Laura, 9:03. Laura gave me a bit of a scare, as she somehow sneaked past me and got into the bike check without me seeing her--so, at 9:01, I was staring down the road, scouring desperately for pink, trying to postpone conniptions. Eventually she yelled and got my attention. "I thought you weren't going to make it," I told her.

"I race in one minute," she said, flabbergasted, "Where else would I be?!" Touche. This management business is hardly the cakewalk they make it out to be. Who makes it out to be that? I may have just made that up.

WEDNESDAY, 9:16
AT this moment in time, both Lapars and Vdrigo, as I will lovingly refer to them from now on (unless I feel like using a less ridiculous moniker--but for now, these suit me!), were on course presumably crushing everyone. At least, I hoped it was as such. I huddled beneath a tent and taught a volunteer how to use twitter. "Yes," I told him, "now, this is called a 'hashtag'."
"Fascinating," he said. I am the ambassador of my generation.

WEDNESDAY, later.
Vanessa and Laura rolled off the course, rain-drenched, and cursing the discipline of time trial. I did not blame them, and nor did I envy the task of setting out to time trial with Jade Wilcoxen (sp?!) as a two-minute woman. I have done just this, last year at elk grove, only to have the obnoxious orange Optum car pass me in a turn. "REALLY," I called after them, "You'd better kill me to make sure I won't beat you IN THIS FIVE MILE TIME TRIAL IN WHICH I RIDE ROAD BIKE AND HAVE NO AERO EQUIPMENT." Maybe I did not say this, but wouldn't it have been funny and satisfying if I did? LET'S MAKE BELIEVE.

I collected my athletes and transported them to Trader Joes, for nutrients. Then, back to HQ, for napskies.

WEDNESDAY, noon?

A ride for lizard, lest the team manager get too fat. It rained on me.

WEDNESDAY, 3:45
We met at our designated time and I transported the ladies to downtown St. Paul. It is the sort of downtown I imagine grandparents like, in that there is nothing really going on and it is calm enough to almost nap in the middle of the street median. The prerace necessities happened, and I found a spot along the start/finish to watch (aka, tweet obnoxiously). I felt a crushing nervousness despite the fact that I was not even kitted up; I am not sure if this is because I care or because I am a wet noodle of a human being.

IT BEGINS!!!!!

WEDNESDAY, 6:15

The race began with all the firepower I had feared and hoped for. The first few laps (at least, from a sidewalk perspective) were lit up. Vanessa and Laura dug through it, and I screamed like a giddy little teddy bear each time they passed by. I hope that my falsetto was motivating. I also engaged in a brutish text/tweet bombardment of the internet, for which I apologize. I was excited....

Q: What do laura and vanessa do when they are not kicking butts?

A: NOTHING. THEY CONSTANTLY KICK ALL THE BUTTS.

WEDNESDAY, 7:14
IN a twist of dramatic proportions, the race unfolded in the last five laps. It went from a controlled Tibco-train of five riders leading Shelly Olds (another olympian) to a chaotic flurry spearheaded by two orange Optum helmets. With one to go, the tibco lead out was demolished. It was anyone's race.

I was not surprised to see the orange of optum come grilling down the line, Lauren Hall first in their team one-two with Jade Wilcoxen; Shelly Olds took third with a disappointed (I thought) shake to her head. Carmen Small was downed in the last corner, and got 49th. HA! THIS IS THE SORT OF PLACING I GET. FEEL MY PAIN.

Just kidding. Now, for a jersey update: Jade Wilcoxen had secured enough time bonuses to negate Small's disgustingly good time trial. She moved into yellow with a two second cushion. Tayler Wiles lost white--and I may or may not have cried about this--to Denise Ramsden of optum. Kimberly Wells wore blue (is anybody surprised), and Brianna Walle held onto the Jelly Belly jersey. Mia Loquai dons best amateur!

I recovered my riders, and we departed, another battle in our belts.

WEDNESDAY, later

We peaced out and I set to some erranding; I deposited Laura at whole foods, vanessa at home, and myself at a gas station. We noshed some whole foods noms, and then I took off on my bicycle for bed.



I am so tired. Tomorrow, the ladies shall take on the horrors of the Cannon Falls Road race--93 miles, with only a lizard for support, no team car, no mechanic, NOTHING! I shall do what I can for them, but send them some speedy thoughts. MORE LATER

A LIZARD IN THE VALLEY: Nature Valley, reptilian style.

So, friends, a hiatus for you yesterday. A day with no reading--this is a gift to you! You're welcome. I will offer a brief recap of Monday's adventures, as it was largely a day of travel.

MONDAY, 9:00
I awoke early after being thoroughly beat down by crybaby hill and drinking Margaritas with the Plotkin family, my new favorite people in the world. I had decided, on a whim, that I would in fact not return home to the hideous cavern of humidity that calls itself south florida. I would, instead, act as sovigneur to my teammates Vanessa and Laura. Though I am only a lizard, and incapable of very technical support, I would provide what I could, if only because I am bored and have nothing else to do with myself.

It was Laura's birthday, giggity! She spent the morning hustling around Tulsa after rental cars and other bicycling business; Vanessa and I attended to matters of our own (inside joke: How many rose bandits does it take to do laundry? Answer: all of them.) We all met back up around two.

MONDAY, 2:00
 The remainder of this day was spent driving, as this is the prudent thing to do when eleven hours separates you from the glory of Nature Valley. Being the servant for the trip, I knocked out many of the hours myself. After about four, we stopped at a Whole Foods where we got to see a bearded Shaman give a lengthy anecdote about shaving a "beautiful, long-haired cat" and purchase dinner. I spent $34.70 on a food trough of couscous, some tiger balm, and an americano. FRUGAL!

MONDAY, 11:00
We could go no further. Laura fought through an impossible phone reservation with a Days Inn employee, and we ceased travel for the evening.

The first thing we noticed when we pulled into the hotel were youngsters--and not just youngsters, mind you. RUFFIANS! Limarita guzzling, cigarette smoking, hotel-parking-lot-loitering RUFFIANS!!!!!!! Laura and I were immediately miffed.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING," a particularly friendly ruffian asked Lapars and I. "UH...Traveling," she replied. A good, vague answer if I ever heard one! We retired to our room which sported beds that would make a four-foot-tall child giggle, and watched a movie where Cher slaps Winona Ryder in the face. Then, BED TIME.

TUESDAY, 9:00

I can say with confidence that this was the earliest we had ever arisen at a race--at least, at the same time. I was propelled by my natural need for sustenance, and so leapt from my tiny, tiny bed and sponge-lump pillow with hunger. Vanessa and laura followed, in time! We departed for the twin cities, but only after a visit to Starbucks. Necessities, you see.

TUESDAY, 9:30-2:00

More inane driving commentary. I would spare you this, but it is such an essential part of the lifestyle cycliste. Laura made us stop no fewer than twenty-six times, and I piloted the mini-van with all the precision of a surgeon. Well, a plastic surgeon.

TUESDAY, later.

We visited a local bike shop in St. Paul, Omnium Cycles, and they hooked Laura up with a cassette change and some bottles. From there, we promptly took off for the time trial course for a brief ride before my TEAM MANAGER MEETING at 6:30. Yes, you read that right. I, Lizard, am a team manager. I manage.

We did some light riding and Laura gave me some sprint pointers, as my current form rivals that of a dying ostrich. The ladies compared pacing strategies, and I listened intently while wishing I was racing! Though, I would be happy to manage if only I were given some sort of hat.

TUESDAY, 4:45
We completed our pre-ride and loaded the van. We discovered that driving across St. Paul was not unlike piloting a canoe around the port of New Orleans. My grandmother-ish driving was not enough to ensure our timely arrival, and so Laura took over.

We arrived at the Bloomington Holiday Inn fifteen til six. I burst through the double doors and shouted, "WHERE IS THE PACKET PICK UP!" The baffled front-desk ladies gave a timid gesture down the hallway, and I meandered off in search of my papery quest.

I found what I sought, directly down the hall and to the right, as the nice woman had directed me. Imagine! I sat down with all the style and grace I imagine a team manager should have, and said, "Yes, I would like to pick up for my athletes." I almost laughed at these words as they came out of my mouth, but refrained.

 The volunteers were lovely and helpful. I only had to run outside once to complete the process, but I imagine my cover as super-pro Team Manager stands. Or, I hope it does.

TUESDAY, 6:30
Directly following the packet pick-up was the "Manager's Meeting," an event to which I was of course invited as I am a stunningly organized and professional manager. I was delighted to discover that Paul, head honcho for Team Kenda was in attendance as well! We sat together and I took notes on the things that he took notes on; this was a good gauge for what was probably important and what was not. I jotted on a holiday inn sticky pad, and nodded furtively as the speakers went through their talking points.

TUEDAY, later.
We retired from the hotel to our arrangements. Laura and Vanessa would be staying with John and Melanie, who made us a delicious pasta dinner and fed me far too many chocolate dipped bananas. I would be down the street with Lynette and Michael, who are also probably two of the greatest people I have ever met. I bade Laura and Vanessa adieu and spent the evening chillin' with my hosts. This included learning that they have in fact seen my blog (proof that someone reads it besides me), watching Chelsea Lately, and an epic quest to discover the WiFi password so that I could post this.

THE ADVENTURES!!! they are endless. TOMORROW, Vanessa and Laura will tackle two stages--a 7.7 mile riverfront time trial, and a criterium later in the evening. Send them fast vibes and thoughts! Meanwhile, I will document their every move for your enjoyment!


Until tomorrow,

DA LIZARD

LIZARD TAKES TULSA: A wounded lizard rides on!

Since I left you, dear readers much has happened. I became 22! I again catapulted through the air and collided with asphalt, happily accepted several free laps, and watched champions fall face first into the ground. I fill you in now:


SATURDAY, continued.

5:00: I took once again to the bike trail to reunite with teammates Amy and Laura post-napskies. It was time to register and consume a lot of red bull. We met up, kitted up, and rolled out. In the time between then and the starting whistle, I accomplished many things. Here is a brief list: 1) have a mechanic tell me that my pedal would in fact not kill me 2) pin numbers 3) squeal in giddy excitement 4) warm up. Warming up takes a long time so that makes the other things all the more impressive.

6:50: We watched the men's 3-4 race end with a yellow jersey-ed man snapping off the peloton at the last corner and taking a solo victory. I rolled up to the start line to find (to my surprise) A GAUDY THRONG OF LADIES. I mean, i was expecting fifty entrants at the most....but 75 started. It was going to be a shit fight. Pardon my language, but there are no synonyms for what was about to happen in the next hour. I was thrilled to see my Team Kenda Teammates, Beth, Lauren, Gwen, and Amity and the start line as well, because 1) they are cool awesome folks and 2) they are all good strong riders and I could follow them around the course without fear of death!

7:00: BADABING. The whistle sounded, as it always does, and we were moving. To my surprise, things were going well! The speed was up, but the course flowed smooth and fast, and the turns were wide open. The wind kept us moving quickly on most of the course, with only a small straight before the finish line really feeling gusty at all.

But suddenly, things were not going so well. We went through the start finish, ten minutes' time in our pockets. I must have been at least forty riders back and looked to move up through the second turn. I had taken the first turn wide, and not found myself pinned to the inside. Then--crash. In a split second I saw at least four riders down, tangled in bikes. My brain froze and I pulled hard on my brakes but it was too late, and I was going forward over the bars in a familiar arc. I smacked my head into the ground, cracking my helmet, and felt a shifter jam into my back. I leapt up and whirled around; Amy was there directly to my right.

"HURRY, LIZ." she said. I did not argue. She pedaled and I waddled, pushing my bicycle, over to the SRAM tent and we were quickly sent back into the race.
The riders droned by and we popped off after them. I connected about two turns later to the very back, feeling a tight pull through my back. I ignored this and tried to focus on pedaling. I WAS STELLA. I WOULD FIND MY GROOVE, DAMNIT.

And so, singing a little song, I followed the wheels and tried not to be last. The pack had thinned enormously, and I felt the danger of this. We crossed the line again at about thirty minutes--and again, riders fell, ON THE STRAIGHT, for no reason I could discern. I jammed on the brakes, ready this time, and whipped my foot down. I stopped the bike and then heard someone behind me going, "WOOOOAH." It was a girl, on a bicycle. Imagine! I held out my hand, and kept her up. We looked down and saw monster crusher Kimberly Wells curled into a ball at our feet. I did not think much on this; I merely carried my bike over her and ran back to Sram. They were becoming familiar with me, and waved me over. I shifted back into the big ring and launched off again.

More and more riders sloughed off the back and I was picking through them. I saw Laura and Vanessa just in front of me, not more than three riders separating us on each side. I felt a gleam of confidence! IF THEY WERE SO CLOSE, I WAS DOING GOOD!! I dangled dangerously in the worst possible position, feeling unable to move through really anywhere, lazily sitting last and hoping this would somehow serve me differently than it had in every race OF MY LIFE. Of course, it did not. A Primal rider took a turn hot and slid to the ground, maybe six riders ahead of me, and the rubberband snapped. There was a gap of maybe ten-to-twenty meters before me, and my legs burned. I gripped my bars hard and pedaled, but there was not enough juice in them. I looked at the clock as I went through: Forty minutes, thirty eight seconds. I had made it that far only to fail!

I rolled off the course to find Lauren and Beth, and we reveled one another with tales of our race-time miseries. I was interviewed for some sort of documentary, and then we rolled off to cool down a bit. I found Amy, and then we returned to the hotel to find Laura. Then, we all went downstairs to find food. Amy's delightful mother, Brenda, bought us dinner and then we went to ice bath. By now, i was finding it difficult to walk or rotate in any way, and so the cold was quite amenable to me.

11:00: I set off back to the Holiday inn express. I discovered that the bike path ran directly next to some sort of correctional facility and I pedaled faster in spite of the searing in my back. I got to my bed, watched some Arrested Development, and tried to sleep.

SATURDAY

9:00: I AWOKE, with pain and joy, to find myself an old spinster. 22! We race again at 6:00 pm. MORE LATER, MY READING ENTOURAGE.

Until then,

Crippled lizard

Albany and Chattanooga

            I offer you all a rare look into the heart and guts of a lizard on the eve of battle. The battle—USA Cycling Elite Nationals—is sure to test all of her lizard wiles. It is a prestigious thing, populated by Olympians and monster-legged crushers of souls. US PRO takes no prisoners, and makes no apologies. It does not pass go, and it does not collect two hundred dollars.

            My being able to do this event is the summative effort of about a million different people. Naples, you see, lies suctioned into the ocean at the very buttcrack of the world, seven or eight hours of driving separate the typical SoFla resident from any worthwhile place on earth. That being said, I did not hop into the car and bang out thirteen hours of driving all at once; rather, I ticked off two, three, four hours here and there and moved into my friends’ homes like some sort of elite hermit crab.

LAST WEEK:

            My plan had started out simply: go to Albany, race, and then go home. Alas, I walked into my work (the Naples Cyclery, for those of you who are unfamiliar) and saw the Chattanooga event’s poster gleaming on the countertop.

            “Oh this,” I said to my co-worker and homie, Josh, “I was supposed to go to this. But I don’t think I qualify because I’m not a one.” This too had been a plan of mine: go to speed week, crush, and then become a badass category 1 racer. We all know how speed week went for the lizard—the best laid plans, you know.

            “You should do it,” he said, as simple as that.

            “Well,” I said, “I’m convinced.”  

            I rode home and made for my desk, and began to compute in sweaty bib shorts. Nationals! Was this prudent? I logged into USA Cycling and pulled up the event. I was, apparently, qualified. ADD TO CART. WHERE IS MY COMMON SENSE? It must have died, I think, with the sense of dignity that kept me from parading around metropolitan areas in pink spandex body suits.

            The plan changed. I signed up for the Albany criterium, this year part of the new Southeast Regional Series, and I paid USA Cycling one hundred dollars for the esteemed pleasure of seeing my name on the same start list as Evelyn Stevens’.

            “Giggity,” I said, while secretly feeling a crushing poverty and wondering why I could not work on my book. Exercise! All this exercise is not conducive to creative activity.

FRIDAY, MAY 24:

First stop, Gainesville. Team Kenda’s Chelsea Factor and I were to be travel buddies; she let me sleep at her house with two schnausers and a very large cat.

SATURDAY, MAY 25:

Lizard genius moment number one: while sitting in the driver’s seat of my father’s Hyundai, I removed the keys from the ignition, clicked the lock button, and then placed the keys into the cupholder. I then exited the vehicle and slammed the door. I imagine the look on my face was quite hilarious.

            Chelsea peaced out because she had to make the men’s category 3-4 race; I sat in the driveway and doodled pictures of muscle guys punching each other in the face while I waited for the towing folks to come to my rescue.

            And rescue did come, in the form of a slight little man named Francis; he was bald and smiley and he unlocked my car with much panache. Thank you, Francis, thou automotive gem! I set off, only an hour later than expected.

             Albany was, according to Siri, a three and a half hour drive. The lizard made it in three (don’t drive with me if you value your life.). The criterium course snakes through the quaint little downtown area, wide and fast. While warming up I was both thrilled and surprised to find my teammate, the indomitable Vanessa Drigo warming up. There would, it appeared, be two Rosebandits out crushing on this fine Saturday.

The Lizard, pre-race.

            Vanessa got into a break of four riders, which I somehow missed—I am uncertain as to how this happened, and awaited a chance to do something. On the second-to-last lap, I thought  I heard the announcer say, “tweny dollar prime.” I turned to Chelsea and said, “I’m going to lead you out for the prime!” Later, I found out that she had mistakenly heard, “Look at what I’m going to do!” I punched it hard into the third corner and got a gap; I scooped up the prime and gave a look back. They were pretty far off. “Heck,” I thought, “I will keep going.” If anything, I would be leading out the sprint, which is fine with me. I came either third or fourth across the line, which got me fifth place as I was a lap down from the breakaway group. Does this count as winning the bunch sprint?

            After the race, I headed off to Athens, another three and a half hour jaunt, to stay with my lovely friend Kira. We took ice baths, ate pasta from pots of trough-like proportions, and slept sound sleeps.

SUNDAY, MAY 26
Kira awoke early to get some riding in; I slumbered on like a wee babe. Around ten, we set off toward chattanooga--an easy two-and-a-half hour drive. We disregarded Siri's advice and took an uncomfortable detour through what I like to call, "the dirty, dirty south." We looked at one another in terror and did an aggressive donut-style turn around mid-street.
We drove with a fearful anticipation, as the previous week had been filled with much teasing about my hotel choice. I mean, really, how can you see a hotel called “The Chattanooga Choo Choo” on the hotel search and NOT pick it?
We arrived and found it to be lovely, and having something of a timidly racist Asian theme. E.g., pagodas and rice paper-style paintings everywhere. What was this a reference to? HECK IF I KNOW. Mulan would dig it.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent on logistics: we were starving, and had to hunt for the exactly one restaurant (Sugar’s BBQ) that was open on a Sunday in this biblical south. I had to pick up my numbers. I had to stare awkwardly at the Specialized Lululemon team on the street. We accomplished these things and set out to pre-ride a bit.
Throughout the afternoon, officials made a point of making feel like a foolish noob on several occasions. While picking up my numbers, one lady gave me the saddest, most knowing frown when I told her, “No, I don’t have a race car…do I need one?!” Later, an official asked me to take a corner at speed and I almost got hit by a car. He giggled at me.
We are now back in the hotel, awaiting an evening of snacks and rest!

MONDAY, MAY 27
The day had arrived. THIS. THE DAY OF DAYS. I had an excellent feeling, a feeling of strength and vigor. These were just ladies. Ladies! I could finish the race, surely, and finish well. I drank a lot of redbull and went through all the pre-race motions.
We rolled to the course with thirty minutes to go, and I felt my nerve endings through my fingers. What the hell was I doing here?! Who was I to be here?! But I was here.
I rolled to the line. Twenty minutes until the gun. My hands were shaking; I wrung them and gripped my handlebars.
Suddenly I saw a flash of black and white, I turned from my spot on the left-most side of the start/finish and about died when I realized that I was recognizing the Specialized-Lululemon Squad rolling up. Oh my god. OH GOD. IT WAS EVELYN STEVENS. AND ALLY STACHER. AND CARMEN SMALL.
I began to hyperventilate. WHY!!!!!! WHY WAS I HERE!!!!!!!!
I reminded myself that these were ladies, merely ladies. They were ladies just as I was a lady and they could not frighten me! Then, Mara Abbott appeared from the depths of the crowd, flushing through the stacking of bicycles to her unspoken place at the front. My mouth fell open.
Don't stare, I told myself, as I stared. My mouth was completely agape. STOP STARING!!! I snapped my head forward and locked onto the wheel in front of me. Yes. A nice, tame, wheel. Rubber and spokes. No social graces required.

The announcer said some words that did not compute in my brain and a girl wailed the national anthem. One minute to go. I was filled simultaneously with a feeling of horror and utmost joy. I never wanted this moment to be over.

But minutes end, and moments cannot last. Before I could catch my breath the gun was firing, a quick, taut snap, and seventy-seven women were catching cleats in pedals and launching forward. I hardly knew what to do. What was there to do but go? And so I went.

It began like any other criterium I had ever done--except that this was a road race. I was horrified. Calm down, I thought. I sipped my bottle, and remembered that I had filled it with red bull. My heart rate, after exactly thirty-eight seconds of racing, was 170. This was a terrible sign.

I pedaled in the same way that I have for thousands of miles, hundreds of hours. This is what you do, I told myself. See? You're doing it.

I looked to my right and nearly fell over. Evelyn Stevens was there, simply riding next to me, as if this was a normal thing. As if she was a normal human, just riding next to me in a race! THIS WAS EVELYN STEVENS. WHY WAS SHE THERE?! She also seemed to notice that this, the sorriest, back-most section of the race was not the place to be. She was escorted to the front by her kick-ass teammate, Carmen Small, and I followed. I FOLLOWED. I simply hopped on Evelyn Stevens' wheel and went forward, as if this was not the most spectacular thing I had ever done in my entire life. I was smiling the most idiotic smile, and pedaling quite hard.
"Relax," I said to myself, "three short laps to go." And we went through the short laps as we would have done a speed week criterium, fast, punching through the corners. I was devastated to admit that I was already suffering, at the back, desperately sticking on like a terrible barnacle.
YOU CANNOT DROP, I said to myself, YOU LITERALLY ARE NOT ALLOWED. We finished the third short lap and began the trek toward Lookout Point.

The thing that typically happens to me in races happened again--I was too far back, like an idiot, and a girl opened a gap. I whirled around and began to pedal furiously down the straight that I had told myself I should be resting on. "CATCH THEM NOW, LIZARD." That is what I said. And I did catch them, just after the left turn onto Tennessee Avenue. I knew this was not ideal, because I had driven this section of the course just yesterday. The mountain loomed before us.

We swung through the streets, for the final time a solid wall of riders punching through the course, and we hit the climb. Like a gunshot we were obliterated into tiny groups--three here, five there. I was alone at the very back, stricken with panic.

Would it have made any difference had I been further up? Would it have mattered? Tennessee threw its best into my path and my legs did their best to tick over my easiest gear. I watched the riders disappear, and I suffered.

It was not the hardest climb I have ever done. It was not the longest, or the steepest. It was not the loneliest and it was not the most depressing. It just was. It was a mountain, it was in my way, and I had to go over it.

So, yeah, I was dropped. I don't really feel like writing about this anymore. Does it really matter?