As I was passing you at the forty mile mark the blur induced by our relative speeds made identification of rider a challenge but I suspected it was indeed you due to 1) the tell-tale outdated paint scheme of your Madone 2) your prairie dog posture atop your bike, and 3) the tell-tale drip of sweat that seems to be ever-present at the tip of your nose like fake frost spray painted on a cheap Christmas tree ornament. I am sorry I did not (do not) possess the social grace to slow down and chat about past conquests in Northern Georgia like Mr. Mullens, but my cork brake pads are glazed and tend to squeal upon hard braking like a feral pig at a cheap Chinese restaurant and I did not want to startle
you. At the 70 mile mark I spied you sitting with all your admirers among the gallon jugs of windshield wiper fluid at a gas station looking forlorn and lonely and secretly thought you foolish for not hitting the food stops since as a lawyer in good standing in this great State, I believe it would have been perfectly ethical for you to join the masses at the food stops and again, sit with all of your admirers (in the school mop closet). I trust that your closing comments comparing CFC to tHH is part sour grapes and part ignorance since CFC is a two day event for most of us and tHH is one. I love you Mr. Wilson, so no revenge posting of pics of my ugly mug, please.
P.S. Kenda Janet; sorry the ice machine bothered you. That's what you get for sniping my room like an evil eBay-er counting down the seconds til the last bid.