After a few busy days of kicking ass at work ( 4 new accounts! ), on the road ( pedals to the metal beoyotch! ), and executing elaborate April Fool's pranks ( a "For Sale by Owner" sign in my buddy's front yard! ), I return.
It's absolute and total bullshit that I couldn't sign up for that race, and there were 14 totally perfect good spots wasted on DNF assholes. I could have shown all those butt rags how a real cyclist sprints to the finish. Cobblestones? Hills? Oh please. Save me from all the whining. I would have left that pack in my musky dust.
Honestly, who would enter that race and just decide after a little breezy lap around a flat po-dunk town to just stop and head to the Hardy's instead? Lame-os, that's who.
I am genetically engineered to finish these Crits. It's totally apparent in the few I've done. I mean, I love 'em! Oh, you'll see soon enough. Dark streak of lightning in a hot kit passing your ass at the finish?
Yea, that's me.
So who's getting second?
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