Monday, February 27, 2012

Who me...Lance...?

Well, it happened again. FINALLY. It has been so long since anyone has mistaken me for Lance Armstrong while riding out on the road, that I was beginning to think I had lost form, and that even the most idiotic of delusional drivers no longer classified me as a member of that urban-mythical group of Lance-wannabes. Then again, since this particular driver and his genius of a passenger were seated in one of those unnecessarily large vehicles, burning $5.00 of unleaded with every slight depression of the pedal, and the fact that they burned twice that as they gunned the engine and raced off down a side street well over the speed limit, did not leave me with much faith that they were bright enough to make an accurate determination as to whether or not I was in fact a Lance-calibre rider.

Of course maybe, since I was not riding solo at the time, that brain-trust wasn't even talking about me. Maybe the commentary was directed at Jason. Oh, those nagging doubts. I believe the saying goes that you don't have to worry until they stop talking about you. Turning that around, do you need to start worrying if they stop comparing you to Lance?

1 comment:

  1. It must have been the tights.

    That dude looked like a grown man and I was wondering to myself why a grown man would act so child-like.

    Anyhow, that's a great compliment.


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