Le Velo Hangover

The 2007 Tour “DAY” France finished up yesterday, and now I face the torture of post-Tour hangover.

This years’ race was once again marred by doping issues, and it really started to take its toll on how I watched the daily summaries. I mean, what counts as a “phenomenal feat” anymore these days, without bringing in the doping question?

It sucks. You want to believe that amazing things can happen when someone sets their minds to it. I’ve actually done such things myself. But why do we quickly find ourselves not believing?

Rather than expound my foolishness on that topic, I wanted instead to talk about one day. This years’ race had one really exciting day of racing. Although, in fact, Saturday’s time trial wasn’t all that exciting except for the end, and the last three riders.

In the late (dope-filled) 1990’s, there was nothing better than watching Marco Pantani beat the pants off his rivals in the mountains. In the early 2000s, I often wondered when Lance would make his move – when he did, it was always dramatic.

Lance changed the Tour de France. He made it more meticulous and frankly, less fun. Believe me, I admire his accomplishments, but I wish the race wouldn’t be so predictable these days.

It’s true, this was the first year that I couldn’t put together a top ten prediction list, and as it turned out, I was 100% correct – because there was no way you could have predicted the overall outcome.

Le Tour used to get me psyched to do a training ride. But now, the drama takes a lot of that excitement away.

So Sheryl and I look elsewhere for that rush to ride and the psyche to cycle… we found nirvana.

Nirvana, thy name is the Mike Walden Velodrome at Bloomer Park.

The thunder-like rumble of the track gets our pulse racing before we even see the riders pedaling in circles.

Sitting under the warm summer evening sky, while watching single gear Madison racing is completely inspiring. And the family-like atmosphere keeps us going back.

Watching 19-year-old Luke Cavendar beat everyone like they are sitting still gives us reason to think that we may be watching a neo-pro.

And though Sheryl and I narrowly missed our chances at Olympic dreams (okay, our chances were more than narrowly missed), we can hope and wonder that the kid who inspires us on our weekend rides, might be a gold medal winner lying in wait.

Come on out to Bloomer any Friday night, and chances are you will see Sheryl and I smiling dumbly, cheering on the riders – clapping and sipping our homemade hangover remedies.

Sunrise sunlight
Warm my sleeping face
Through the window of my room
Through the window of clouds

Sunrise sunlight
Warm my sleepy heart
Radiate my soul
Radiate my world

Sunrise sunlight
Warm my fingers and hands
Wake their healing power
Wake their compassion

Sunrise sunlight
Warm my sleeping face
Grace my lips
Grace my words

For some weird reason, I have been repeatedly reminded lately of my childhood summers.

Particularly, I’ve been fondly reminiscing about going to visit Auntie Aggie and Uncle Phil.

Auntie Aggie was my grandmother’s sister. Like my grandma, Auntie Aggie was a tough broad. I adored her, like I adored my grandmother.

During the summer, when I was a wee laddie, I recall my mom, my grandma and I going to Auntie Aggie’s house.

As much as I adored my Auntie Aggie, Uncle Phil was a pretty cool dude. He would do stuff with me, while letting the women-folk gossip and such in the house.

Sometimes, we would go out to the old-smelling, wooden garage and build stuff. I would hammer boards together in the most awful manner and Uncle Phil would call it a masterpiece.

Sometimes, we would walk to the neighborhood park and mess around there.

Uncle Phil was my buddy.

And now, as I get older, my memories become fonder each passing summer.

I told Sheryl that I always thought I would die of a heart attack. But while reminiscing about my childhood summers, I realized that that may not be true.

The neighborhood kids and I played a lot during the summer. We were outside almost all of the time. It was never too hot.

And we played baseball like it was going out of style.

I played tee-ball and little league. And on off days, we would play at the school baseball diamond.

We would play until it was either dark, or until mom called us in.

Being a big kid, my knees always hurt me by the end of the day. They used to hurt so bad, that I would sometimes be in tears once I finally sat down for the night.

But my desire to play… play baseball, play with my friends… my heart… was always bigger than pain. Bigger than my knees.

And so, I am re-thinking the heart attack thing.

Is it possible to die from playing too much?