A DAY IN THE LIFE

On the way out to ride on this road, Goldie Hawnda was attacked by a crater-sized pothole. She fought valiantly, but ultimately lost. You simply cannot fight a crater-sized pothole brought to you by the fine folks at the City of Chicago. You cannot fight Pothole City.

Goldie said, "Wearing a spare tire for a car is like wearing the wrong size shoes for a human." I didn't have the heart to tell her the tire didn't match her outfit. (It did nothing for her complexion, either, by the way.)

Her Highness of Cannondale did not get a flat on this 78-degree, sunshiney, make-the-whole-world-yellow day.

OK, I think we all know this picture is merely a gratuitous hot bike picture.

See these two? Don't they look nice? Don't they look like the kind of people who say, "Please," and "Thank you," and hold the door open for you? Well, don't be suckered, people. These two are actually founding members of a rogue band of killer whirleyballers. They have no mercy, these people. They will knock your stick-thingy-whirleyball-tool-thingy while you are trying to make a shot. They will crash into you when you least expect it. They will gloat when they see they are winning 12-2. They will laugh at you when you finally realize that no, you are not playing a friendly game with friends, but you are really fighting for your very soul in a fatal bargain with the devil himself.

Check out this one on the left. He may look like he's thoughtfully contemplating the rules of the game. But he isn't. He's actually plotting his takeover of the whirleyball world. He's actually licking his lips in anticipation of the inevitable quenching of his despotic thirst for power. He is the leader of the rogue band of killer whirleyballers. They call him, "The Basher."

In case anyone cares, I found the end of the interwebnets. I think it could use a bit of landscaping.