This is truly rider 2. Known to some (very few) as "Quicksilver". I am neither quick or silver. I am though the eldest of the Team Two Wheelers. First things first I would like to thank my ghost writer for filling in for me. My lack of effort in posting is due to nothing better than laziness. I have composed many blogs in my head while riding to and from work in the bitter cold and the pissing hand freezing rain. By the time I get home all is lost after feeding the dogs, chatting with the spousal unit before she goes to work, making dinner for the soon nest fleeing son and myself, doing the dishes and showering the days work off my ass. I am sure by now your saying "Boo-hoo for rider 2". I hear ya. There is no room for self pity in the cycling world. Suffering, sacrifice, self motivation, perseverance that is what its all about.
My objective is to capture what I think the true essence of this beloved sport. The sport I have lived and breathed for over half my life. I am going to bore you with a little history of how and why I love cycling so much. When I was 2 years old my parents like most bought me a tricycle. I don't remember much about the early years so I am relying on my parents to embellish... I mean fill in the blanks. Apparently, during Easter of '65 I was more interested in the pedaling action than collecting colored oval shaped objects that smelled of something I have left in my shorts two hours previously. My oldest cousin at the age of 16 noticed my lack of participation in the pagan ritual and ask if he could assist me in achieving the speed that I so desired. I politely shook my head yes with a big ass grin and he placed his adolescent hands on my back. I was preparing for warp speed by tucking low, clinching teeth, and peering my eyes just over my chromed handle bars. On my command he began to push me as fast as his 6 foot frame could go. After what seem to be a mile to a 2 year old he gave his last ditch effort of acceleration and
extended his arm. This felt like what later in my life my father the fighter pilot would describe to me as a after-burner kick in a F-101 fighter. Realizing of course as a submissive child that I was rapidly approaching the border of forbidden territory on a tricycle I made a abrupt left turn. The laws of physics were not establish in my young mind so you can only imagine what happened next. So, after many minutes of sobbing and a few kisses from Mom I was okay. The road rash I had sustained on my face was merely an improvement according to my siblings. As legend has it I was back in the saddle before the tears had dried. My Mother has a picture to document the event with me standing in the front lawn holding an empty Easter basket and sporting my rode rash. And so it began.............