Tour of California came to Sacramento. It is a pretty whoopety-do bicycle race with international bicyclists that tour all over the world pedaling their little hearts out for hours and hours at a time. If you are interested, Leipheimer won the whole she-bang for his team for the second year in a row, which is pretty extraordinary compared to the pat-on-the-back I give myself for a mere 30 minutes of cardio I eek out every time my jeans get a little extra tight.
I have something of an irrational fear of bicycles. My ultimate nightmare involves my leg or pant leg getting caught in the gears yanking my body forward into a "tasmanian devil" style tumble toward the ground that will last for several yards scraping my body along the asphalt as I go.
My point is: the finish line for this leg of the race was three blocks from my apartment. It was cold and rainy and windy and these guys JAMMED down the street in front of my apartment. Me? I was eating a grilled cheese sandwich while trying to decide between the not so subtle sarcasm of Judge Judy or the street wisdom of Judge Clarence Brown. I couldn't even be bothered to go OUTSIDE to clap or make noise or acknowledge their feat person. Instead I watched from my window and snapped pictures. Here is a picture of the guy in the lead. I waved but he must have been busy. And it is true that these guys travel in packs. Big clumps of the brightest spandex on the market whizzed by my window every few minutes. Click on the picture to see the other guys who decided to GET OFF THEIR BUTTS.