Bonjour, TBG
It's that time of the year, again. TBG arises before the sun and watches young men flying up and down mountains on quarter inch tires, their knees pumping efficiently, their fans cheering wildly. It's the Tour de France, and he doesn't miss a moment. Do you know a cyclist? Do you know a serious cyclist who has not had an accident? Everyone we know who cycles outside has a story - the road rash kneecap that is permanently freckled with asphalt that cannot be removed, the tire track on her leg from the SUV that crashed into her tandem, 37 stitches repairing a face transformed into hamburger, fractured body parts ranging from the pelvis to the shoulder to the skull, and all those concussions. That's just my immediate family and friends, and I'm sure I've forgotten some of them. Needless to say, TBG doesn't ride outside anymore. We are not looking for any more surgeries, any more rehab, any more blooded people. He misses the speed and the scenery and ...