The weekend.

Some of it, I realise now, was wonderfully fun. Possibly more fun than I even realised at the time. Much of it was surreal. Some things....


I don't think I ever again need to experience the feel of titanium screws under human flesh.

Doing a faire in bare feet is another new experience, but one I will remember far more fondly.

No matter how appealing barbecued ribs may sound, they cannot reasonably be considered wise in my line of work. At all.

There is an almost limitless number of emotions one person can feel at one time. Sometimes the sweetest thing can be the most bitter.

Wildwood cops are cute.

I finally have a glorious new leather cavalier hat to replace the one that disappeared ten years ago. It will cause me immense happiness and fairly grey, sad wistfulness every time I look at it.

The major downside to hats is that people who see you in it will only recognise you when you're wearing it. People who see you without it will only recognise you when you're not. People who see your hat on someone else will think that someone is you.

In addition to never understanding some men, there are some women I will never comprehend, either.

It's probably wise to avoid doing new things with someone who makes you sad, as it takes extra effort to make those new things happy later on.

How bad a sunscreen tastes is no guarantee of its effectiveness. You cannot gauge a sunscreen's SPF by taste.

Good friends come to visit you at faire. Great friends drive you home afterwards.

I am an immense, elitist snob. I also take a very-nearly childlike delight in looking at carousels, even when they're fiberglass imitations.

Edna St. Vincent Millay has a sonnet for just about everything.

I will probably never meet David Zabriskie, who, 51 minutes down, very sadly dropped out of the Tour today. But if I ever do, I'm going to kiss him.

Sense-of-humour compatibility is almost as important-- if not more so-- than sexual compatibility. Having both is a pretty sweet deal.

There are always going to be days when inanimate objects hate you. Get used to it. Then beat the crap out of them.

A new corset is a most salutary cure for many ills.




More later, perhaps. Once I figure out what happened, and what I can share.

Controlled falling.

First major mountain of the Tour today-- over 6,000 meters. Then they do it all again up Courchevel to the finish. In between, though, I'm watching the descent: 100 kmph. That's 60mph for us. These men are half off their seats, crouched down with their noses below their handlebars, tucked in to be as aerodynamic as possible. With their hands in the centre of the handlebars, I can't imagine their control is all that great if, G-d forbid, anything should happen. And some of them are pedaling to go even faster.

Another reason I'll be watching from the couch, thank you.

Lance is in third, 2.18 behind the pack. Not that much of a deal. He'll not want to let the yellow jersey-- on Jens Voigt at the moment-- get too far ahead, but he's perfectly content to let someone else carry it.




So, much later, we're now 10k from the end, and I'm realising something: not everything that's hyped to hell and back is ALL hype. I'm watching Lance power up Courchevel with grom-faced, singular determination, and I realise I'm watching one of the greatest athletes of my lifetime. It's not a joke-- this is the longest, most grueling sporting event in the world, and he's won it seven times. It's not just brute strength: it's planning and strategising, and knowing your team, and knowing your competitors. It's knowing when you see someone's muscles twitch, they're just about at the end, and the next attack will leave them behind. It's knowing that this team has a great sprinter, but their climbers can be tempted to overreach and blow out. It's knowing who did well in which race, and who's having a bad season. Yes, this is all stuff your trainer and team talks over thoroughly beforehand, but I can't imagine keeping it all in my head and being able to access and act on it instantly.



Alejandro Valverde wound up winning the stage, but by inches. He and Lance were the only ones at the line. Lance had long since won by time, and seemed to let the other rider go at the last. "No, no, you go on. I'll just take this yellow jersey, thanks."




More mountains tomorrow. Man, those fans up there are CRAZY. Out of their minds crazy. I love them-- even when I want to beat them for closing in on the riders like seaweed over a fish.