Heading Westward

Somewhere in between the coffee shop and 9500 feet, I lost all feeling in my toes. The ride is no longer a ride but a mission. The conversations quickly switch from talk of training camps to complete silence...



And somehow your teeth always appear whiter after a face full of dirt



We are in the middle of no where but somehow still manage to run into 10 of our closest friends.



Back on the bike path I ran into Bama, outfitted in carharts, workboots, and a sweet argile sweater,was kind enough to remind me that I still don'’t have any skills.....Or style.



Fred on the other hand, has more style than he knows what to do with.