Three days before my birthday [I am now officially 70 years younger than the Tour de France], I only managed a scant 30 miles.
But there was a little over 3700ft of climbing, which included one of my most favorite passes. I even took a few of you there with me, breaking up the cathartic quiet with mental images of a Rosko, a Parlee, and a super fast Ridley.
As a woman, I suppose I should have been riding 100 miles or 100 km on Sunday, but a haircut and color [you can't tell but it's a dark, dark brown] seemed more pressing. Because you can’t turn 30 with bad hair [but sweaty eyeliner is perfectly acceptable].
More words soon.