Sitting on Mark’s bench, having just snapped this pic back up the hill. I looove this time of day….the breath-holding moment of this picture.

I’m hearing occasional fireworks off in the distance. Pop up storms about 5:30 almost convinced me not to come out here. So glad I didn’t give into fear. Time and time again, that’s the lesson life gives me, you know?

One final story from just now. And it’s a story that’s happened several times over the years…maybe three times to one extent or another.

A guy maybe ten/fifteen years younger than me was stopped on the north bridge as I pass him. I passed him and he looked slightly miffed.

A few minutes later, it was clear he’d made it a goal to catch up and pass me. He was clearly huffing and puffing. I let him pass me and didn’t try to catch him.

I knew what was coming, and I knew he did not. A long stretch. Slightly uphill. And…wind.

I switched to an easier gear, and slowly, steadily pushed back toward him. Never saw me coming. I passed him a second time.

I figured that would be it.

But no. Moments later, there he was, pushing with all his might to pass me *again.*

And, again, I let him.

Only this time, he looked over at me as he passed and said “thank you!!!”

Which I took to mean, “thank you for pushing me, old man, but I’ll take it from here…”

But, friends, again I knew what was coming.

A hill, along the side of the Bath House.

I waited for the right moment.

He got to the hill. He slowed to a crawl. He wobbled.

Love him or hate him, one strategic truth Lance Armstrong knew was this: beat people on the hills, and you’ll beat ’em every time.

So, I geared to an easier gear. Breathed deep, passed him easily, this time opening up a lead so huge that I couldn’t even see him behind me.

I never even gave him a sideways glance…and never saw him again.

Take that, youth.

You can kiss my ass.