(picture taken after a ride where I ate something with a lot of jam)
It’s 11:44 PM on Wednesday as I begin writing this. At last I’ve reached my final destination after being on the road since Sunday afternoon in Walla Walla, Washington. I’m precisely around about 7,000 miles away up in the mountains in Pinos Altos, New Mexico above Silver City, the host town of the Tour of the Gila. It’s been a long voyage. The same voyage the pilgrims made long, long ago to reach the sacred hematecrit-boosting mountain air needed to acclimate for a workweek-long stage race at altitude. And like the pilgrims, I had plenty of help along the way from natives—to whom I probably passed on a cold virus, from which they’ll likely die.
Sunday: The first step of my journey was the easiest. Walla Walla to Boise. Luckily my teammate…
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