The course as measured on my dad's bicycle computer ran only 97-miles, but because I'm a spaz I inadvertently rode the wrong direction for four miles, for a total of eight extra miles, which turned out perfect because I would have been pissed to not be able to say I'd ridden 100+ miles. You see us here at Christian Michael's fine establishment in Chico. Food was good but the service was weird, but what does one expect from the number one party college town in the country, and what's a little (ha ha) coke between waitstaff anyway?
Temperature ran into the low 90s(F), such that when I reached the top of Table Mountain my dad and Quintan were ready to send me to the medical technicians, not realizing that I look like that at regular weekday intervals. The riders were mostly friendly, and the 100-miles blew by quick enough (9 long hours). Home stretch down frat row, always good for a smile. So let's ride, or die, to hell and back, with goofy grins and devil-may-care attitudes.
"Dark as the night
You're still by my side
Shining side
Gone are the days we stopped to decide
Where we should go
We just ride
Gone are the broken eyes we saw through in dreams
Gone - both dream and lie
Life may be sweeter for this I don't know
Feels like it might be alright."
--from Crazy Fingers, Words by Robert Hunter; music by Jerry Garcia
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