Slim in Italia

A day in Parma

2011-05-21T03:32:00.001+02:00

Ale Jet... after 27 Giro wins you are allowed to be called Ale Jet. Petacchi holds off Cavendish and takes the win for Lampre at Parma.

Cavendish seems happy enough with second place. A picture says a thousand words, but its the rest of the story that it misses; Cavendish was not so happy and 100 metres after the line where we were standing he was accusing Petacchi of not riding a straight line.

Di Luca looks nothing less than brilliant on a bike. Sure he failed a test and has been suspended but now he's back. Many don't like that fact, but the Italian tifosi seem to care little about that and I am with them.

The guy in the suit behind him is the owner of Lampre, Mario Galbusera. He seems like a real enthusiast sitting in the team bus watching the stage, I get the feeling he sponsors the team out of passion rather than solely for marketing gains, perfect.

Lampre. They have had some troubled times as a team of late, but they are still dead flash at the finish line.

PRO starts young

2010-12-02T12:06:00.002+01:00

I was 11 when I rode across town to my first bike race. By my second or third start I had won my first race, but to me a win on handicap was not the real thing.

Felix is 13 and got to start his cycling career in Italy. Three seasons later he has one win to his palmares.

Racing in Italy, he will never understand the tactics of riding as a scratch rider in a handicap race on a bleak and wind swept Wellington day. Instead he will understand the dynamic of riding in the group with 60 to 100 other 13 year olds. Felix will have a baptism by fire in comparison. He will not thumb through magazines to get a glimpse of the sport at its pinnacle and lie in bed at night dreaming of the greatest bike races on earth.

At 13 I dreamed of the Classic's, the Grand Tours and the stars. At 13 he has been fortunate enough to stand on top of the Poggio as the Milan San Remo passed, watch stages of the Giro d'Italia, see Cadel Evans snap the legs off the field and ride away to win the World Championships. Six day racing, World Cup Cyclo Cross, at 13 he's seen much I dreamed of.

He understands PRO, how to look on the start line. That his handle bar tape must be clean and color co ordinated with his bike, that his sock height must be just right, and that greasy chain ring marks on his calves are definitely not PRO. He understands that there are bike riders and then there are bike riders, its more than just pedaling, it's how you pedal.

On Sundays he climbs into his team van at the front gate and goes one way, and I the other way to my own race. I hope that he has a great day, snaps some legs and comes home satisfied. I hope his satisfaction will evolve into a love for the bike race, a love born from the purity of the sport, the highs and the lows, the days of good legs and bad legs, of great races and great moments, that he experiences and sees it through his own eyes, and not through the eyes of his father.

Seeing him start to look PRO in his own adolescent way makes me green with envy. He knows Zipps from Lightweights, Schleck from Contador and can spot PRO at a glance. Maybe like many young riders he will find the commitment cycling requires too hard and decide to chase girls instead. After all, who would blame him for that, especially growing up around Italian girls? Or perhaps he will go somewhere with the sport.

Nevertheless I wish my start came with the opportunities that he considers to be the norm, and at 13 I understood PRO.

A Lombardian Summer

2010-09-15T13:47:00.000+02:00

The sun shone throughout the season and suddenly it was September with four weeks of racing remaining.

My palmares for the season was looking reasonable, 3 wins, 3 second places and 7 thirds amongst numerous top ten finishes.

The highlight had been finishing third in the Lombardian Championata. But then there were the disappointments. The Italian Championships, 25th. Despite crashing, then going over the top of the final climb in a break of 6, the finale did just not pan out. The European Championships, 15th and a truely dismal day at the World Championships when the 40 plus degrees had me on the ropes all day. I had hoped for more in these three coveted races that I had based my season around, but it was not to be.

In February we had started racing when the snow had only just melted from the ground and the skies were still grey. In June, July and August the temperatures were searing hot and the the skies blue, there just never seemed to be enough bidons as we raced through the feed zones week after week. Now in September the leaves were beginning to turn yellow, signally the season would soon come to an end.

It was a testament to the quality of the racing here in Italy, as after 40 odd starts I still remained motivated for the final weeks of a long year and with good form I was still hungry for that final win.

Going for Groceries

2010-03-28T12:27:00.008+02:00

It's easy to understand why motor racing is such a glamour sport, fast cars and courageous men have long attracted glamourous women.

The bike race, now is that a glamourous sport?

Sure Lance Armstrong dated Sheryl Crow, but do rock and roll country and western singers count as glamourous, now that's debatable in my book.

Cycle racing is no such sport, it's beer and frites at a Belgium Kermesse, it's the peloton strung out in the gutter in the cross wind in Holland, cobbles and rain in northern France, cracking on a mountain climb in the searing heat, so many solitary training miles year after year. Glamour, we chose the wrong sport.

Those countries that are endeared by the love of the sport and hold cycling closest to their hearts, Italy, Belgium, Holland, France and others, have such devoted fans that not even doping scandals dilute their thirst for the sport.

Divided by languages and cultures, even by the style of races they host, the fans are united, they are united by their love of the sport, and in many cases they are working class people.

Perhaps the working class can relate to the 'hard graft' of the bike race, equating that grafting to their everyday lives, factory floors, blue collar work, contented, but hardly glamourous. No holidaying in 5 star resorts on the Riviera this year darling.

Here in Italia it seems little different, wander around the start line and as glamourous as it gets may be a glance of the rather attractive Elisa Basso, Italian star rider, Ivan's sister.

When you stand atop the podium, one hand will hold the bouquet of flowers, and in the other hand will be the bag of groceries awarded to the top 10 finishers that day.

Return home to put food on the table, it doesn't get more working class than that...

2nd at Trezzano Rosa after a wet and cold 100km.

Chapeau Franco

2010-02-11T09:53:00.005+01:00

As I flicked on the TV to an ESPN classic program the Sunday before last, little did I think the week following I would hear the tragic news that the great champion, Franco Ballerini had been killed in a motorsport accident.

There I am watching the 1993 Paris Roubaix, the famous Hell of the North, the queen of the classics one day race.

It's something like 30km to go, when Franco Ballerini launches a devastating attack, so hard does he attack, that he is matched only by the Frenchman Gilbert Duclos-Lassalle, a previous winner of the race a year earlier. Duclos-Lassalle is on the edge of his seat, grimily hanging onto Ballerini's back wheel for all he is worth, as they race through the dust and cobbles. Franco has the screw turned right up.

Through the final pave' sections they go, Ballerini is a train, Duclos-Lassalle can not take a turn off him and more than once I thought he would crack and leave Franco alone on his quest to victory at the legendary finish on Roubaix's velodrome. At almost 39 years of age the wily Duclos-Lassalle digs so deep to stay with the Italian, maybe on a handful of occasions does he hit the front, feel the breeze on his face and let the great Franco rest his legs for a moment.

Inside the final 3 km and Franco still has the hammer down despite a 2 minute and 9 second margin back to the chasers.

Only inside the closing kilometers of this monumental 260km race does Franco ease up and ask Duclos to take the front, but no, the Frenchman is not interested in riding into Roubaix with any integrity. Two, three times, Franco asks Duclos-Lassalle to take the front, but he continues to show his disinterest, and they turn onto the velodrome with some 500 metres to go.

It's such a classic strongmans sprint finish. So close that initially Ballerini thinks he has taken the win to add to his palmares, but no, Duclos-Lassalle is declared the winner in the photo finish result. There he is, smiles before the cameras, winners bouquet, wife and children by his side. At that moment I guess poor Franco has his head hung low, feeling the crush of bitter disappointment as he heads towards the showers.

Franco's robbed, and from that moment on my respect for Duclos-Lassalle turning it up to win Roubaix at 38 years of age is gone, hero to villain 17 years later.

And then Franco is gone, Italian cycling looses its charismatic national team manager to a tragic accident.

'Chapeau Franco' the French should be saying, as the rest of us already have our hats off and our heads bowed.

Saronni, Ballan and I

2010-01-10T04:22:00.010+01:00

Rumor has it that it was Aldo Colombo that nurtured the career of the great Giuseppe Saronni. World Champion in 1982, winner of the Giro d'Italia in 1979 and again in '83 read just a few lines of Saronni's extensive palmares.

Giuseppe Saronni was an Italian legend in a time of great rivalry with Francesco Moser, a rivalry that echoed the famous duels of Fausto Coppi and Gino Bartali in the 1960's. Every great champion needs a mentor, and Aldo was that man for Saronni. This was of little surprise to me as both these great men are, as the Italians would say, 'Molto Gentile'.

To translate, 'Molto Gentile' is to describe these two men as kind, gentle and humble men. Saronni clearly has great respect for Aldo, as each year they travel together following the Giro d'Italia and Lampre, the professional team of which Saronni is Director Sportif. Given this bond between Aldo and Saronni there is little wonder that the Lampre pro team and my squad, Ceramiche Lemer are closely aligned, as Aldo's son Mario is my Director Sportif.

So when Aldo telephones me at home, I know something big is in the pipeline.

The 2008 World Champion Alessandro Ballan is leaving Lampre for what he believes will be bigger fish at Team BMC. BMC are boosting there standing in professional cycling with some high profile signings for 2010. Ballan, Cadel Evans, the current World Champion and Lance Armstrong's former right hand man George Hincapie will head the BMC roster.

It seemed Ballan's departure from Lampre was to be my good fortune.

Ballan and I had something in common. Unfortunately I did not share his talent nor ability, but we did have one thing in common none the less, and that was height. Aldo thought that Ballan's race bike might be suitable for me for the coming season. Suitable, very suitable, I would have thought!

Waiting at the gate outside Lampre headquarters was Aldo and I was ushered in. There it was, Ballan's '09 race bike, painted in the special paint finish that signified his World Championship race victory in Varese, September of 2008. Bellisimo.

A few adjustments were made, and soon I was sitting comfortably astride a very special bike that I would ride in 2010. In a brief moment I had quickly forgotten all the races where I had given more than my sole for the team. At 47 years old, I had turned myself inside out most weeks for the squadra, and now a new race bike for 2010, and not just any race bike. Brilliant.

Here in Italy you can't just collect your new race bike without staying for lunch, what good is a new bike on an empty stomach? So there I am, lunch with Aldo and the legendary Saronni, some days just don't come much better that.

Aldo Colombo, mentor of Giuseppe Saronni...

Racing in Italia

2009-10-20T13:04:00.005+02:00

Lombardia could arguably be considered as the epicentre of amateur cycle racing worldwide, and if you happened to be a sprinter there was nothing more in the world you could wish for. Here the roads were paved in gold, the sun shone all season long, and week after week 100 plus bike riders would be on the start line beside me, yes the land of milk and honey.

Last season I had raced, but after signing for Ceramica Lemer for the 2009 season, I didn’t race, I really raced. Ceramica Lemer was based in Buscate, home of the legendary Giuseppe Saronni, the 1982 World professional road champion, but other than this fact, Buscate seemed to have little else going for it.

From March through to October I would spend every Sunday driving across Milan to race on this side of the city, here the racing was far more intense and the fields were far larger than I had been used to last season, where I had raced closer to our home in Crema.

Living here in Italy, my heritage laid claim to the Italian blood that flowed through my veins, but it seemed that there could be no claim to Lombardian sprinters blood. Fast twitch fibers it seemed were not part of my genetic make up, and this made Lombardia a very very difficult place to race.

My Italian language skills were coming together as slowly as my sprint, however I quickly learned a few vital words, Fuga; there never was one, Volata; there always was one, and Gregario; I would quickly become one.

Fuga; The Breakaway.

The only chance I had in this sprinters paradise was to get into a breakaway and hope that break away would succeed. That required a 100 percent effort, not only by me, but also by my break away companions. Too many times the breakaway would fail through a frustrating lack of co operation within the group, or worse we would be caught within kilometers of the finish, 5km to go in Galliate, 1km from the line in Liscate and finally in Corbetta we succeeded, however my better judgement was clouded by my enthusiasm and I crossed the line 7th.

Volata; The Sprint.

Lombardia must be the home of the sprinter, here they are fast, they are fearless and they are very good. Given that all the crack teams have at least one crack sprinter, it is in the interests of most teams to chase down the fuga so the finale would end in a volata. Francesco Gionfredo, former World Champion and hell sprinter, Frank was good, very good and when it came to the volata he was king, come August he had notched up 11 wins and 9 second places.

Gregario; or as the French say Domestique.

The gregario is the guy that goes to the front of the race and rides as hard as he can to bring back the fuga, so it ends in another bloody Volata.

Frank was our Capo and it was my job to make sure if I wasn't in the fuga, there sure as hell wasn't one come a kilometer to go leading into the volata. Only then my work as a gregario was done for the day.

Sunday's in Italia, what a brilliant time of the week, and whats more if we still had the legs after racing on a Sunday we could race again on Monday.

Despite the fact at 47 I was unlikely to ever become a sprinter, Italia was one hell of a place to live and race.

A new season beckons

2009-02-11T10:56:00.015+01:00

The season rolled to a close here in the land of milk and honey. After a fantastic mid season, the final two races were just horrible. Broken spokes, bunch sprints of 100 up, and crashes; I just wanted that season to finally end.

I was a broken man, the season had been long and hard and my first maintaining that sort of intensity in a long long time.

My intention had been to pack up for the year a fortnight earlier, however I was just desperate to find a new ride for 2009. Team Aker, the glamour boys of the Lombardian plains were showing moderate, if slightly disinterested interest. They were cool, so cool, that they strutted around race sign on each week. Angelo Denti was there star, and he had even started to acknowledge me after I had finished in the breakaway with him several times. This was the team for me, and my sources, Guiseppe, had told me Angelo was keen to ride with me.

The last race of the year, we cornered Angelo in the bar and over post race espresso exchanged telephone numbers. He would talk with Mr Beschi, Aker Team manager.

Also in the bar in Castel Saint Angelo that afternoon, was Mr Gianfredo, and he sought us out, Felix, Nicky and my ever faithful team manager,Guiseppe. Mr Gianfredo and team Lamer Ceramiche wanted me in 2009. Perhaps it was just vanity, but I could see myself in that white Aker kit. Angelo and I; we could strut together.

For my own piece of mind I wanted this tidied up before I left for New Zealand in a fortnights time. Guiseppe finally tracked down the elusive Mr Beschi, Aker team manager, at his home in Brescia. Well it turned out that bastard Beschi didn't want me for 2009. There would be not strutting with Angelo next summer, Aker would be kicking sand in my face instead.

Mr Francesco Gianfredo. There was something about this little rider from Paullo, he had the confidence of a champion and immediatley put things into place for 2009. I was in, and as soon as I returned from New Zealand he would organise a meeting with Mario, team manager of Ceramiche Lemer.

Well these boys turned out to be dead PRO, from the first night dinner meeting in their local trattoria, to the delivery of my perfectly fitting Nalini team kit. Mario had it all in hand.

I attended the Lemer team presentation for 2009, with my ever faithful 11 year old interpreter at my side, I shook hands with the legendary Guiseppe Saronni on the stage while being presented as the new rider for the forth coming season, all of a sudden those bastards down at Aker didn't look so bloody smart after all.

Francesco Gianfredo, the quiet man from Paullo had reason to be so confident, my new team mate had been the amateur veteran world champion in 2007 and had 17 wins to his palmares for 2008.

If there was sand to be kicked this summer, it was Frank and I that would be doing the kicking.

The Good Madonna sends help

2008-10-07T10:27:00.011+02:00

After my 26 year hiatus from racing in Italia, and my season opener back in May in Robbeco d’ Oligi, I quietly put my tail between my legs and headed home to Crema.

Week after week I fronted up amongst the glamour boys of Northern Italian cycling desperately trying to carve out a name for myself. Each week they slapped me around the ears, kicked my ass and sent me home, my head hanging lower than a scolded dog.

Yep, it was going to be a long season, and with each start I was becoming more and more dejected.

Lodi, June 2008. It’s unbelievably hot, my fan club of Nicky and Felix has been boosted by the arrival of my Mother. Things are looking up, three supporters this week. I am in great form. I’m ripping the legs off everybody, that is, until I miss the break again. Man, I’ve never missed so many breaks in my life. Week after week, what is it with me. I even thought I was quite good at this bike racing, but now, I think I’ve lost it.

Lodi, June 2008. About 50KM away, in the hills behind Como, the Madonna Ghisallo, the patron saint of cycling, clearly heard my cries of anguish and decided to answer my calls. The good Madonna sent help, the good Madonna sent Giuseppe from Capergnanica.

Giuseppe, 78 years old, on the bike every day, more wires coming out of his chest than the Terminator, after his recent heart attack, strode into Lodi. Giuseppe from Capergnanica looked doubt in the eye and sent it packing.

Now given my spate of average performances, Giuseppe could see something that I was beginning to doubt, existed any longer.

So, now it’s the that guy from New Zealand that keeps missing the breaks, with his 78 year old Director Sportif. Yeah the circus is coming to town.

Our act is all set for centre stage in the big top after the August vacation, yeah they’re going to laugh us out of town again, alright.

Ombriano is my first race back, Giuseppe’s there waiting when I arrive. It was fine disappointing myself, but now I’m about to disappoint an old man as well, yep its getting better and better. Well bugger me, I’m in the break and we don’t get caught. I get 6th. Giuseppe’s ecstatic and I’m introduced to every old boy at the finish line. Yeah, I’m the new guy in town. I even get my post race Coke and espresso chaser paid for in the bar, this is more like it.

Pianengo; Now I’m the break again, this time with my new idol, Angelo Denti, a power house of Italian racing. Today I’m suffering like a dog. Angelo is putting me under so much pressure I crack like a plate at a Greek wedding. Back into the bunch, yep that scolded dog is back in town, head hung low.

But giving up is for sissies, so two laps later, I’m in another move and bugger me, we are catching the front group and smug old Angelo. 8th, good old Giuseppe’s as pleased as punch. Me, I’m just trashed.

Bertonico; Monday afternoon, I deserve a half day to go racing. Everbody deserves a half day to go racing when they live in Italy, or so it seems, as there are about 80 on the start line. I’m on fire, in the break again and we stay away. I can only manage 4th. I’m estatic, Giuseppe’s estatic. Not the podium, but I’m on a roll and with every race I’m more and more confident.

Saturday, Mullazzano. In the way home in the car, all Giuseppe has to say is Madonna, Madonna, over and over again, clearly my placing did not please him. Today you should have won he tells me. 5th I was quite happy, not my Director Sportif though. In order to placate him, I tell him I’ll race again, tomorrow. We’ll win tomorrow I tell him, Madonna, Madonna..

Forty Six years old, and I’m racing back to back days. After I drop Giuseppe off the whole idea is starting to sound incredibly stupid. Bike racers can’t just call in sick, it’s a hard mans sport, you crash you get up. A couple of quite hail mary’s to the good Madonna is what's needed here.

Sunday, Barbata. I pull into town and it’s seething bike racers, the circuits 7km in length, 10 laps. Great, just what tired legs need, is a short tight course, it’s going to hurt today.

Two laps into it, I jump across to a small group that’s just off the front. We really drive it, 7 of us, I’m feeling pretty good all in all.

The bunch aren’t letting up, and through the corners I look back to see them strung right out in the gutter…sure sign they’re chasing hard. I’d say we’ve got 15 seconds, you can almost feel their breath on the hairs on the back of your neck. Bastards, we aren’t going down without a fight.

Two to go and we’ve started to crack them, we’re out to 20 odd seconds.

Well bugger me, I’ve won the bastard.

Well it took a 78 year old man, before I managed to get it right, yes the good Madonna’s a powerful woman.

Slim.

Why Italia produces World Champions

2008-10-05T11:15:00.020+02:00

My fascination with this subject began many years ago.

At 11 years of age, I would thumb through copies of International Cycle Sport, the glossy English magazine that had more attraction than a Playboy magazine in those days.

The centre fold would inevitably be of the current Italian superstar resplendent in his Rainbow jersey as Champion of the World.

In 1982 after crashing and then pulling out of the amateur road race at the World Championships in Goodwood, England, I watched Beppe Sarroni storm up the final climb that was my demise, to become World Champion and pull on the converted Rainbow jersey that he would wear all year. What’s worse, he made it look so easy and for the following season, he rode through the peloton looking like he was wearing Armani.

The Cricket, Paolo Bettini, back to back wins, back to back wins, can you imagine how difficult that must be. Sure Armstrong won 7 tours in a row, but he had a month of racing to get it right before crossing the finish line in Paris, Paulo had just 7 odd hours to perfect his trade and he has managed it twice.

Now I’m 45 and Felix is 11. He’s not so keen on Bettini, thinks that Tornado Tom Boonen looked better in the Rainbow jersey, but he now has his chance in the Italian sun.

His new Celeste Bianchi, and white Sidi shoes have pride of place in his bedroom, his racing licence is authentic, issued by the Italian Federation and the Cremasco Squadra have his training schedule mapped out.

Tuesday evening, we rode down to the industrial zone for his debut training session, arriving a little after starting time.

The perfect evening, 34 degrees, and not a breath of wind, the only noise was the buzz of a motor scooter coming down the road towards us, and sitting comfortably in its draft were 15 odd budding Bettini’s aged 9 to 13, all lapping it out behind the scooter, round and round the block. Unfortunately the scooter was too fast for the other 15, who were aged from 5 years up, and they sat behind an older rider, round and round the industrial estate each pedal revolution inching them closer to the rainbow jersey and the centre pages of International Cycle Sport.

The commitment to the development of young riders in Italy should be closely watched by many developing cycling nations. New Zealand’s national team often get a big slice of the sporting funds, come grants time, but what is being done to foster young talent.

Crema population 35,000 has a major youth development programme, and each weekend there is a race on with up to 100 starters in all grades in the greater region. The lyrca is all brand new and ablaze with sponsors names, as the club supplies the total package including helmet and shoes.

Should you want it, the bike is also available free of charge. My sponsor, back in the International Cycle Sport days were poor Antonio and Helen, and every punctured tubular bought tears to their eyes I’m sure, not mention the smashed wheels and frames.

I got Felix settled in behind the scooter and a lap later he had that grin so big that he should have been standing in the top step of the podium, arms held high wearing the Rainbow jersey.

After 15 years of marriage, Nicky thought her days of hearing about, dropping him, attacking him, big ring this, Bora wheels that, were coming to an end, but now Felix rides through the door Tuesday and Thursday nights with a new vocabulary derived from the language of a generation of future World Champions.

Its little wonder Paolo managed the double.

Slim.

26 years later

2008-10-04T16:56:00.016+02:00

Well 26 years after last racing in the fabled land of Italia, I was back…

26 years ago, 26 years ago, yep the older I get, the better I was, that’s for sure.

Robbeco d’ Oligio, is in the vast expanse of flat in northern Italy, known as the Po valley. Today was an early season race of around 60km, my grade, Veteran and the grade above called Gentlemen.

I arrived to register at midday in the local bar, and while drinking espresso, I noted that they mostly looked like a bunch of punters and perhaps this was going to be a complete waste of an afternoon, and the local trattoria, a plate of Gnocchi and mezzo litro of vino rosso was starting to look like a much better bet.

The rain began to clear as I left the sanctuary of the bar and the espresso machine, and through the rising gloom the team cars were starting to pull into town.

As a bunch of mature riders in New Zealand, I thought we looked pretty good, flash bikes, nice kit, a little definition through the legs, all the prerequisites to say that we were ok in our day, and now we were old and flash, but still not too shabby all the same.

Well, veteran racing in Lombardia makes the Protour scene look like a PNP race on the coast road of Wainuiomata. These boys are flash, bikes, team kit, and tans that were not to be had in Lombardia in the last 3 months that’s for sure.

Nic and Felix kept reassuring me that I also was looking pretty dam sharp in my R+R / Immigrants Son kit, but it was starting to get daunting with the arrival of every new team car.

With a brave face I lined up for our 4 lap race amongst the motor cycle cavalcade, the team cars, ambulances, horns and sirens.

The roads were starting to dry as the flag dropped, and sitting in the bunch we quickly moved out of town and into the 4 metre, wide winding country road at a comfortable 45 to 48kph.

Now the field was about 80 strong, and on these narrow roads, I was trying to move up through the bunch to no avail. The first complete lap I fought to hold my position of about 69th in the bunch, cursing and swearing under my breath, that now I was performing like the punter, as the real racing was going on about 60 riders ahead of me.

Finally I managed to fight my way to the front, and settled the lone team rider of Robertson & Robertson Consultants in with the flashest of team jerseys. For two laps we hammered it out, and with each move off the front, I realised how pointless it was to try and go up the road, but never the less I kept trying.

After what seemed like only minutes, the lead out trains were getting formed and poor old Slim, without a team was getting bashed around like a third former on the college bus.

With about 1500 to go, my lead out wheel faded and I sat up, just as the barging and pushing was reaching Pakistani rioting proportions.

The inevitable was going to happen and it did, 10 or so of the big boys came down and there were bikes going everywhere. I had almost managed to sneak through, when a big sprinter type, lay across the road trying to slow my approach to the line….

Well, I climbed back on, got back off, put my chain back on and rode back into the finish, yep, 26 years later it hadn’t got any easier.

Next Sunday can’t come soon enough, cause I’m feeling like after the last 26 years my craft ain’t as sharp as it used to be and if you think I’m going out without getting close to sniffing the win, you must have been riding with Slim for the last 26 years with your eyes closed.

Slim.