Post #1 (It's all about the cycling)

For those who said I couldn't do it: I did. So fuck off.

Tuesdays are, without exception, my day off at work. The one that I allowed an exception to this was two weeks ago, to photograph a major forum taking place at the Columbia High School, I immediately started receiving requests from both editor and reporter to do other Tuesday shoots. (The two people who made these requests have subsequently disappeared. Coincidentally, my neighbors' dogs have gained a great deal of weight. Coincidentally.)

Most Tuesdays I do nothing. By nothing I mean that I play video games, burn away hours on the internet, chat with friends, and try to suppress an urge to down several bottles of wine, just to see what happens.

This past Tuesday, however, Lindsey was off work as well. And, since my category in the upcoming Hillsboro Roubaix was filled, I decided to take my girl and my bike to the hometown and ride the course, just to see what all of the fuss is about.

But, as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself...

The Hillsboro Roubaix is an annual cycling race with a 22-mile circuit that snakes through the country roads to the south and west of Hillsboro, Illinois, culminating in a 1/4 mile climb up the tallest hill in the county, a subsequent plummet down the other side of the same hill which leads into a further half mile of brick (!?) streets. Since 2002, it has consistently been named the Hardest Road Ride in the Midwest. (The race also has the honor of being described as the fastest-growing race in the Midwest. Hence the full field in my category.)

"Hardest road ride, huh?" I thought. "Balls. I grew up in that town. Rode my bike everywhere. I'm all over it."

Armed with my Trek 1500, a brand new carbon fiber helmet, a cycling computer and heartrate monitor, stylish white shoes with carbon fiber soles, a cycling jersey with a cow's ass on the back, and a pair of uber-hot cycling shorts, I set out to do just one trip around the 22-mile circuit.

Within two miles, I could feel the pain.

Within another two miles, I was beginning to question whether I was ready for this ride.

By the time I'd reached the 14-mile point, and as I was struggling to maintain 5 mph on a steep hill while dodging the three large hungry dogs intent in sampling the meat from my pumping, blood-engorged calves, I was experiencing very real fear that I wasn't going to complete the course alive. Or, at least, intact.

In the end, I couldn't so much as contemplate the climb up Major Hill. What a killer. Can't wait to try it again.

Only next time, I'm bringing mace. For the fucking dogs.