Go Dean

My pinot gris-swilling, 400-threat-count-sheet-needing, soaking-tub-loving, privacy hoarding self is going to stumble into the team van tomorrow morning (can you locate the team van in this picture?) at Oh Dark Thirty with Dean, Drew and the team manager, and we will begin to haul ourselves and approximately $30,000 worth of specialty bike equipment down to Carson, California to watch Dean and Norene and the rest of the Rubicon team kick ass at the National Track Cycling Championships.

People laugh when they say I'm riding down in the team van. I understand it has a pretty shady (read smelly) history. I'm sure it has seen things that I would rather not ever see without a cleansing frontal lobotomy. But I want to go. Dean is riding really fast, and barring any unforeseen hip fractures, should do well.

Even though my presence is not exactly an omen of success. Even though I would buy valium out of a grocery cart in front of a pawn shop right now, thinking about the 18-hour drive and subsequent freak-out festival that is watching velodrome cycling. (That would be me freaking out, not the riders. They are usually cool as cucumbers as they donate their skin to the surface of the track.) Oh, and the return 18-hour drive.

So wish Dean luck. And book me a massage.