Cheers

Sitting on the tarmac in San Diego last night. Three hours out of Houston, on to Oakland. Seattle at 10:35. What is this melancholy? Why am I suddenly feeling like I am alone, without a friend, and with a dead cell phone? This wave of sadness, hissing and blue, is about to take me under.

What is it?

I look to me left to see a sunset vibrant orange, gold and crimson. The tail of the 737-300 silhouettes the days defiant transition to night and then I get it. The day is done. The RCV season is over. I am going home, without another trip/event/race/assignment/challenge. The 2010 shoot schedule has been completed, it's over, in the can. I am off. Transition to post.

And this makes me want to cry.

I sit back in my uncomfortable seat, tune out the white noise and think back, in documentary style, of the preceding ten months. The timeline splashes images of events, the obligatory talking-head shots, airports, TSA hacks, rental cars, cheap motels checking in at midnight, fast food, equipment calibrations, motorcycles, scooters, trains, busses, cabs, credit cards, media passes, time tables, baggage fees, wonderful people, new places, speeding tickets, breakfasts for dinner, squabbles, negotiations, passports, downloads, renders, fade outs, royalty free music, sore backs, 5K recovery runs, love on a one-way street, target demographics, deadlines, rain, dawn meetings, swim starts, PA's glaring, T1, Hondas, Harleys, and Ducatis. Enough bikes to fill a bike museum. Talent, effort, strength, skill, suffering, crashes, bonks, blood. T2s. Runs, running, ran. Sun, sweat, wind, hills, Gatorade, water "Can I have a pretzel please"? Finish line, Mike Riely, smiles, tears, satisfaction, accomplishment, families, ones, twos, tens.

I try a scroll of places and events in chronological order, seeing a HD highlight clip play under the event logo. Afro-Celt Sound System is hammering out a relentless persuasive groove track as we get lift. I am smiling now. This is my movie, personal, sensual, connected, one long, meaningful soft caress. My lover touching me back. I see,

The rains of the San Diego Gran Fondo.
Camp Pendleton and Oceanside.
Gravel roads of Tour Battenkill.
112 miles in St. George.
The gals and Phil riding in Alaska.
Another tour of California, and
riding with Bobby Julich.
Boise from the handlebar cam,
The Horrible Hilly Hundred from
Nature Valley Grand Prix, to
X-Terra Tahoe.
At the top of Mt. Shasta and the hills
surrounding Lake Stevens.
Timberman just before the rain and
at the summit of Mt. Washington.
I am riding 90K in Norway
with 20 thousand others.
And back in a downpour at the Nations Tri in DC.
A wonderful weekend in Branson, MO,
Red Rocks GF in Vegas,
The LA Tri
and Kona.

My 3D movie is fading to black. There are more credits than I can list without serious CPU or a teleprompter. The music fades with the sinking summer sun.

I am startled by the flight attendant gently touching my arm, asking, if I would like something to drink.

I am a little misty eyed still, and ask, innocently,

Dom Perignon 55?

Parting shots: Flags in The Woodlands, TX transition area. Wave them high and high. A toast to the product. Without the demand, there would be no supply. Cheers!