Roads may be (sp)icy

I had a grand plan as to how to spend the rest of the summer on the bike.

I was thinking of taking the week after Omaha easy, keeping it steady after that and then racing in Des Moines on August 13. And then, assuming I had Cat. 3 rider of the year wrapped up (yes, call it the perfect attendance award, Shim), I was going to start doing 'cross stuff.

Racing in Des Moines isn't going to happen. It just isn't. And I don't officially, mathematically have rider of the year wrapped up. (Side note: motivation for winning it is not carrying the title of "best rider," because that's not me — it's the free racing that goes along with it.) Vaughn can still win it, assuming he races and his elbow is still attached. Give me a heads-up on that, will you, Vaughn? I'd rather not race that last road weekend in September if I didn't have to.

And so, with racing off the table until 'cross (probably), it's time to just ride bikes. Brady and I rolled in the wee hours on Saturday and ended up with a bit over 80 miles. I was home around 10:30.

It was an adventure.

Rolling down Fort Street a little after 6, I had my Oakleys stuck in my helmet because it was a bit dark for tinted lenses. Only since I was wearing my Lazer helmet, I had no forward-facing spot for them. So I pointed them backward, since that works OK.

But going 35 or 40 down a hill turns backward-facing Oakleys into sails, and they went flying off my helmet. I heard the skittering of plastic on pavement, hit the brakes and turned around. They landed in the right tire track of the eastbound lane, and I could picture a car coming over the hill and crushing them, even as I was going back for them. (Sound familiar, Jeremy Cook?)

I got lucky, though, and grabbed them before they were eaten up by the early morning traffic. Any other time of the day and they would have been goners.

We cruised through town and set our sights on Glenwood, though we weren't sure we'd be able to get there because of the flooding. (Spoiler: You can get there and back like normal.) A little bit into Council Bluffs, where we had to hop a guard rail and ride against traffic on the shoulder for a mile, we settled in and got moving.

As we were rolling east, a rock kicked off of Brady's wheel and smoked me square on the side of my right ankle — on that nice, round bottom portion of the fibula. It drew no blood — not even a scratch — but it felt like I got hit with a baseball. If you've taken a baseball to the ankle, you'll know what I'm talking about. It's still a little swollen and bruised.

We made it to just fine and headed south out of town. Just before turning off to Pacific Junction, we were the surprise guests at a chicken execution. Or at least we thought that's what it was. I can't think of anything else that would end with a chicken tossed out of a guy's hand, flapping about, while the other hand holds a hatchet.

As we rolled back north along the bluff, we remarked that the crazy anti-Obama guy has added a swastika and a picture of our president with a Hitler mustache to his carnival of crazy. A communist socialist, huh? OK, dude.

On the road back toward the Bellevue toll bridge, we were told to "get off the road." I think that's probably the first time in almost a year that anybody's said anything to me. I'm either lucky (probably) or things are getting better around here. Maybe both?

On our last bit of road before jumping back on the trail by Bellevue, we spotted the sign that inspired the title for this post. Added in spray paint were two letters - sp.

Roads may be spicy, indeed.