Tour de Petworth

Every ride home is a race.

I usually leave myself no more than 15 minutes to get home from work on my bicycle, yet our in-home childcare provider (nanny, I guess) should not be kept from leaving at the appointed hour. These days, we always have hot weather. And regardless of the season, I always have to contend with The Hill: the escarpment that separates lower DC from upper DC. (It was once the bank of the primordial Potomac!)

I fight my way out of traffic and get as far east as I can before I tackled The Hill. At 13th Street and 15th Street it's at its steepest, and west of there is too congested. (14th Street is a saddle that is not so steep, but it carries a lot of traffic too.) 10th Street (Sherman) is pretty gradual, but 11th Street has a bike lane and not too many cars. So I try to make every light -- give or take the occasional red -- and boogie up 11th.

And then I just keep spinning.

It's around this time that I usually invoke the name of Lance Armstrong, or lately Floyd Landis. What's impressive to me about bike racing is that the riders set a pace that makes their legs scream...and hold it. Up mountains. During heat. Through sheer force of will. Ultimately, you race against yourself. (And everyone loses except the winner.)

Update: Floyd Landis is suspected of doping because he has high testosterone levels. (Duh! He just won the Tour de France!)