If We Stop Riding, Then the Hunters Have Won

Last Saturday another early-morning ride through the southwestern Illinois cornfields brought another day of camouflaged dove hunters blasting away at their (as far as I know) unarmed targets. This time it was a sunny, clear morning and JPD and I could see the three hunters in the distance as they appeared to aim their shotguns toward us— parallel to the road we were riding but a few hundred yards to our left. "Boom, boom, boom!" I half expected to hear lead whizzing past my head. A little unsettling for Team Coumadin but, hey, it's only buckshot. Hunters: You can only scare the crap out of me so many times. Next time I'm bringing Dick Cheney to cover our left flank.

After the ride it was a 5K run. With my heart rate maxed out after three minutes of trying to keep him in sight, JPD took on an eerie resemblance to a lean Peter Reid on the Queen K highway in Kona as he bounced along Bluff Road for 20 minutes. He's ready for the USAT Halfmax National Championship at the Innsbrook Resort tomorrow.

Good luck to both JPD and Diesel at the race. When your legs and lungs start to feel the burn at mile 50 of the ride or mile 10 of the run, just remember the immortal soothing words of Diesel's oldest daughter: "It's not my fault you signed up for the race."