Anonymous Racer X: Hog Heaven

Back in August my agent, Chuck, who also is my mailman, received advance word that I likely would be named in the Mitchell Report. Being the only amateur triathlete highlighted in the midst of all these cheating professional baseball players was the X Man's greatest honor. I'm sure the connection was my masseuse, Brandii, who had dated the Canseco brothers before we hooked up in my Land Cruiser one Saturday morning after a sprint tri in Charlotte.

But being called out also was uncool in one big way. In case the ITU wanted to make an example out of me, I had to preempt any potential punitive action by laying low and disappearing from the tri scene for a while.

I've been bummed and burned out since The Bachelor didn't return my wave right before I DNF'd on the Ironman Louisville bike course due to a mechanical problem with my water bottle cage. So I sold Bernice, my Softride, and bought a one-way ticket to London to camp out for Led Zeppelin tickets at The 02 earlier this month. Dude, there's nothing better than crossing the finish line of a tri and knowing you are going to take home hardware, but rocking hard to Stairway with a bunch of stoned Brits...that's a close second.

Later — and happy holidazed and confused,
Racer X