… sorta.

After we committed to move into the center of town, some co-workers pulled me aside and basically said, "You picked the worst end of town to move to!" They told me some horrific stories. One guy who’d lived there for nine months said they’d been there for three days when someone got shot three doors down. The story that really talked my wife out of it, though, involved a rotweiler (spelling?) being hung by a noose from a tree. Yuck!

So instead, we found a place out in the countryside that is way mo’ betta. If you guys wanna come visit, I won’t be ashamed to show you our apartment anymore.

Granted, I don’t think the roads around here are great—I got a flat on my first ride out here, and there are way too many stop signs. But heck, I commuted to work this morning on my bike. When’s the last time that happened? That has to be a good omen.

In other news, some dopers turned the Tour de France into a high-speed soap opera. Botched, you might remember made a deduction about Iban Mayo a few years ago, so kudos to him for calling that one. I’m wondering how long Contador will last before his name is likewise besmirched.

But back to my life. I’ve had the mountain bike itch lately. I don’t know if it’s because it’s been so hot lately, but I’m craving a ride in the mountains and flipping through photos of last year’s races. I think it might be fun to do some big mountain bike trip this fall. If anyone has any connections with the folks in charge of Grand Teton National Park, please start talking your connection into allowing mountain biking. I promise I won’t do more damage than the equestrians. Stick a needle in my eye, etc. etc.

So that’s where I’m at.


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