Self-loathing and misguided angst as the Dance approaches...

Think of me as you go about your lazy Labor Day weekend tasks. At noon on Saturday, pool side, whilst you plan a nice relaxing interlude on the local links, I will be mounting my trusty steel Gunnar amid stalwart, eager rivals, many of whom are half my age and all endowed with youthful working joints and pliable ligaments and sinew. During the last vestiges of day-light as you fire up the barbeque, beer-in-hand, albeit a slightly sore lower back from recklessly deviating from perfect posture when you lifted your clubs into the golf cart, I'll be just seven or eight hours into the madness. After brushing your teeth and pulling those nose and ear hairs and as you cozy up into your little nesting cradle, briefly think of me as I will be marching alone to a forlorn hope of salvation, ten hours into it, but not yet halfway. At 4:00 am when you are awakened by the cat dragging in a struggling chipmunk well into its death throes, think of me as you stare into the eyes of the chipmunk as I'll be eight hours more on my bike before its over. Reading the Sunday papers, at 9:00 am whilst enjoying your coffee (with cream) and a generous portion of ham, eggs, and melted cheese on an English muffin, just the way you like it, give a momentary pause to think of me for I shall be twenty-one hours into the degradation and completely and utterly reduced. At noon on Sunday as you dig into the leather couch to watch the Pre-season NFL games for the rest of the day, think of a broken man, a feeble shell of a man, a very very old man trying to lift his ravaged leg over a dirt encased bicycle...THE HORROR...THE HORROR...