Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
#1. Jimmy, you're my hero.
We had just finished a desert run; nothing too crazy. After deciding not to ride the shootout as it looked like rain, the storm never materialized and we hit the trail. "We'll get enough miles in this week anyway," was his rationale. Fine with me.
This was the first morning of my first week of training camp in Tucson. I was ready to be baptized in the light. Our first run a success, I was beginning to get parched-not used to the lack of humidity.
"You want a drink? I am heading over to the Texaco to fill my cooler cup," he asked.
"Giddie-up. That sounds good," I responded and picked a hooked barb from my right leg just above the sock line.
The Texaco was in sight at the end of the street; couldn't have been more than a few hundred yards. He walked over to the carport, turned over a motor, and drove out of the gravel drive on his sun-bleached, pastel-splashed, circa 1986 Jim McMahon Honda Elite scooter. And as he rode off in this supremely lazy act, Jimmy Riccitello became my hero.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
