It was supposed to be the Vuelta Espana of the year, the last of the season's Grand Tours where I will sprint like Peter Sagan and climb like Nario Quintana through rice fields, a grazing carabao and heaps of newly harvested melons, and and punctured a tire as I scale my imaginary Passo di Mortirolo.
But I have not attended the last two office Christmas parties and donated a lechon for this year so Tuesday's Stage 2 was neutralized.
That was also the case for Wednesday's Stage 3 since after arriving home very late, and for Saturday's Stage 6 because I got home drunk from the Munoz Bodies Friday meeting and have to attend the next day's Amaranthine caucus.
As a consolation, I would like to believe that my biking year still ended well with equivalent of the Classics (i.e. Milan-San Remo for Monday's Stage 1, Paris-Robaix for Thursday's Stage 4, Liege-Bastogne-Liege for Friday's Stage 5, and the Tour of Flanders for Sunay's Stage 7).
But I have not attended the last two office Christmas parties and donated a lechon for this year so Tuesday's Stage 2 was neutralized.
That was also the case for Wednesday's Stage 3 since after arriving home very late, and for Saturday's Stage 6 because I got home drunk from the Munoz Bodies Friday meeting and have to attend the next day's Amaranthine caucus.
As a consolation, I would like to believe that my biking year still ended well with equivalent of the Classics (i.e. Milan-San Remo for Monday's Stage 1, Paris-Robaix for Thursday's Stage 4, Liege-Bastogne-Liege for Friday's Stage 5, and the Tour of Flanders for Sunay's Stage 7).
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