Thanks, MKE

I left my soul, heart and liver somewhere between Woodman's and Kilbourn Park, and my legs at the Labovitch's in Whitewater. All just to see Ben Popper off away from the world of bachelorhood and into the life of the married man. We played on a water slide, drank delicious beers, walked about 8 miles to a drag-queen show, and ate bad, but tasty, pizza.

I have the feeling that Ben and Julie won't be living the suburban life just yet. A career as a cyclocross journeyman awaits for the time being. I think Julie's alright with that, though. She's tearing it up on two legs with those deathmarches known as marathons. I like running, but not for 26 miles – just call me Mr. Three Mile. Right at that distance is when I'm pretty much tired, sore and wishing that I'd gone for a bike ride instead. To do a marathon? Hell, that sounds like fun, but that's some serious dedication. And figuring that Ben's been waking at 4:50 for hardcore 1.5 hour rides on the LFP, you gotta figure that in that household there's a fair degree of obsession and dedication not seen in most others.

But anyway. Again, Milwaukee, I hardly knew ye from such a short trip, but besides not getting much in the way of sleep (four awful hours on the ground in a tent, without pad, blankie, or pillow), and indigestion from the aforementioned bad pizza, I had an awesome time. So did Ben.