The more I travel, the closer I hold true the timeless saying, "There is no place like home." If only these carbon soled Nikes could harness Dorothy's magic powers. Somewhere in between my road trip to NORBA's opener (Note: The series is now called the National Mountain Bike Series (NMBS) - ed.) in Arizona and my 40 hour round trip trek to the infamous Sea Otter Classic, I lost my travel legs (despite the efforts of our new Volkswagen Touareg?).
Maybe I am getting soft and old at the ripe age of 28, but after only a month of racing I have opted to abort my original plan to drive to most of the NORBA's and take the path of least resistance, United flight 1161.
Home for the past three years has been one of America's cycling paradises, Boulder, Colorado. From the parking lots littered with roof racks to the hundreds of miles of bike paths that are plowed before the city streets, cycling is in this city's blood. So much so that it is the only place I have ever been where it is border line acceptable to sport the casual chamois in the grocery store (For the record, I don't condone such behavior).
