The air was clean with a slight chill. I was in my early twenties and on top of the world, literally and figuratively. I had just climbed to 14,000 feet on Pikes Peak in some of the most gorgeous and punishing terrains I had ever seen. It was completely foreign to me as I had grown up in little old Rhode Island, “The biggest little state in the union.” It was also flat as a pancake. Colorado Mountains were as spectacular as they were humbling. As a competitive road cyclist, I had climbed mountains before, but nothing like this. The air was truly “skinny” at this altitude. It is difficult to get the oxygen that is required to propel your body up these steep grades. I was also on top off the world because I had recently won the All Military Road Cycling Championships in Sembach, Germany, and had earned the right to be here now. I had earned the chance; the right to represent my country in the 1996 Olympics. In my mind and heart, there was no higher honor. It had been quite a ride getting to this point as I had been racing in Europe for the past two years. I had grown tremendously both as a man and athlete. Cycling had always been a perfect escape for me. It was almost like therapy. It was a sport perfectly suited for me. I was always the hyper kid trying to harness my energy into useful purpose. I would usually just drive people crazy. Crazy that is until the day I won a bicycle race as a young teenager and learned to put that energy to good use. I was fortunate to have found my passion at a young age and even more fortunate to have been given the opportunities that led me to this mountain in Colorado. I met so many fantastic and tremendously talented people over the course of my bike racing career and felt so privileged. I also met some pretty funky people too. Ones that left me perplexed. I drifted back in thought and remembered a time in San Diego when I was racing in a local criterium, a bike race held on a short course. We had the usual suspects, many of whom were friends. The San Diego bike racing community was tight. Most of us knew exactly how to test the other as we knew how each of us rode. We knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. We’d been doing this EVERY weekend for what seemed like forever. During this particular race, we were about 30 minutes into an hour long race and this young, cocky kid fights his way to the front and plants himself in the wind. This is NOT the place to be, especially only halfway through. I remember thinking I can sit here and let you pull all daytire yourself out there lil’ fella! Sometimes I really love inexperienced riders. Sometimes I felt like a cat catching up to a drunk mouse. It wasn't even fair. Well, I did sit on his wheel, but it didn’t end as it normally does when one has little experience and a lot of balls. Normally, you can almost “see” the person detonate as they have pushed too hard for too long (while others conserve energy to put to good use at the end.) Their shoulders begin to roll, and their body mechanics just breaks down , and as there is no oxygen to be had, they finally just explode: BOOM! No, this day was different. This cocky, young kid sat on the front of the peloton (the group) and pulled us around for 30 minutes like he was the locomotive, and we were just cars on a freight train. We were on the last lap, and I was right on his wheel. I was waiting for him to explode. I was waiting for the opportunity to jump and make my move for the win. He kept bringing the speed up. I remember thinking Sweet! He’s even going to give me a lead out. The problem was that kid just kept accelerating. He rode me and everyone behind right off his wheel. He soloed for the win and made the rest of us look stupid. So much for experience and wisdom! I had NEVER