Stage 2: Roswell-Decatur

We enjoyed a wonderful meal Friday night with my dad and Kathryn outside on their back porch overlooking the lake. We watched twilight turn into dusk turn into dark, talked of the move, the wedding, plans for our new life in Portland, and of course the Tour de France. When my dad asked me what I thought of the conclusion of the Tour, I told him he was opening a can of worms. Get me started on the subject of bike racing, and I'll go on for hours. We talked about the heroism and brotherly love of the Schlecks, Bradley Wiggins's inspired ride on Ventoux to hold 4th place, Contador's amazing climbing and creepy stare, and of course the ongoing Armstrong saga. My dad and I stayed up a little later than the ladies and discussed plans for the next evolution of Loose Nuts while we sipped Sambuca.

Saturday dawned a little earlier than I might have liked, but the fault line opening inside my skull left me in a catatonic state somewhere between dozing and dying. Too much sweet, licorice-y Sambuca after dinner. India pulled me through with doses of coffee, water, and egg sandwich while I recovered, moaned and groaned. We repacked the truck without a drop of rain in sight, said our goodbyes and headed down the road towards India's family's home in Decatur. Although the drive itself was fairly quick and easy compared to the previous day's tarp-covered stressfest, we arrived in Decatur in a dangerously fragile emotional state. We had already been softened up by our goodbyes to my family, and thought that a chapter of Johan Brunyeel's book, We Might as Well Win might be a nice distraction. Little did we know that we were in for a terribly sad account of Fabio Casartelli's tragic death in the 1995 Tour de France. The grief-stricken Motorola team was asked by Casartelli's widowed wife to ride the next stage in his honor rather than abandoning the tour, so they rode side-by-side at the front of the peloton behind their team car with Casartelli's riderless bike mounted all alone on the roof. I could barely get the sentences out through my tears.

So, on perilous emotional footing we arrived in Decatur, where we were greeted by India's parents and a pale yellow KitchenAid mixer, a wedding present from the family. We oohed and aahed over the mixer, looked at wedding pictures, and headed out to do some shopping. I stocked up on underwear, grabbed some black socks to phase out all white socks from my wardrobe, and picked up a couple of nice pairs of pants so I don't look like a grease monkey in threadbare, stained jeans next to my stylish and effortlessly beautiful young wife. We caught up with India's best friend and former roommate, Laura at her new apartment in Midtown. It's a nice place with lots of windows, and we laughed and joked while I lounged on the couch.

There's more to tell, but I'm getting pretty worn out so we'll have to finish this later. Bedtime for me...