My teammate Lisban wins stage 3a from a huge break in the field and is sitting is 2nd place overall. Gavi is also in the break and this put him solidly in the U23 young riders jersey! Bammage! I place in the top 20 and am ecstatic!
The 10 km course is lined body to body 3-deep with people who, when going over 30 mph, all look the same. It seems as if we are racing around a rubber factory, because I know the smell of cork pads burning on carbon rims, and this is not it.
In the caravan of travel for the race, the team shares bus #4 with the Malaysian Cycling Federation team, and their jersey has a big MCF on it (inside joke with the Minnesota Cycling Ferderation). We laugh and joke. They call me "mummy" because of all my bandages and compression wraps. I moan every time I move after sitting for so long on the bus, and because I said it the first time on accident, I continue crying out "Obama!" in various tones and pitches. It may help me more than make them laugh, but it usually does both. Laughter is the great communicator. Emotion is the international language. Oxen are everywhere here, more than deer in the states. The bus makes an evasive maneuver narrowly avoiding a herd crossing the road, I moan again and secretly am glad that I am not reading about the presidential race back home.
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