Glamour

As I sit here picking sand out of my teeth from this morning's ride, I can't help but wonder what the heck I was thinking.

I mean, when I was 7, 8, 9 years old, racing a bike up legendary mountains in France in 85-degree July sunshine seemed like a pretty cool way to make a living.

Today, as I ramped up to sub-threshold tempo pace in 50-degree rain, just 18 hours after one of the hardest workouts I'll do all year, I questioned all that is holy in an effort to figure out why I ever wanted to be a pro bike racer. Forty-five minutes later, as I spun into work with numb legs, squishy feet and sopping gloves, I still wondered why the heck I was out there.

And then it hit me: Forget Van Halen -- this is what dreams are made of.