One in a million

Sunday started with a bang. A 70-mph, blazing-down-the-Kansas-Turnpike bang. It was followed by the sound of my brother saying, "Shit!" as he looked in his rear-view mirror and saw a bike flying through the air after it came loose from his roof rack.

I have to admit feeling a guilty shot of relief when he said it was his.

OK, so I'm goin' to hell. I can live with that.

Through some freakish occurrence of luck and physics, his Cannondale hit the pavement, slid onto the shoulder against a concrete barricade, and suffered only superficial damage while managing to avoid being run over. After a few adjustments and a vow to be more careful when racking his bike in pre-dawn darkness, he was able to ride the Octoginta with no problems.

I think he had his bike-protection mojo working this morning.

Lining up for the mass start.

A Kansas-style aid station, complete
with a John Deere tractor.

My brother riding through the countryside
on his death-defying bicycle. (My sister-in-law,
shown in the group photo at the top of this post,
was pulling up from behind as I shot photos
with one hand and steered with the other.)

Mr. Retro and Mr. Can You Hear Me Now? share
a brief encounter at the second aid station.