I’ve got a bunch of pictures to show you today, but I’m not sure you want to see them.
Oh sure, the fact that I just said you may not want to see them probably makes you want to see them, even if you wouldn’t have otherwise cared if you had seen them.
But seriously, if you don’t want the image of a nasty road crash stuck in your skull — and very likely turning you into an incredibly tentative descender for the next several weeks — there’s going to be a point in today’s post when you might want to just bail out.
I will try to give you ample warning.
And for those of you who like this sort of thing, well, thanks to the miracle of cameraphones, today’s your lucky day.
We were going to ride the Mt. Nebo loop last Saturday, but a couple of things got in the way. First of all, not everyone had the freedom to do an 8-10 hour ride. Second of all, Mt. Nebo is on fire (it’s a rare mountain in Utah that isn’t on fire right now).
So we decided to do the Gauntlet again. In deference to the folks who needed to get home by noon, we decided to do a “Good Bits” version — just do all the major hills, skipping anything that didn’t have at least 1800 feet of vertical gain.
So we started at 5:30am, to give us as much time as possible in the cool part of the day.
There were a few interesting factors in this ride:
- Fast Cyclist Rides With The Fat Cyclist: Robert Lofgran of Lofgran Coaching — who has been coaching both Brad and me this season, came along for the ride. Slumming it, I guess. His style of riding is to say, “I’m not really feeling fast today,” and then drop you so hard you get whiplash. Nobody could hang with him when he felt like going. Not Kenny, not Brad, nobody. It was an interesting dose of perspective.
- Kenny Makes The Ride A Little Harder: Evidently thinking that 10,000 feet of climbing in about 80 miles isn’t difficult enough, Kenny brought his track bike — modified to have a freewheel and a front brake — as his ride of choice. We thought he’d be walking most of the hard parts of the climbs. Instead, he dropped us like he usually does.
- Many of Us Wish We Could Ride Like a Girl: Lisa joined us for the ride, and showed us what strong looks like. Mark my words: she’s going to turn in a sub-10 hour time at Leadville in a few weeks.
The Main Event
Frankly, I didn’t plan to mention this ride in the blog. It was, after all, a ride very much like a ride I did earlier in the year, and had already discussed. It was a great group of guys and the ride was fun, but not especially eventful. What’s to write about?
And then came the descent from Squaw Peak.
Squaw Peak (which is not officially named Squaw Peak anymore due to political correctness considerations, but which is nevertheless universally known as Squaw Peak) is a 4.3-mile road with 1800 feet of climbing. It has several blind corners, and several hairpin turns. You can take it fast, but it’s a good idea to keep your speed in check.
Once I got chased by a wild turkey while descending Squaw Peak. Freaked me out. But that’s neither here nor there.
On this particular day, there was a little something different about the road. See if you can spot it:
Yes, yes, there’s Sheriff’s truck coming up the road, but that’s not what’s different. What’s different is that very dark streak hugging the yellow line. I don’t know what substance made that dark streak, but I suspect it’s motor oil. Or WD-40. Or butter.
Something slippery, in any case.
Kenny was one of the first people going down Squaw Peak, and so was one of the first to hit this slick stripe.
Remember how I mentioned that Kenny was riding a modified track bike? With a front brake (i.e., no rear brake)? Well, I honestly don’t whether that contributed to what came next. Kenny, to tell the truth, doesn’t remember whether he ever even touched his brakes.
Oh yes, one more thing: For years, many of us have badgered Kenny about wearing a helmet when road riding.
This is About to Get Ugly
I was just far enough behind Kenny — maybe 10-15 seconds — that I didn’t see him go down. I, along with everyone else behind him, pulled over — some of us skidding dangerously on that black stripe. Kenny and his bike were laying in the gravelly shoulder.
Kenny was a bloody mess, with a big flap of skin hanging off the top of his head.
“I think I’m OK to ride,” said Kenny, staggering to his feet.
Everyone shouted at him to sit down.
Rick Sunderlage (not his real name) made a call to 911. Dug got out his iPhone and started taking pictures (I’m really impressed with how good of pictures that phone takes, by the way).
And now, I’m going to show you those pictures. But first, in case you’ve read to this point, but aren’t really all that interested in seeing some gore, here are a couple of buffer images so that nobody who doesn’t want to will see anything gross.
Here’s Coach Lofgran. He’s not wearing his jersey here because he kindly gave it up to Kenny to use as a head compress. Also, I’m including this photo because I’m really pleased with how thin I’m looking these days.
The sheriff arrived before the ambulance, bringing a first aid kit. Always a man of action, Brad ran to help:
Hmm. What else can I use as a buffer between the this story and the pictures of the aftermath? Oh, I know. How about some pictures my sister Kellene recently took of my family? Here’s Susan and the boys:
And here are my twin daughters.
OK, that was your last chance. Everything that follows is going to be considerably less charming.
How To Use Your Head as A Brake
Once Rick Sunderlage had calmly (I’m not kidding; Rick sounded as calm and patient with the 911 dispatcher as if he were ordering a pizza), we had a few minutes to wait. At first, somberness reigned. And then we started making jokes. Oddly, I can’t remember what any of them were, but Kenny must’ve thought at least one of them was funny:
It’s too bad the left half of his face is in shadow; you can hardly see the way his left eye is swollen shut, nor the way the left half of his face is covered in blood.
Once the sheriff arrived, he pulled Coach Lofgran’s blood-soaked jersey off Kenny’s head and we all got an early look at the damage:
Ugh. I’m going to need a minute. I get queasy looking at that one.
OK, I’m all right now.
Here’s Robert’s jersey, having been used to stop the blood flow on Kenny’s head.
Do you think that’ll come out in the wash?
Once the ambulance arrived, they got a neck brace around Kenny — in spite of Kenny’s arguments that he was fine and that he just wanted to finish the ride — and started cutting off his jersey.
That’s a lotta hamburger.
The EMTs strapped Kenny down good and tight and took him away. Bill — the Ben and Jerry’s franchise owner and neighbor of Kenny — was left with the task of taking Kenny’s stuff home and telling his wife what happened.
And the rest of us finished the ride.
But Wait! There’s More!
That would be the end of the story, except Kenny’s wife Natalie also has a cameraphone. So she got some great shots of Kenny at the hospital. Here’s Kenny, shortly after arriving:
And here’s Kenny giving what I think we can all agree is the most terrifiying two-thumbs up ever given:
This one shows you exactly what the damage looks like once the blood’s been cleaned out:
OK, I need to put my head between my knees for a few minutes again. I’ll be right back.
I can continue now.
Here’s Kenny, now all bandaged up.
Kenny Got Lucky
In spite of his osteoporosis, Kenny didn’t break any bones. Just got a bunch of stitches in the top of his head — like getting a free facelift — and some stitches under his left eye.
The square mile or two of road rash will heal on its own, over time.
And best of all, Kenny has finally conceded that helmets are a good idea, even on road bikes.
Susan’s alarm clock just went off. Time for her to get ready to head over to the hospital, where she’ll drink what looks (and she says tastes) like about a quart of white paint. Except this stuff paints her insides. And it’s radioactive.
An hour later, Susan’ll have her CT scan.
And then we’ll wait. On pins and needles. For a week.
I do not expect either of us will be able to think of much else during that week.
Many people have asked me whether it really takes them that long to get results back. The answer is, probably not. And I could probably call and bug the doctor to find out earlier than Susan’s Thursday appointment. But I don’t think I will. I figure if it’s good news, it will still be good news on Thursday. And if it’s bad news, being unaware for an extra day or two might be good.
At least, that’s what I’m saying right now. We’ll see if that’s how I feel around Wednesday.
Friends of Fatty
I understand many of you are wearing your pink jerseys today in a show of support. Thank you for that.
Every day, I get email from people who are thinking about and praying for Susan. This has really touched both Susan and me.
My sister Kellene tells me one of her friends put on her pink jersey, went on a long ride to a quiet place and then spent some time meditating and praying on Susan’s behalf — how can something like that not help?
And in general, you’ve all been true friends, which is a pretty crazy thing for me to think about, since all I ever have done for any of you is write fake news and make absurd assertions.
I’m not complaining.
Hey, do something for me. Take a picture of yourself — whether you’ve got a pink Fat Cyclist jersey, an original Fat Cyclist jersey, or no Fat Cyclist jersey at all. Upload it to my new Team Fatty Flickr pool, which you can find at:
You’ll need to join Flickr and the group in order to see all the photos.
Things I’d like to see in these photos: You, your bike, your Fat Cyclist jersey (if you have one) or T-Shirt (if you have one), and a background that gives us an idea of where you ride.
(Those of you who have emailed me photos: would you do me the favor of uploading them to Flickr, so I don’t have to? I’m too lazy.)
What’s the prize? Well, I’m just about to roll out a new design for this blog, and the banner will use photos for the background, and there’s a reasonable chance I’ll wind up using yours at some point. I’m not sure that’s much of a prize, but do it anyway.
PS: A Note of Apology to B7 Challengers: I never did this month’s TT, and I haven’t weighed myself in at least three weeks. Sorry. I will still do the final weigh-in and TT, and will send and collect rewards accordingly.
PPS: For those who have asked about the TdF: I’ll be writing something this Monday. The truth is I’m about a week behind on the watching — the last stage I saw was where Rasmusen took the yellow jersey. I plan to do some fast-forward style catching up tomorrow while the rest of the family buries their noses in the three copies of the new Harry Potter book my wife will be purchasing at midnight tonight.
When it comes to bike gear, I am a magpie. I love trying new stuff, and I have a garage full of junk to prove it. Always on the quest to make my bike lighter, faster, stronger and more comfortable — that’s not too much to ask, is it? — I have swapped out handlebars, seatposts, cranks, forks, wheels, tires, pedals shoes, and grips…all pretty much on a whim.
But, in the past 11 years, there is one thing I have not changed. One thing I have had on every single bike I own, whether it be geared, singlespeed, or fixed. Whether it be for road, track or mountain.
I have ridden a Selle Italia Flite Genuine Gel ever since I discovered it. This is the saddle that, more than a decade ago, I found I could sit on for more than ten hours without getting uncomfortable. I could sit on it for twenty hours without being miserable (Or, more truthfully, my butt wouldn’t be miserable — certainly other parts of me will be miserable after I’ve been on a bike for twenty hours).
You should not, however, misinterpret the above paragraph as a recommendation. While this saddle fits me just perfectly, it may not fit you at all.
Saddles are the one thing most experienced (i.e., know-it-all) cyclists clam up about when asked what to buy. We know what works for us, but also know that the way we found out was strictly through trial and error.
I think other long-time cyclists will agree with me: once you’ve found your saddle, you stick with it. Forever. Hey, it’s your main contact point with your bike; you don’t go getting all capricious about something like that.
Except I just did.
The New Thing
I don’t know why, but a couple weeks ago I bought a new saddle for my mountain bike. The Selle Italia SLR. Behold:
I don’t know why I did it. No, that’s not true. I know why: weight. Specifically, this new saddle weighs three ounces less than my old saddle.
And also, I love how shockingly tiny-looking the thing is. Scroll up and look at my old saddle and you’ll see what I mean.
Why I Waited to Announce I’m Riding a New Saddle
I actually bought an SLR for the Weapon of Choice (my geared Fisher Paragon 29er, which I’ll be riding at Leadville next month) as part of a desperate bid toward making my bike as light as possible.
Numerically, at least, I’ve succeeded: The Weapon of Choice now weighs 21.2 pounds. There’s not much else I could do to make the bike lighter without setting myself up for a serious reliability problem (i.e., a busticated bicycle). I will show it off once I’ve cleaned it up a bit (i.e., probably never).
But I actually felt embarrassed about buying a new saddle. Genuinely ashamed, like I had made a serious rookie mistake by switching saddles when I have a proven track record — eleven years, for crying out loud! — with the Flite.
So I decided not to say anything until I had ridden it a bit.
You know what? I made a good call. The SLR fits me great. Maybe it’s because it’s from the same company and Selle Italia always designs for the same sitbones. I dunno. But I’ve been comfortable enough riding this saddle on my (fully rigid) mountain bike that I went ahead and got one for my road bike, too (which means, yes, that my road bike now weighs 15.0 pounds, when it’s clean — or 15.5 pounds right now).
So, yes: after 11 years, I have switched saddles. It’s a big move. A bold move.
I. Am. So. Brave.
Fate conspires. I am convinced this is true. The thing is, it usually conspires against us, to the point where we look askance at fate when it conspires for us. And yet, once in a while, fate lends a hand.
This past weekend, fate must’ve felt I was due.
The plan for the weekend was that my family and I would be out of town. As it turns out, though, Thursday evening we decided Susan isn’t quite ready to travel.
Abracadabra: suddenly we had a free weekend at home.
And within moments, I had latched on to the Nebo Loop ride Kenny was planning. Saturday, 6:00am, starting at Kenny’s house. 6.5 hours of riding, 110 miles, one giant climb, one giant descent, a 40-mile paceline on lonely roads.
Seriously, there is no better possible hometown road epic in the world than the Nebo Loop.
In short order, I pinged the rest of the core team to see if they could do the ride, too. Rick Sunderlage (not his real name) got an approval — no mean feat considering how late in the week this was coming together — but that was about it. Everyone else either was out of town, had a race they had committed to, or had other stuff going on.
And then Dug sent a text message. He was reversing himself; he was in.
This has never happened before. Ever. Over the course of 15 years of ride invites, I’ve learned: If Dug says he’s out, he’s out. It’s not negotiable. You can argue and try to work things out on his behalf, but it does no good. If Dug says he’s out, that’s final.
But here we were, nevertheless. Dug had said he was out. And now he was in.
“Kim says I need the miles,” was his simple explanation.
I did not pry further.
The Best of All Possible Riding Buddies
I’d like you to conduct an intellectual exercise. If you could put together a list of attributes that would make up the perfect riding buddy, what would they be?
I’d make this buddy male, first of all, because otherwise this list starts to sound like I’m writing a new verse to the “If You Like Pina Coladas” song. Next, I’d make this riding buddy highly available. And I’d make him just slightly faster than I am. I’d make him interesting, but not an incessant chatterbox on the road (after about half an hour of talking on the bike, I’m usually in the mood to shut up and ride).
You probably have other attributes you’d build in to your perfect riding buddy. Think about them for a moment.
Now let’s change things up for a second. Which would be the better riding buddy: the person you just dreamed up, or a strong rider / nice guy who also happens to own a Ben and Jerry’s franchise?
Yeah, me too.
And that, my friends, is Bill Freedman. Now, just in case you have a picture in your mind of a soft, lazy ice cream-eating schlub, let me point out: one year, Bill did the Leadville 100. Unfortunately, someone crashed into him within four miles of the beginning of the race, breaking one of his pedals and giving Bill an enormous case of road rash (and an entirely exposed butt cheek). Did Bill bail out of the race? Nope. He did the whole 100 miles anyway.
That’s one hardcore ice cream guy.
Anyway, courtesy of my totally non-subtle prodding, Bill volunteered that at the end of the ride, we’d stop at his shop for ice cream, his treat.
Since it was already hot by 7:00am and the high temperature for the day was slated to go to 102, I wholeheartedly endorsed Bill’s idea.
Clown of the Paceline
Drue and Larry rounded out the group, making seven of us — right at the sweet spot for a group road ride — large enough that you’ve got a good long break between turns pulling, and small enough that it doesn’t take forever to get the group rolling again once it’s stopped.
We got started right around 6:20 (just a few minutes late). We were doing the Nebo Loop a little different this time: counterclockwise. This meant we’d be doing the 40-mile flat section at the beginning of the ride — before the big climb — instead of after. It also meant we’d be going up the South side of Nebo, which only Larry had done before, but which we all agreed was going to be a steeper climb than going up the North side.
I was feeling good as the paceline got rolling. Not as good as Larry, I guess, because he kept rolling up to the front and pushing the pace. i didn’t mind, though. He wasn’t pushing it much, and we were all staying together really well.
I, on the other hand, was being a complete goofball. Any time there was a tiny hill or overpass, I’d jump out of the paceline and attack it hard, celebrating with a victory salute each time I rolled across first. I’m pretty sure everyone thought it was funny the first time I did it. The group might’ve even thought it was mildly amusing the second and third time I did it. I’m sure that by the fourth time, though, I was the only one who found myself entertaining.
I couldn’t help myself, though. I was in such a great mood that I was willing to try out the “incessant repetition” comedy gambit: the theory that any joke, repeated often enough, goes from funny to unfunny to — eventually — absurdly funny.
I am not sure that the gambit succeeded, but I was having fun anyway.
Attack on the Climb
We all stayed together up to the beginning of the climb, and even for a mile or two beyond. And then Rick started pushing the pace. This was no surprise since he had indicated, via instant message, the day before that he intended to drop me in the climb.
So I did the honorable thing: I grabbed his wheel and hunkered down. Dug and Larry grabbed on, too, seeing exactly how far the Sunderlage train would take us.
Kenny stayed back, riding with Bill and Drue. None of them had anything to prove.
Briefly, I thought to myself, “Hey, I should ride with Bill. After all, he’s the one who owns the ice cream store.” So I eased up, which must have looked like an early implosion to Rick, Dug, and Larry.
But I was not blown. In fact, I felt good. Real good.
As I got close to Bill, Kenny, and Drue, one of them shouted out, “Go at whatever pace you want. We’ll regroup at the top.” Kenny then started riding away from the group at the back, and would shortly catch me, tired legs from the Cascade Creampuff notwithstanding.
To me, that seemed like an invitation to test myself.
So I did some math, figured that I was fifteen miles from the summit, did a best guess as to how hard I could climb for fifteen miles, and then buried myself accordingly.
Before long, I was with Rick S, Dug, and Larry.
And then I was ahead of them.
And Kenny had not caught me.
Being fast up this climb had suddenly become important to me.
The Importance of 27
The climb up Mt. Nebo is difficult whether you go up the North side or South. The North side, however, has a near-non-finite number of false summits; it plays with your head like no other climb I’ve ever done (with the exception of the Powerline climb at Leadville, which is somehow even worse).
So while climbing up the South side was a steeper, more demanding cliimb, it was — from my point of view — paradoxically also an easier climb, because it doesn’t toy with you nearly as much.
As I climbed, I had time to think and look around. Here are some of the things I thought and observed:
- I really like my 27 cog. Dug was riding on a borrowed bike with a 23-tooth cog in the back being his easiest gear. Since I was in my granny gear — 27 teeth — for most of the climb and still barely able to turn the cranks, I thought several times about how hard this ride must have been on Dug, especially since he had never done this ride at all before and so didn’t know when (or if) the climbing ends. As it turns out, Dug compensated for the 23 cog by serpentining whenever he was out of view of others.
- Cows are big. At the very beginning of the climb, I saw a couple of cows tussling at the side of the road. As I got closer, they stopped and stood very still, eyeing me. To me, they seemed to be saying, “Hey, we should quit beating each other up and go attack that guy who smells of beef.” You know, of all the ways in the world there are to die, being attacked by cattle is probably pretty high up there in the “embarassing” zone.
- Cows startle easily. At another point in the climb, I came across several cows in the middle of the road, lazily staring at me. I yelled and hollered (there is a difference between yelling and hollering, right?) and got them running ahead of me. I drove them forward until the next hairpin in the road, at which point I turned and they kept going straight. This may have been the most fun I have ever had on a road bike.
The Best Time to Check How You’re Doing Is at a Hairpin
Being the guy out front creates a dilemma. You want to know if anyone’s catching up to you, but you don’t want anyone to know you care whether anyone’s catching up to you. So that’s what hairpin turns are for. At first, I could see Rick and Kenny close behind me.
And then I couldn’t.
That was a good moment.
I got to the top first and — goober that I am — immediately checked my stopwatch so I’d know how much I beat Rick and Kenny by. (Nevermind that Kenny was still cooked from Cascade Creampuff, and Rick S had no idea how to mete out his climbing effort, having never been on Mt. Nebo before.)
Five minutes and seven minutes, respectively.
I tell you what: The pink jersey makes you fast.
Left to right: Rick S, Kenny, and me. Dug took this (not posed, since none of us knew he was taking a picture) photo with his cool iPhone. I’m closest because I’m walking over to Dug to tell him I beat him up the climb by twelve minutes.
The Ride Ends in Tragedy
We regrouped at the top, all of us thirsty beyond belief in the brutal heat — more than 100 degrees in the valley, and probably 90+ even up top on the mountain. We loaded up on water at Payson Lakes — Kenny drew a small crowd when he stripped down to his shorts and went for a short swim.
Next up was the big downhill. Fifteen miles or so of it. And I tried to keep Dug in sight as we flew down. Really, I did. But I couldn’t. The fact is, nobody can stay with Dug on the descents. Dug has some secret gravity distortion field gizmo — coupled with a bizarre disdain for potential consequences — that allows him to rocket downhill faster than you and I can even contemplate.
Sadly, before long Dug had to slow, caught behind a slow-descending truck. Before long, the entire group was backed up behind this truck, and there was no passing it — the road was that twisty, and none of us were feeling so suicidal as to try passing a truck in a blind corner.
So we spent the downhill behind a truck, riding our brakes. Would it really have been so hard for this guy to pull over for us, just for a second?
It may seem to you that this was the tragedy I was speaking of. But no. That comes next.
As we exited the shadow of Mt. Nebo and rode the final 20 miles back toward Kenny’s house, we started looking at our watches, checking to see how closely the predicted finish time we had told our respective spouses matched with reality.
It turns out that Dug, Rick S., and I — who had carpooled together to Kenny’s house — all needed to get to our respective homes, ASAP. We were already late, in fact.
There was no way around it: we’d have to skip going to Ben and Jerry’s.
Yes, it’s true. We were riding with the owner of a Ben and Jerry’s store, with an offer of free ice cream. We were riding past that store. It was more than 100 degrees outside. We had all been on our bikes for 105 miles. Nothing in the world sounded better than New York Super Fudge Chunk.
And yet, we did not stop for ice cream.
I am still crying, even three days later.
A Note from Fatty: Before I get into my main post today, I wanted to talk about something you may have noticed. Last week I posted only two things (a cartoon my son created and a race report Kenny wrote), neither of which I wrote. That’s not exactly typical, since I usually write at least three times per week. So what’s up? Well, I sat down to write a few times, and just wasn’t able to. The fact is, I’ve been stressing out about Susan’s upcoming CT scan (This Friday), and being funny isn’t easy right now. The weird side effect of this is that I now have a good-sized backlog of things I want to write about. So I’m going to try to write at least a few times this week, and figure (most of) you will understand if I’m not on my best game.
The Pink Jerseys Are Here!
I got my pink special edition jersey Friday afternoon, and got word from Twin Six that all the t-shirts, socks (both pink and original) and jerseys have now been shipped. So you should be getting yours soon, if you haven’t got it already. Here’s a shot Dug took from Saturday’s ride (more on that in my Tuesday post, which I shall write as I fly to Chicago tomorrow afternoon).
Admit it: I look sexy in pink.
OK, you don’t have to admit that I look sexy in pink. But you do have to admit that Mount Nebo makes a pretty sexy backdrop.
How About Something Just A Little Bit Sexier?
Knowing that the female contingent of the Fat Cyclist readership always enjoys a good photo of Kenny, and furthermore knowing that the male contingent of the Fat Cyclist readership always enjoys a good photo of any female at all, I enlisted Kenny and his wife Natalie as models for the “Fighting for Susan” jerseys — available for immediate shipment in both Hers and His sizing (socks and t-shirts are available now, too).
Knowing that my readership is about 80% male (a number in which I am confident in spite of the fact that I just made it up), let’s start with Natalie:
And now, from the back…
And now, just in case the ladies in the audience are starting to lose interest, here’s Kenny, working it like he’s expecting a tip.
And now, showing off his guns:
I love the “WIN” on the right arm — it’s a very helpful suggestion, and one which I used to good effect last Saturday (more on that – as I said earlier – tomorrow, but quite clearly I’m going to do some serious boasting).
And you know what’s awesome? Anyone who wears this jersey looks just as hot as Natalie and Kenny. It’s a scientific fact.
Oh, let’s have one more photo, shall we? Here’s Kenny and Natalie together, ably demonstrating that the Pink Jersey is suitable as an outfit for your wedding announcement photograph.
PS: Some of you have sent me pics of you wearing the Pink Lemonade Jersey this weekend. Here are a few:
Brent and Sandie at the Death Ride. Sandie says, “They were a huge hit and super comfortable all day long.” Awesome!
Dave, riding the trails of Washington and British Columbia, says, “I hope Susan appreciates that I am wearing pink for the first time since the 50’s.” Yeah, she does.
Keith’s giving the pink jersey a thumbs up.
One of the Twin Six guys racing “The Blue Mound.” Of the race, they said, “Felt like I paid $35 to sit in a clothes drier for 5.5 hours.”
There are more, but I’m notoriously bad at managing my email. This’ll have to do for now.
PPS: You know, I think I need to set up a Flickr group for Fat Cyclist readers showing off your jerseys. In fact, that idea could really work well with the cool new site design I’ve got in the works. More on that soon.
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