S. Kay Murphy's Blog, page 35

First day of summer

[image error]

School ended on the 9th of June, and last week was my first official week of summer vacation. While friends began to post on Facebook about taking their kids or grandkids to Disneyland or about having fun on shopping excursions, I looked forward to taking long walks in the woods. Here are a few highlights from last week:
Hike #1
On my first day of break, I indulged in a third cup of Irish Breakfast tea, spent some time attending to my email inbox, then headed down to the village to drop off trash, recycling and mail. Afterward, I headed up Glendora Ridge Road, rolling along slowly in the truck, looking for water bottles cast off in the recent Tour of California bike race (not because I'm a groupie, but to make sure they made it into the recycle bin). I saw a fire road tucked way back in the hills, so I parked the truck and started walking. The path was lined with patches of lupine and other flowers, so as I walked, I breathed in the wild scent and listened to chickadees, tanagers, jays, wrens and nuthatches. On the way back, I heard a commotion in the foliage next to the road, so I stopped and waited. A young buck emerged and seemed surprised to see me. When I said hello, he trotted down the trail in front of me, eventually going over the side and down into the canyon below. Driving back, I swerved to avoid a rock in the middle of the road that looked just like a bird. In my rearview mirror, I saw it move. I stopped, leaving the truck in the middle of the road with the emergency flashers on, and walked back. A baby bluebird was standing on the asphalt, looking very confused. When I put my hands down to him, he stepped onto my finger. Slowly and carefully, I walked to the side of the highway, found a shady place in the chaparral, and set him down. Moments later as I got back in the truck, a sports car came flying up the road from the opposite direction. The tiny bird would certainly have been killed if it had remained where it was. This was another magical opportunity for me, one I do not take lightly (thank you, Universe), and one that is afforded by having the time to move slowly and quietly.
Hike #2The next day I invited my buddy Doug to join me on an evening hike to Sunset Peak. I knew the moon would be rising about sunset and that it would be nearly full. We met at the trailhead at 5:00p.m. and began a leisurely walk up the trail. "Maybe we'll see a deer," I told him. Two miles later we did. A doe stood on the path about fifty yards ahead of us. We watched her for a moment, then she dropped over the side into the canyon. Cool. A mile further on, we stopped to watch a family of mountain quail. After two hours, we reached the summit. From the top, we could see fifty miles to the south. To the west we could see the rest of the San Gabriels stretching toward L.A., with the day's misty marine layer settled in between the purple peaks. As the sun dropped below the ridges in a gorgeous display of orange and red, the moon rose to the east, so we could watch one show for awhile, then simply turn 180 degrees and watch the other. When the light was nearly faded, we began our walk down. By the time we reached the highway, we no longer needed our headlamps; the moonlight was bright enough to light the way. I enjoyed the deepest of sleeps that night.
Hike #3My cabin sits a hundred or so feet back from the edge of a canyon. At the apex of that canyon is a steep waterfall. One of my favorite hikes involves climbing down into the canyon and following the stream up to the falls. On Thursday, I did just that, for the first time since last fall. In December we had five days of continuous rainfall which gorged the streams and, in the case of our canyon, actually changed the course of the water's flow since so much debris tumbled down so quickly. The rushing water also gouged out deeper pools along the streambed, so walking up meant either finding ways to climb around them or simply wading through them. The water percolates from melting ice and snow inside the mountain, so it's pretty cold, but on a hot spring day, it's delicious when a hand or foot or leg goes into the water. At one point, a rock dislodged as I stepped down on it, and I tumbled into one of the deeper pools, getting wet all the way up to my pockets. I wasn't hurt, other than a bruise on my hip, and later my Facebook status read: "I don't mind falling. It's landing that tends to erase the thrill of the event." Still, it was a great hike, and I did it again yesterday, this time managing to negotiate the stream all the way to the falls without once falling. Of course, once I reach the waterfall, I like to take off my cap, hold it under the falling water until it's soaked, then put it back on.
In two days, I'll be heading to Missouri to visit much-missed friends, meet new cousins, and speak at the library in Union about my great-grandmother (who is infamous in the area, thus affording me mini-rock star status while I'm there). My walks while there will consist of heading up the hill from the hotel to the graveyards beyond. But I'll be looking forward to many more trail adventures when I return. In the meantime, I fall asleep now at dusk listening to western tanagers singing high overhead in the treetops, awake to the same music every morning.

A picture of Bertha Gifford

On Wednesday after work I did a slow and leisurely hike up Bear Canyon. We've been on minimum day schedule this week at school due to final exams, so I was able to hit the trail by 2:00p.m. I moseyed along, watching for snakes… and didn't see one until a juvenile rattler lethargically slid off the trail just before I reached Bear Flat, my destination. In the pine-scented meadow, I sat on a large boulder in the warm sun, ate some grapes, strawberries and pumpernickel pretzels, and wrote in my journal.
The program, Ghost Hunters, will do a segment on the Morse Mill hotel this summer. If you are unfamiliar, some, er, paranormal investigators will walk through the hotel at night with electronic equipment and be filmed as they do so. At some point, someone in the group will exclaim, "DID YOU SEE THAT?" or "DID YOU HEAR THAT?" I know. I've watched the program many times. I have no issue with what they do (while I do question their methods—Really? Ghosts only appear in dark time? What are they afraid of, exactly?). But it does bother me on a personal level that this mythology of Bertha haunting the hotel persists. Of course, the mythology is perpetuated by the owner of the hotel—because now he's charging fifty bucks a person for 'paranormal tours' every weekend, claiming that Bertha murdered many people there.
The truth is (in case anyone rational is listening), Bertha Gifford ran the hotel for awhile before she was Bertha Gifford, when she was married to Henry Graham… and long before she was ever accused of poisoning anyone. Bertha Gifford, in 1928, was charged with giving arsenic to two people. One charge was later dropped for lack of evidence, and she was tried for the murder of Ed Brinley. At her grand jury hearing, folks came forward and said she may have given arsenic to others. None of those claims were ever substantiated. And by then, Bertha had long since moved away from Morse Mill. So connecting her with hauntings at the hotel is ludicrous. Oh, I'm not saying there aren't ghosts there. I'm sure there are, in one form or another…. But they have nothing to do with my great-grandmother.
In advance of shooting the show, the producers of Ghost Hunters or one of the cast will interview historian (and my close friend) Marc Houseman on Tuesday. Would love to be in MO for that. As it turns out, I'll be there a week later. The producers had no interest in postponing the interview for a week so that they could speak with me. Of course not. I would just spoil everything, wouldn't I?
In the meantime, apparently folks are still trying to find a picture of Bertha. This blog has seen dozens of hits in recent days from people who are finding it through a Google image search for Bertha Gifford. Thus my subject line. Fooled ya! Ha!
One of the many lessons I've learned from living on the mountain is that you always need to watch where you tread, as a snake may appear in your path unexpectedly….

Back to the dog book

After spending last week reporting on the Tour of California, I am back to working on the dog book this week… which means I have gone from the highs of daily race coverage to the dark forest of some pretty intense emotion. Wordsworth said that poetry springs from a place of deep feeling recollected in tranquility. My time working on this next memoir can be characterized as anything but tranquil.
I talked about writing the book for over a year before I finally had the courage to begin. I have mentioned already that I was quite cavalier in my planning. What could be difficult? I'd be writing about some of the best dogs that have blessed my life. But in writing about Ruf, I had to recount some pretty awful times with my (now deceased) wicked step-father. And in writing about Sapo, I had to write about my first marriage. Oof.
Monday, while most of my neighbors were out enjoying the gorgeous sunshine on Memorial Day, I was inside at the keyboard, trying to finish a section of the dog book. Writing… and crying. This is how it's been through most of the book. When I think about it, this is how it was while I was writing Tainted Legacy . I sat at the computer, allowed myself to channel, in a sense, the emotional suffering of all the players back when my great-grandmother was stirring up trouble in a small Missouri town, and I wrote… sometimes for hours… and cried.
This time the pain is deeper… closer… as I'm writing about my own life, my own wounds. To write this book well means to re-visit those times in my life when all I had to cling to was a tiny ray of hope and a great big dog.
The dog I wrote about on Monday was Mosie, a Doberman pinscher who came into my life for a short period during a very tumultuous time. Writing about what happened to her as a result of my former husband's idiocy brought back all the anger from that time—and maybe cooked it up to a hotter degree, given what I know now about good animals and stupid humans.
One of the blessings of being here on this mountain is the ability to walk out my cabin door and up to the waterfall whenever I am so overcome with anger that I can't function any more. I did that, finally, when The Universe was practically hollering in my ear, 'Step away from the keyboard. Now. And get you to a tranquil place.' I walked along the canyon rim, listened to the stream below, patted the trees as I passed them, and thought about all my good dogs.
When I came down the trail at the base of the falls, I looked up to see a big black dog—a Doberman pinscher—a young, beautiful female like Mosie had been—just standing there in the water. I've seen a lot of dogs up here—pitbulls, shepherds, labs, retrievers and every kind of mix you can think of, but this is the first time I've ever seen a purebred dobie. It crossed my mind to ask her person—seated comfortably on a large boulder above the stream—if I could pet her. But I didn't. I just stood and watched her for awhile.
The experience was haunting, as if in writing about Mosie, I had conjured this apparition. And it was validating. This book has been difficult to write, and I have had to take up arms against my own self-doubt every time I sit down to write again. But it's what I'm supposed to be doing. I knew that for certain as soon as I saw her.

Cheaters usually prosper....

Please click here for the original source of this photo.
Congratulations to Chris Horner on winning the 2011 Tour of California (because all he had to do in Sunday's final stage was not let anyone get more than 38 seconds ahead of him—well done, Chris, Team RadioShack, and Matt Busche, who looked like a young Chris Horner as he gave 110% to get Chris and Levi where they needed to be in the race on Saturday and Sunday).
And my condolences to Horner as well. His glory will now be tarnished, the wind sucked from the sails of victory, by allegations of doping in professional cycling. Again. In all the years that Chris quietly worked to bring other teammates like Levi Leipheimer to the podium, no one questioned his lifestyle. Now that he's a champion, people will murmur behind his back. The words sound something like this: "He's probably doping like the rest of them."
I have written in the past about Lance Armstrong (6 June 2010), about not being a starry-eyed fan as I followed his career. Last week, several days before Sunday's "60 Minutes" interview with Tyler Hamilton about his federal grand jury testimony regarding the use of performance enhancing substances in professional cycling, Lance posted a message on Twitter. The gist of it was this: In 20 years of cycling and 500 drug tests, I never tested positive. "Enough said." Hmm, I thought at the time. Not enough said. Saying you've never had a positive result is not the same as making the declaration, 'I'm not concerned about these allegations because I've never used performance enhancing substances.'
Let me interject a brief education here for my non-cycling-enthusiast friends. The term "performance enhancing drugs" is a misnomer. The substances named in the allegations are not "drugs" in the sense that we think of them but rather those chemicals which are already found naturally in the body, such as Human Growth Hormone, Testosterone, and a rider's own blood (withdrawn pre-race and then secretly transfused back into the exhausted rider's bloodstream, replacing the depleted blood with fresh and lively red blood cells). These practices are banned, of course, by the authorities who govern professional cycling. Tyler Hamilton mentioned that Lance Armstrong used these aids "in preparation" for the Tour de France, not during, but I think the poor bedeviled man was splitting hairs in order to find some way to not be the world's most hated whistle-blower. Too late, my friend.
Regarding Tyler Hamilton: Someone, please, keep an eye on him. By his body language alone, it is clear that he is deeply distressed, so awash in emotional pain that he is hurting physically as well. I have no doubt that he is suffering monumental depression. Someone, please, watch over him and keep him safe. I would applaud him for his courage in coming forward… had he done so of his own volition. (He was subpoenaed by the court; he gave his testimony reluctantly and only after assurance of exclusion from prosecution.) Keep teaching those young guys how to ride, Tyler. You've a long way to go, but like anyone, you do have the opportunity to redeem yourself if you work hard enough.
Hamilton said that when he was offered performance enhancers, it was with the lure of being able to step up his game, ascend to the next level. He'd worked so hard for so many years to get to that point, and he could see it… just one step over a thin line. In his mind's eye, he saw glory and adulation, and he reached out to grab it.
And it is my position that we should all be held accountable for his error in judgment. This is what occurs when we raise our children to believe that fame and fortune are the only goals of value in life. If you don't agree that we teach them that every day, turn on your TV set. Nobody is anybody unless he or she is winning big or earning big.
Do Tyler's revelations change the way I feel about professional cycling? No, not really. We weathered this storm with baseball, for the most part, and I still find the game fascinating and thrilling. I loved Mark McGwire, too, and despite his eventual admission of guilt (if you can call it that) regarding steroid use, I'm pretty sure we'll never know the whole story there, either, just as we won't with Lance Armstrong. Keep in mind, before there was steroid use, there was pine tar. My point is that, wherever athletes strive to be the "best," you're going to find those who are willing to cheat. This is no different than the day-to-day world we live in. People cheat every day—on the diets, their taxes, their significant others. I'm no longer horrified by those who make such choices. In fact, I feel a certain amount of compassion for them. As I said, for some folks, the pressure to 'be somebody' is overwhelming these days.
My guess is by now Chris Horner has been asked about a hundred times in the last two days what he thinks of the current doping scandal and whether he's ever used banned substances. He will be asked these same questions again—a thousand or so times—when he competes in the Tour de France in July, and that's unfortunate. Someone, please, just ask him how it feels to be one of the oldest guys out there still competing on this level… and maybe what he ate for breakfast.

Two Heroes: 2011 Amgen Tour of California Mt Baldy

Photo courtesy of the Amgen Tour of California website
My friend Matt Davis once told me that I was doomed to live single. His contention was that I would never find a man who would sit and watch the Tour de France with me but also go to poetry readings. So far, he's been right….
Of course when Billy Collins deigned to make a rare California appearance, it had to be on the same date as the most exciting day of the year for me, the day a stage of the Tour of California came to Mt. Baldy. Of course. Murphy's Law strikes again. When I declined the ticket my daughter bought for me, I felt as if I were choosing between two heroes—Billy Collins or Levi Leipheimer. And yes, I realize how unique that makes me in the world, and no, it does not console me.
I say all this as prelude to my description of sitting yesterday with a group of warm, funny, cheerful Mt. Baldy folk who knew nothing of bicycle stage racing before our adventurous afternoon began, but who tried excitedly to educate themselves as the hours wore on and we watched the race progress online (via live coverage on Radio Shack's Race Tracker). From time to time during the day, as we shared communal chips, guacamole and apple pie and chatted about water rights on the mountain and how much snow was still up top, my mind would be distracted as I envisioned my daughter—who will begin a Master of Fine Arts program in the fall because she is a fine poet in her own right—standing and chatting with Billy Collins after that evening's reading. At some point, I wished I'd thrown one of Billy's books in my bag. Two years ago when the same group of people invited me to join them for a Leonard Cohen concert in L.A., Tamara had brought along a book of Cohen's musings, reading them aloud to us on the car ride into the city. Yesterday, in quieter moments, I imagined myself reading to my neighbors "Shoveling Snow with Buddha." These are the fantasies that swirl in the mind of a writer. We learn early in life to keep them to ourselves.
For months prior to yesterday's stage, on my drives to and from work, I would scan the race route, trying to figure out where the Best Spot would be to watch Stage 7. I finally decided on my buddy Vince's driveway, as it fronts the highway at nearly the top of The Dreaded Switchbacks, and also because I enjoy Vince's company. (When I'd asked if I could watch the race from his place, he casually remarked that he'd probably be playing tennis that day, but he'd leave me a key to his cabin in case I needed anything. I had to convince him that this bike race might be kind of a big thing.)
So there we were at Vince's, seated comfortably in lawn chairs, watching hundreds of spectators and recreational cyclists mill around. Our normally quiet and peaceful mountain was abuzz with commotion. It was a gorgeous spring day with warm sun and clean mountain air. When stage coverage began online, Vince brought out his laptop and began to give us updates. "They're on Glendora Mountain Road!" There was a break-away of eight riders trying desperately to stay ahead of the peloton, but they only had two minutes on the rest of the pack, and eventually most of them would fall away.
When the riders were on the return route along Glendora Ridge Road, we began to get excited. By now Tamara was holding the laptop, and she gave us updates based on locations we knew. "They're passing Cow Canyon Saddle!" Since our location was so strategic, we'd amassed a small group of cycling fans and professional photographers who were waiting to make noise or shoot pictures as the cyclists came into view. We kept them apprised of the riders' progress and in turn they exchanged insider information with us. One of the photographers was on staff for Team HTC and used to ride with Chris Horner. And yes, he replied to my question, he really is as great a guy in "real life" as he seems to be when interviewed on TV.
The riders sailed through Mt. Baldy Village in a matter of seconds, and then we knew they were just minutes away. CHP vehicles rolled up the switchbacks in advance, lights flashing, loudspeakers squawking, warning fans to stay off the road, the riders were coming. I know I asked Tamara to the point of being annoying if she could see (in the glare of the computer screen) if a rider in yellow was near the front of the pack. I wanted to know that Chris Horner and Levi Leipheimer would be the first riders we'd see. They weren't. They were third and fourth, so consequently, I snapped photos of the first two guys (hangers on from the break-away), and just started cheering along with everyone else when Chris and Levi rode by ten feet away. They were together, with Chris drafting off Levi, and they rode the final two miles of the grueling ascent that way, Levi leading his teammate and friend up the last steep incline. The minute they were past us, Tamara continued to call out updates as the crowd—bless their hearts—cheered for every single rider in the same way they'd cheered for the leaders.
By the time they reached the ski lift parking lot, Chris and Levi were alone on the road, the next rider many seconds behind. As they pulled up to the finish, Chris reached out and patted Levi on the back as a gesture of thanks. Levi reached back and they touched hands. This, in cycling, is a universal signal. It meant that Chris would "give" Levi the stage. He would allow him to roll ahead unchallenged to take the win and all the glory that came with it, because they'd ridden together all day, Levi helping Chris to keep his overall standing of race leader. It was a tremendous and heroic ending to an incredible day.
As it turns out, my kid did end up chatting with Billy Collins, just as I'd imagined it. Yep, that's her.  Wow...
Aah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyesAnd leaning for a moment on his shovelbefore he drives the thin blade againdeep into the glittering white snow.
From "Shoveling Snow with Buddha," by Billy Collins


2011 ToC Stage 6: One for the record books

Photo courtesy of the Amgen Tour of California official  website.It only took me a few minutes this morning to find my journal from 2005 and hunt up the July 4th entry on David Zabriskie. Two days prior, Zabriskie had won a time trial in the prologue stage of the Tour de France, thus having the honor of beginning the Tour wearing the yellow jersey. Back then, he was only the third American to have worn the maillot jaune, after Greg Lemond and Lance Armstrong. (George Hincapie would wear it the following year, making him the fourth.) Here's how my entry for July 4, 2005 reads:
"Today a young man from Utah, David Zabriskie, wears the yellow jersey. He is only 22… and beat Lance by 2 seconds in the prologue time trial… so Lance—bless his heart—gave him a tip for yesterday's stage: 'Don't get any further back than 20 guys.' So Zabriskie made that his goal, and kept the yellow jersey, and he wears it again today!"
Of course, it was Lance Armstrong who went on to win the TdF that year—for the 7th time. But for awhile, the soft-spoken man who has now made California his home was proud to wear the yellow jersey for a few days.
I recalled all of this yesterday as I watched David Zabriskie push himself across the line in Stage 6 of the Tour of California. For those unfamiliar with stage particulars, in a time trial, riders compete against the clock, leaving a start house at one-minute intervals, riding as fast as they can to a finishing point (but having no one to 'help' in terms of drafting). The man with the fastest time wins. Yesterday, for Stage 6, it was David Zabriskie. Though Levi Leipheimer holds the record for that particular time trial, he could not beat Zabriskie's time. Neither could Chris Horner. And while Horner still has the fastest time overall, Zabriskie can take away a stage win in the ToC—and a new course record in the time trial.
And now, my friends, the day has come. As I write this, it is 4:30a.m. I can still feel the electricity that was in the air last night on Mt Baldy. Of course, part of that electricity was bristling tension from Baldy cabin owners who lost all water pressure at 7:00 last night. Seems the work crew setting up tents uses water in 55-gallon drums for ballast. They turned off our main water supply so they could use their hoses to fill the drums. So I was happy to speed off on an adventure with neighbor Rob in which I impersonated—not for the first time—a member of the water board up here. Well, I actually was a member of the board up until last fall, so it wasn't that big of a truth-stretch. And the crew members were cheerfully compliant. Rob turned the big valve and water was restored. Whew. It's nice to be able to shower and make tea.
Meanwhile, there are crazy people camped in odd spots all over the mountain. Rob and I laughed about some people who had a camper set up and lawn chairs situated inches from the highway and were just sitting there, watching—as if the arrival of the peloton was imminent. And on the way home yesterday, I saw a big pick-up truck dragging a boat up the mountain. Apparently no one told those fans that Baldy doesn't have a lake.
I'm sure the morning will hold more opportunities for adventure as I wander among those who spent last night down at Snowcrest Inn or over in the campground.
Most exciting, though, is that Chris Horner still holds first place, so he'll be wearing the golden-colored leader's jersey—easy to spot if he is the first rider pushing his way up the switchbacks a few hours from now.  I can already hear Phil Liggett saying, "Well, the wildflowers are blooming in Mt Baldy as we prepare for Stage 7 of the Amgen Tour of California!"

2011 Amgen T o C Stage 5: The most sagacious wins!

This photo comes from the official Amgen Tour of California website.

Slovakian Peter Sagan, winner of the Best Young Rider in last year's T o C at age 20, won yesterday's stage in an impressive display of rider savvy. While others were expending every bit of energy to try to get across the line, he tucked himself in nicely in the slipstream of the big boys during the final yards, then saw his chance and leaped out to win. Nice.
There's a story on Sagan's Wikipedia page (which, by the way, has already been updated to reflect his stage win yesterday) that tells of his winning the Slovak Cup while riding a bicycle he borrowed from his sister. Seems a sponsor had promised to send him a bike, so Peter sold his. But the new bike didn't arrive in time for the race. So—"Riding the supermarket bike with poor brakes and limited gear, he won the race."
Yesterday's stage of the T o C was quite long and unfortunately there was a pretty big bang up along the road with some bloodied riders being taken off to the hospital. This is what happens when the peloton travels for long miles packed together; legs get tired, reaction time is affected, and sooner or later, someone taps someone's tire or pedal or handlebars. Then the carnage begins.
None of that will happen today. Stage 6 is a time trial in Solvang (and what better place for a time trial than the beautiful rolling hills of Solvang). Just as Wednesday's mountain stage changed everything, today's will shake up the kaleidoscope of leading contenders as well. There are at least a dozen riders who will be in contention for the fastest time at the end of the day.
I was pleased to see Chris Horner and Levi Leipheimer hanging around at the front of the group as the cyclists finished the stage yesterday. Horner still has the fastest time, with Levi in second place by a minute and 15 seconds behind him.
Having said all that—and good luck to all today—I have begun to see the stirrings of The Great Event here on Mt. Baldy. Signs were posted yesterday by race organizers telling fans not to paint on the roads (sidewalk chalk is OK, right?) and not to park "on the roadway" or on private property. If you're coming up here, trust me on this—do not—DO NOT—block side roads or driveways along Mt. Baldy Rd. I don't know who's more intimidating, the Forest Service or cabin owners, but interlopers do not have a pleasant time of it on snow play days.
As for myself, I will be leaving my truck at the cabin and traversing the trails because I know where the best vantage points are. And I must confess—as I watch the riders ascend the dreaded "switchbacks" tomorrow (think Alp d'Huez), I will be hoping to see the rider with #3 on his back leading the way. Oh, #1 would be great, too.

2011 Amgen T o C Stage 4: Wind Beneath His Wings

This is an AP photo.  Click on Chris Horner below to reach the original source.

Surprise, surprise, surprise….
One of the many aspects I love about stage racing is that as the course changes, so do the leaders. Some riders, like Levi Leipheimer, are simply built to win time trials. Others, like Mark Cavendish (and the likes of Ben Swift and Greg Henderson) are built for sprinting. But riders who excel at uphill climbs form a very elite group. Because, let's face it, who really enjoys the lactic acid burn that comes as a result of stomping the pedals against unforgiving resistance for long grueling hours with no relief?
Apparently Team RadioShack had decided that the best strategy for yesterday's incline stage was to go out fast and hard upon reaching the mountain, then just be ruthlessly relentless until pretty much the rest of the peloton had dropped away. To a large extent, the strategy worked, although there were some hangers-on (like Andy Schleck, who is riding this race with serious determination, despite his goofy, insouciant personality), and a break-away which included Ryder Hesjedal from team Garmin. (Gotta love the name. "Ryder." That's awesome.) By the time the RadioShack boys—specifically Chris Horner and Levi Leipheimer—pulled up to Hesjedal, however, the man was pretty spent, and they passed him as if he'd pulled over into the emergency lane.
Horner kept churning, hell bent for leather, leading Levi up the mountain, with Leipheimer never taking a turn at the front. Finally, Horner dropped him—Oh My Buddha, are you kidding me?—and just kept on going, marching up the mountain like it was a routine Stairmaster workout. At 39, he is the second oldest rider in the race, and he definitely fits the appellation of "old pro." Hurray for the old guys! Horner rolled across the line with no one on his tail, Andy Schleck a not-so-close second.
Congrats to Chris Horner who has been a rock solid rider in the tradition of George Hincapie, giving his all so others could take the glory. Yesterday, the glory was all his, and he now leads the race in overall time.