Maybe it was an omen? A blur of fur (side note: good name for a chick-punk rock band? I digress) shot out in front of my bike this morning as I descended down Ross Drive in Rock Creek park. My reaction time was delayed due to the hypoxic-fog I was in from having just drilled it up Ross Drive. My feeble VO2 max effort nearly ended with, perhaps deservedly given my lack of commitment to totally suffering going up, me hitting the deck. For a moment I thought I saw Jesus. Maybe it was just the squirrel cursing me in his own little language for trying to dissect his tail. Or maybe not. This is the same place I’ll be racing in two weeks. Is the man up stairs calling me to the desert? Do I have a date with some Cholla to my face? Time to repent.