It was almost exactly a year ago today that I spent an afternoon hunched over that barely paved precursor to triage known as the Col de Peyresourde. I watched scores of seasoned cyclists step off their bikes and either lay down on the side of the road, or walk in bike shoes. Grown men were taking off their shirts and taking naps next to the nearby stream, cursing the signs along the climb noting the number of miles to the top and the average gradient of the road.

Long freaking day in the saddle, folks.

In watching the Track and Field Olympic Trials this past week, I was constantly struck by the inordinate amount of attention dedicated to the sprint events. Tyson Gay's cramp in the 200 received more air time than the Men's 10,000 meter final, Alyson Felix's desperate desire to qualify in the 200 after failing in the 100 was treated as a national emergency, and NBC just couldn't get enough of those sprint heats, showing every last one of them ad infinitum.

Babbitt writes to remind me that "Mondays with Marty" really doesn't have quite the same punch if I'm not filing until Tuesday. Alas, he's right. I'm going to start writing my missives on Sunday night so that they post early Monday morning. From the feedback I've been getting, it seems that a number of you have begun to check in on a regular basis, and I owe you the courtesy of being prompt. So hang with me, I'm getting into a nice rhythm with all this.

Just as Christmas comes each December, and with it the anticipation and joy of the season, so the Tour de France comes each July. For what seems like forever, this means I get on a plane a week from now and fly to Paris, rent some sort of fast sturdy vehicle, and head off to find my press credential. Then I spend the next 23 days chasing the bike race around France. The month of July and road-tripping around France are synonymous in my mind, so much so that it seems weird to be staying home this year.