“Matti, you have 24 seconds to sign in.”

~Alex Marr to me, as I rolled in REALLY close to the stage sign-in.

“You f***ing c***s!”

~Me, to two Novo Nordisk riders and Stephen Schaefer when, inexplicably, they grabbed fistfuls of brakes going through some swoopy rollers and opened up a forty-foot gap at 30 mph to the peloton right before the turn to the cliff dwellings. Dropped again while feeling good for the dumbest reasons.

“You sonofabitch!”

~Landis Cyclery rider to me as I attacked the gruppetto gruppetto climbing out of the cliff dwellings.

“Redbull or coke?”

“Both.”

~Me, to Tony in the team car. 250 mg of caffeine sure is a ride.

“Did everyone make it? Is everyone alive?”

~Robert, the 76-year-old kind owner of the host house, after we crossed the finish line.

Sorta Robert, Sorta.

“You got a sticky bottle? So that’s how you almost caught me. Lol, I still beat you by 13 seconds in the overall Diesel Daddy.”

~Henry didn’t know how close he was to getting stabbed.

“Too blessed to be stressed.”

~A sign in Silver City

“How did it go?”

“After I stop feeling suicidal ideation about my performance, maybe we can talk about it.”

“Oh, so it went well.”

~Me, to Howdyshell over text. Self-loathing is a hell of a drug.

“Danger – High Hopes.”

~A poster in Silver City that grimly summarizes my life.

“More chips, please.”

~Team Rio at La Cocina post-race. Collectively, we had six baskets of chips and salsa before our main meal arrived.

“Are you going to eat that?”

~Ethan and I, hungrily watching Tony attempt to eat his one-pound burger like junkyard dogs.

“Of course, someone forgot something. Some people’s kids.”

~Tony to me, after we discovered a certain rider forgot their toiletry kit at my in-law’s house in Albuquerque.