Armstrong

I live above the Homestar. A very trendy coffee shop for all the very trendy middle age folks who like soy milk, over priced retro furniture, and apparently Lance Armstrong a little too much. This morning I woke up as I do on Saturday mornings, early. Saturday being my only early shift and my Friday to boot, I usually have to hit snooze until I hear a bus go by and realize that it might have been mine. This morning, however, I awoke to screaming cyclists instead. 6:30 in the am. I tossed, I turned. It was worse then the bar traffic come closing time next door. It was coffee shop, ass early, trendy cyclists traffic. Forced out of bed two hours before my actual alarm, I was intrigued and pissed. What kind of party are these people having? Is exercise really a cause to celebrate? Has the mid life crisis really come to this?
When I went downstairs it was yellow. Children, Women, Men, all in yellow watching the tour. Weird coffee guy Paul had set up a television set and had his Lance Armstrong bracelet on. It was LA mania. Maddening, but a bit amusing, so I stayed awhile. I read the paper for the most part but found my eyes creeping up whenever they cheered. I am in general a bit of a sport's enthusiast and can appreciate the typical Gatorade commercial, but these people were over the top. One guy had sharpie markered his bald head in block letters to read, ARMSTRONG. A very trendy 30 something had her hair in ribbons, one read, arm, the one read, strong. All of this I thought, all of this before 8 on a Saturday morning. Shit. I am in my twenties and I don't get this pumped about anything, not even in decent hours. It was as if Lance Armstrong gave these people some sort of hope. Some union. Some reason to be happy. And it wasn't as depressing as I originally made it out to be. It was kind of sweet actually.
As I looked around at the LL Bean clad mother, the fanny pack guys, and the J Crew singles I realized that maybe there is more to it than soy milk and Eddie Bauer, maybe the midlife yuppie knows something I don't. I mean hell, they were all genuinely happy right there and then. Maybe I need a Lance Armstrong, a belief, a faith of sorts. Or maybe, I need a thicker floor and a spine. Who's to say. I just know that a yellow jersey and spandex now represents a whole new facet in the midage bracket of my mind, one I enjoy watching, but fear returning to.