I’m driving up the 5 freeway on my way to the Hansen Dam cyclocross race. It’s the only ‘cross race in California that has UCI points on the line, so I figure I can race the Masters category and expense everything by claiming that I had to be up there to take photos and interviews. So I’m getting into my race frame of mind. I got the Scion factory stereo pumping with The Crystal Method and looking to tear legs off when my cell comes to life. The caller ID is a recognizable European number. It was my parents. They live in
“I just got the new issue of ROAD. Did you gain weight? You look fat!”
Quick background on my Dad; he’s an Irish ex-low level pro cyclist. When I was growing up he would give me crap about my weight if he thought I was gaining too much. I never did, it’s just not in the Browne gene pool. We’re like greyhounds: skinny, high-strung and like to nap frequently. However in classic Irish manner, he likes to bust balls given the opportunity.
“No Dad!” But now I’m thinking to myself, “Have I gained weight?”
“Well, how much do you weigh now?”
“I’m 176 pounds, about 80 kilo.” I sometimes have to break it down to him in metrics.
Then he tells me, “And your 6’2.”
“Yes Dad!” Now this is irritating because I’ve been 6’2” for over 20 years. At this moment I know he is busting balls.
A pause, then, “Hmmm….Okay.”
The photo he is referring to is the Standpoint photo that was taken in