Put aside the images of the Kingston Trio's Boston-area rewrite of "The Ship That Never Returned" and think instead of a group of riders, runners, walkers, or drivers following one after the other, or a flock of migratory birds, or any group trying to travel a significant distance, using the strongest to protect the weakest from wind and weather, each member of the group taking a turn at the front to allow the others to recover.

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One of the issues that many of my Type 1 compatriots are often confronted with is the idea that "juvenile diabetes" is restricted to, well, juveniles. That once you turn 18 -- or 21, in some jurisdictions -- your diabetes automatically transmogrifies into Type 2 and you can be cured by exercising three hours a day, losing 10 pounds, and avoiding any food that isn't pure protein. And maybe, taking a cinnamon pill, a bitter melon pill, or whatever the herbal cure du jour might be.

As we all know, that popular myth has about as much truth to it as, umm, the belief that Princess Anastasia is still alive and well and living in the same body she had in 1917. Let me rephrase. The probability that Rasputin is alive and well and living in the same body he had in 1917. (READ MORE)

While the title of this post is a play on the French "Poisson d'Avril" ("April Fools" is called "April Fish"), there's nothing funny about it.

We've heard about folk stealing one or more of Lance Armstrong's bikes, but a whole team's bicycles -- and not just that, but also their spares, parts, and tools?

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Saturday was my friend Scott's Tour de Cure in Minnesota, and my last known day for getting in a long endurance session before my ride on the 13th. With the route already mapped out, we are encouraged to pre-ride it -- in whole or in part -- as part of our pre-event training. I have some logistical issues with that, since most of the time I first have to ride to wherever something is, and then I have to ride home from that training. (READ MORE)

It was bound to happen sooner or later. There's not a cyclist, serious or casual, who has never crashed or wiped out. There's not a person who's never crashed on a training ride. At high speed. Going downhill.

Wednesday night it happened to me.

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"If you miss the train I'm on, you will know that I am gone..."

Unlike the melancholy wanderer in the Hedy West song, my cycling computer was at my right hand as I logged in yesterday's ride (to the doctor's office in one direction, then the supermarket in the opposite direction), and as I scrolled past the odometer, it read 512.4 (miles) -- which was approximately the distance I'd ridden since January first. Now, I'm nowhere fast enough to be part of someone's "lead-out train" at the end of a bicycle race -- much less fast enough to consider having others lead me out. Heck, I'm not even fast enough to consider racing the average ten-year-old (I think). But plugging away at it, bit by bit -- errand by errand -- group ride by group ride (OK, there've only been three of those so far, and during none have I been able to keep with the group) -- I've ridden over five hundred miles, this year alone. (READ MORE)