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 at least Mike retained his humour

 Thursday (29 October 1995) morning, while everyone else was typing on their keyboards, pushing paper from the in box into the out box, or pipetting acid solutions, Mike Dolenga and Phil Davis went for the last of the season's hill climbs.

 "Come on, Phil. This is our last chance at Blakesly Hill before the winter", Mike argued. "Besides, the others will wimp out on me", he added.

 So I conceded in another of Mike Dolenga's warped ideas and found myself riding towards South Hill in search for one Andrejs' notorious "horrible-hills-that-start-with-B". The ride down was enough to put the fear of God into you. A sign, 5 mi/hr posted before a switch-back said it all. If I had tubulars on, I'm sure that my overheating rims would have melted the glue before I had reached the bottom.

 After a little aerobic warm up at the bottom, Mike lead the assault on Blakesly Hill like the British infantry on the Plains of Abraham (the last battle that claimed Canada for the English). Half way up, Mike's gears ground to a halt. When I passed him, he was standing over his bars, head down, trying to suck in enough oxygen to feed his growing anaerobic debt.

 "My heart is goin' a mile-a-minute", Mike manages to say between gasps. "Come on Mike, we're almost half way up".

 Mike never let me forget that I was a "wimp" for buying a road bike with a 26 tooth freewheel. Blakesly Hill was one of those occasions, that I'm glad I did.

 While I waited at the top for Mike's screaming quadriceps to catch up, I muched on a delicious fudge brownie (sorry no PowerBars today). In the distant, I thought I made out a sequence of primal noises that sounded like:

 "thud, ahhhhhhhhhhhh!"

 I looked down the road and didn't see him. The sun was shining, and the last of the crimson oak leaves were glimmering on the far hills. I returned to my fudge brownie, savouring the last morsel. After a swig of water, I decided to roll back down and investigate the source of the noise.

 When I found Mike, he had the grimacing look of Indurain. He limped his bike to a gravel driveway and inspected the damage. I could tell that his ergo shifter was bent in. Mike was also wearing a fashionable assortment of wet leaves and road grime.

 " #$%@. 'couldn't clip in on time. ' hurt my *^#!$& back!"

 "Very noble of you to protect your Pinerello frame with your body" "Damn right", was all he said. At least Mike's funny bone wasn't damaged.

 If that wasn't enough for the future VP racing.... Mike hit quite a bump at the bottom of a King road 'whoop-de-doo' that sent his unforgiving saddle into his gonads. We had to stop again so that Mike could dislodge his testicles from his throat. Then he said, "just call me Michelle" in a high voice and I knew that at least his humour was still intact.

 If anyone deserves the Purple Heart of cycling, it would be Mike Dolenga.