It meant leaving work to start a ride at 7pm and finish in the chill of 1am. It meant being sent over the handlebars in the middle of the night, spraining my wrist, and acquiring a little road rash in the process. It meant dealing with rigid and sore muscles for the first ten miles of a ride before they finally loosen up enough to feel normal again. It meant limping around the office with Neosporin helping to heal my nether regions from the saddle sores only to re-chafe them later that evening. It meant withstanding all of the aggression and road rage motorists in Atlanta could muster. It meant riding no less than 3 hours a day the final week for 7 days straight. It meant blowing through 10 tubes, 8 spokes, 4 brake pads, 2 wheels, and over 10 gallons of water while riding. It was suffering for the sake of competition with no reward save that which most benefits us more than money—pride.