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Tour de Fat with palm trees? It's hard to imagine, but it happened nonetheless. Once we finally found the park through the fog, San Diego, we discovered you are warm and luscious and lovely, even in October, making your bicycle parade tropically wonderful, even if it segmented itself quickly like a caterpillar. Under the shining sun, Andrew, in fact, got separated from the group and came the closet he's ever been to dying when an angry San Diegan woman lost her patience with his Saturday morning frivolity and buzzed him with her car. He felt the woosh of cold steel death, right there on the streets of your Hillcrest neighborhood, but thankfully came through back to the park safely enough to delight everyone with his recitations of grand literary giants.
San Diego, you came like you knew what you were doing, and got more than you bargained for. The Tour may have engulfed you on your quiet unassuming Saturday (since you hardly seemed to know we were coming), but you made the most of it: you celebrated like you meant it! You gathered round the pedal-powered fan bike and traded off for hours to the tinny beat of someone's small stereo. What a spectacle, especially you Mr. TV Head Dancer!
If nothing else, San Diego, you seem ready for a party at a moment's notice, which is a commendable characteristic, if a dangerous one. The bold claim that you are "America's Finest City" was put to the test, one that you just may very well have passed.
Lovingly and hardly tiring,
Evan P and Andrew
On to Tempe!
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