I'd punch him right in the fucking mouth.

"If I met the man who designed this road, I would punch him right in the fucking mouth."

It was 100 degrees outside, and I mean that in the literal sense. Three fucking digits. I was riding my bicycle in a group of four. Me and the usually-fastest guy were off the front. We went ahead of the group and mostly attacked the hills in a spirited surge. As a group, we'd been averaging one hundred miles per day. Three fucking digits, baby.

For the first 80 miles or so, Stuart was stronger. He'd pull ahead, someone else would fall behind, and we'd all meet up whenever - usually near food or water. Today we were in the Ozark mountains. The steep climbs were numerous brick walls between our bicycles and the end of the day. I tried to sustain the momentum of each descent to bring me to the top of the next climb. Everybody was carrying a load of cooking and camping gear on their bicycle, not to mention clothing and tools to fix anything. After about 80 miles or so, I was better able to keep up at the front. Me and Stuart were more or less evenly matched by then.

"If I met the man who designed this road, I would punch him right in the fucking mouth." I said it with mock disdain as I shook my fist in the why-I-oughta manner.

We had sweat in our eyes, we couldn't drink enough water, and we were on the 95th mile of the day. We both started laughing too hard to keep momentum. We climbed hills and we volleyed nonsense. It's one of my favorite memories.