Last time I climbed Tramway - a big sweeping five miles up a long alluvial fan into the foothills of the Sandias - was with a group of teammates, and my knee ached but we were having fun. And then the next Thursday, Jaime and I did a bunch of steep climbs in the foothills, and on the last one I cracked, my knee hurt so bad I had to stop. I looked up the hill, got back on and finished it that morning, up to the base of the tramway that gave the climb its name. Then there was MRI-surgery-crutches-figuring out how to walk again. My summer of self-pity.

There are few greater joys than ridin' your bike with a bunch of friends. After we hit the top of the long Tramway hill Sunday, on the rolling boulevard back through town, Steve said, "C'mon, let's catch Jaime." Jaime was way ahead, but Steve patiently led me out, slowly accelerating while I sat on his wheel, always glancing back to make sure he wasn't leading me out too fast.

Wth the help of the stoplight at Montgomery, we caught Jaime. And my knee did not hurt.

The Record Challenge is one of north-central New Mexico's little treasures, a tiny Labor Day weekend event rich with tradition. There are people who come from all over the country to ride it, and for good reason: the stretch of road from Moriarty to Estancia and back is the flattest, straightest, fastest 40 kilometer time trial course in the country. Lots of national records have been set here, including the fastest men's and women's 40 k's ever ridden in this country, plus nearly every age group record.

I couldn't ride this year, but ended up about 100 yards up from the finish line with a camp chair and a two-way radio calling out riders' numbers as they rolled by in that painful tunnel that is the finishing stretch of a 40 k time trial.

Three new national records over the two days of racing, the most impressive being Bill Meyers, whose 26:58.57 Sunday broke his own 65+ 20K. And then, for good measure, he came out Monday and did the 40 k in 56:18.03. As Bill McLain pointed out, "The guy is 68 years old!" Ah, to grow old so gracefully.

That's me doin' the thing this morning at the state time trial championships. I got to wave the "slow" and "stop" signs at oncoming traffic out at the turnarounds. A lovely Saturday morning out on the west mesa bossing around cars so the bikes could have the right-of-way.

Kurt Larson was men's state champ at 26:02.

Merrill Sapp and Paula Higgins tied for the women's championship on seconds at 30:45. Bill McLain had to go back to the computer to get the time down to the hundredths. Paula took it by 0.24. Paula and Jerry Kiuttu also took the mixed tandem. Yeah. She raced twice.

The purpose is to push the knee slightly outward, unloading the weight from the outside of the knee where stuff is damaged, carrying weight on the inside of the knee where things are in excellent chape. I'm supposed to wear it during strenuous weight-bearing activity (thankfully not needed for cycling). "Strenuous" currently includes pulling weeds, which I did this morning in the backyard for the first time in a month and a half. Or sweeping the bedroom.

Six weeks out. Early weight-bearing, first steps walking today without the crutches. Just a few small crutchless journeys. I felt as though I could have done more, but I'm trying very hard to be patient. These journeys were quite literally the first time in six weeks that those crutches have been out of arms' reach, except perhaps for the times my friend Paul gave me a ride to work and put them in the back of his pickup. Palpable freedom.

I got the brace yesterday, beginning what I expect to be a lifelong relationship. It gave me the confidence to start the walking, though in truth I don't really need it for that. Its main role is to protect the damaged part of the knee during strenuous exercise. Two logos in full view: U.S. Ski Team on the box and the Arthritis Society on the brace itself. Interesting conjunction of lifestyles.

Physical therapy right now involves endless series of quad contraction exercises of various sorts, a rear guard action in the losing battle against lost muscle mass. And more and more time on the bike: up on the stand with a view out the back window of trumpet vines and hummingbirds and sunflowers. (Note to self: find gardener and kiss her.) I'm finally able to starting pushing enough with my right leg to get my heart rate up, revealing a whole new level of frustration. I've slipped aerobically out of shape.

Work to be done. Work to be done.

I remember when this started. It was the first Saturday in July 1999, and I was home alone watching a network TV feed of the opening day time trial at Puy du Fou, and this brash kid who'd come back from cancer offered us a surprising moment of hope. I cried.

This morning I sat with the two cancer survivors closest to me as the boys lapped the Champs Élysées, and I didn't much think about cancer, which is OK. It is, after all, a bike race:

So how 'bout that Vinokourov? Man he's fun to watch.

You have an enduring cast of characters, faced with daunting challenges and the need for both cooperation and competition. You get to know them over the three weeks of the tour, not so much their human personalities as their cycling ones - the plucky Rasmussen, unassuming in his polkadot jersey, alone in the bunch defending his own unexpected success; the mercurial Vinokourov, at once flying up the mountain and collapsing in a self-inflected heap; the regal Armstrong, the man they love to hate; the darling sidekick Georgie, cute and impish and unexpectedly alone atop a treeless mountain this morning in the Pyrenees, the wristband for his old late chum Fabio adorning his arm; the relentless and ultimately tragic Jan, the winning loser, the magnificent talent for naught; the jack Mennonite Floyd, one of the many former friends of Lance with whom the peleton is littered.

I don't watch NASCAR, but I'm told it has much the same appeal - the same drivers out every Sunday, week after week, shifting alliances and story lines and characters, real and imagined, actual and creations of the storytellers in the media who help it along. Reality TV soap opera.

But when Nora was a baby, and she had a hard time sleeping, I would take her into the living room and put on music softly and cradle her in my arms, dancing around the room.

The record I remember playing most - it was my favorite at the time, I guess - was Bonnie Raitt's Takin' My Time, which I think was in Lissa's half of the record collection back in the early days of our merged lives.

Well I'm guilty, honey I'm guilty, and I'll be guilty for the rest of my life
How come I never do, what I'm s'posed to do
Nothin' I try to do ever turns out right.

The closest I come to dancing these days is when I'm listening to music on the headphones while I crank away on a stationary bike. I've learned a sort of dance step to the music, altering the resistance and the cadence to match the tempo. Which is more of a challenge than it might sound.

Doubly so now that I can only pedal with one leg. Instead of the smooth shimmy, the machine makes this kind of wheezing noise as it spins on the left pedal downstroke, then coasts (clickclickclickclick) as the right pedal rolls through - "No resistance, no weight." But I'm getting it. It's the best I've got right now, so it's what I'll do.

Tonight, I got off the bike all by myself. Lissa was there to spot for me, but no help. Woot.

It is a story that would read like a good novel if it weren't true. A remarkable cast of characters light up the tale. There is the gritty and lovable American Tyler Hamilton ("How could someone who loves his dog so much cheat?" I said to a friend after Hamilton was accused last year of blood doping.), the wildly talented but inevitably unpredictable German Jan Ullrich, the fearless Kazakh Alexandre Vinokourov, the cocky Mennonite Floyd Landis, the teammate who rode at Armstrong's side in victory.

The complex and dark world of European pro cycling provides an almost Dickensian backdrop— a hardscrabble existence where most cyclists make a pittance compared to other pro athletes, where injury rates dwarf those of any other sport.

Back to work all week, working slightly shortened days so I can get enough time in my "bendy buddy" leg-mover machine. So it's pretty much get up, bendy buddy, work, then back in the bendy buddy 'til bedtime. Inspried by Daniel, I'll try to get some snaps of the inside of my knee up this weekend.

1. Lance Armstrong
2. Alexandre Vinokourov
3. Ivan Basso

Strong riders with strong teams. If all it took was a strong rider, I might have picked Floyd Landis higher (a sentimental nod to my Pennsylvania roots). And yes, I picked Vino ahead of Ullrich before I saw Ullrich's performance in today's time trial.

(Warning. Gross anatomical details ahead. Click through if you care.)

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Todd Bauer is one crafty bike racer, and all Ben Delaney could do was smile and admit he'd been outfoxed. It was a hot Tuesday evening in Albuquerque and Delaney, Bauer and 20 or so of their friends were tearing around a Northeast Heights business park at a sometimes alarming rate of speed.

Heading into the race's final two corners, Delaney thought he was in perfect position until Bauer somehow pulled a rabbit out of his bike helmet.

The Tuesday Night Crits is bike racing's version of "shirts and skins" hoops pickup for the town's best riders.