(Written by the back half of a tandem in last year's Harvard-Wellesley Bike Race.)

It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon here outside Soliders Field. Tension is mounting as the starting time for this twenty-year old classic drawns near. The forty racers are getting excited, but I'm calm. Yes sir, like a rock from conditioning. All muscles and guts. Staying power. That's me.

Three minutes more till post time.

I'm limbering up my magnificent legs. We're sure to win this year, even though competition is stiff. Our tandem is equipped with rags, flags, oil water, soda, and scotch. And pills. We're both wearing white Bermuda shorts and pale blue sweaters. Our socks are crimson.

We've just been informed that we have a handicap of minus fifteen. I don't know what this means yet so I'll keep limbering up.

Great thunder I'm shot! I'm wounded! ...I'm sorry. They were testing the starting gun. Sneaky little beggars, these outing club boys. So hairy, too.

Woops! There it goes again. The first division, the American balloon tire, no gear, bikes just left. My stomach feels tight, but I'm calm. I'll limber up.

Ha! I didn't jump that time. Those were the touring bikes. Just lots of those three gear jobs. All clean and wholesome looking.

Now, there go the racers. Those are the boys to watch. Goggles, pedal straps, backs bent, fifteen gears.

My word, what happened to us. Just a minute. It seems that out handicap meant we start fifteen minutes after the rest. Absurd. We're good, but not that good.

Ralphie is ready (he's my front half). I've just pinned the road map on his back. I shout directions and encouragement as we go. The bike is a sturdy Schwinn. We're ready. Just one more limbering up. My, that feels good.

I hope the little hairy man won't hold the gun too close to me. Beastly little creature. He's looking at us--woops, we're off.

Away, away we're bound for Wellesley. It's so much fun. What's that Ralph? Of course, I had forgotten to pedal. Silly of me.

People waving, screaming, "Go get em!" We will, sonny, don't you worry. Stupid girl, pointing at my knees. My word, I think I'm beginning to perspire. Vulgar.

Racing down Boylston Street. Most cars are stopped, but some...look out you crazy idiot. I need a pill.