Folks line the streets and welcome us, as if heroes home from the war. But beware the SuperSoaker kid, there's one in every crowd I retaliate with a 22 oz bottlefull, and an aim to make Schwartzkopf proud. With each new town we enter, anticipation fills the air. What the hell, let's find the bar. But I gotta make a pit stop first, hope the 'kybos' aren't too far.
Some folks come as elaborate teams, with buses they travel in style.
And then there's poor Team Bad Boy, totin' their stereo every mile. This is not the time or place for modesty, we can be normal any time. When we come out of our shells for just one week, too much fun is our only crime. There's no more doubt, to cyclists at least, that this state is far from flat. It's these endless rolling hills of corn that keep us coming back.