One bummer thing about cycling is losing good people. Later in August two of the best, nicest people in the South Bay are packing their bags and moving to hell or Michigan.
Eric and Patrizia Richardson made every ride better, and in the leaky prostate crits at Compton, Eric was a regular. Never flashy, often hanging on for dear life with his ankles slapping his spokes, Eric was always good for two or three superman efforts to get you up to the front, help you position in the pack, and most importantly, commiserate with you at race’s end about how much you sucked.
Eric never complained, never talked smack, was a steady wheel and one of those people whose presence in the peloton was a quiet gift except for that time on the way back from the Holiday Ride when he hit some root-buckled pavement in Brentwood and splatted. Thankfully, he was fine.
We’ll miss you two, and hope that your new lives in hell fail miserably and you’re shipped back to sunny SoCal so that we can flog ourselves together again on the NPR.
At the same time we’re losing these two fine people and hell is gaining two great cyclists, we also lost the one and only David Miller. Who is David Miller?
David Miller was the Cat 4 who became a Cat 1 in six months, but who cares about that? What made Dave the man who everyone wanted to be like was his unmatched ability to hammer, recover, hammer some more, drink a keg, hammer some more, keep everyone in stitches with a wit drier than gunpowder, slam another keg, race some more, and post the world’s funniest Facebag comments ever.
He may be a Canadian, he may have returned to Calgary, he may be able to squat my apartment building, but he’ll always be Cat 4 Dave to me.
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