It involved two people, one was Charlie and the other was some guy from Big D. There were no serious injuries but at least one bike might have seen its last rodeo.
It happened in front of me, but I didn't really see how it unfolded. Rather than finish, I unclipped to see if everyone was OK.
Soon, a crowd descended upon the scene like flies circling a state park restroom that had gone years without cleaning. Immediately, the chatter what about What Happened. Word couldn't have spread faster on Twitter.
Accusations were made.
Blame was assigned.
"It was [name redacted] who did it!"
"Well, did you see what that guy from [team name redacted] did?"
Reputations were tarnished.
Non-victims shared in the victimhood of victims.
Soy lattes boiled in the stomachs of angry men who were in disbelief at what happened.
Off in the distance, one could see George Tiller and Osama bin Laden, who only moments before had risen from the dead, holding signs advertising a topless car wash at the corner of 95th and Lackman to benefit the Lenexa Optimists Club. But no one at the race could notice as they were trying to identify the Tuesday Night Worlds' Most Hated Man.
Oh yeah, there was a race that happened. We averaged about 25 miles an hour. I hung out mostly in the back.
Good times were had by all.
Well, nearly all.