Come and Gone

After Five Years of Busting My Ass in the Belgian gutters, I said goodbye to Flanders knowing that I might never go back. I never did.

I flew back to the U.S. with empty pockets and no contract. For several years, I was unable to watch a Belgian spring classic without a lump in my throat. I died a little bit watching my teammates in the Tour de France in 1992.

Eventually I landed a spot with the Coors Light team. After the years in Europe, though, racing in the U.S. didn't really do it for me. I was never able to rise to the level of dedication I had mustered each day in Europe.

Until I started racing mountain bikes.