France, France, France

It is so hard to lead a successful imaginary breakaway with so many stop signs and stop lights. Do you have any idea what it feels like to know that the imaginary peloton is closing in on you while you watch the little white man blink and blink and blink? It's agony. So much agony that I decided my only recourse was to head butt Reuben in the chest. Too bad he's not here yet.

By the way, I'm not wearing the yellow jersey because it's stained and there will be no doping scandal on my tour.