Lance.

"Shit." I should have gotten on the freeway -- 12th St. is a little farther down than I realized. I'm still new to Austin.

It was because of that mistake, though, that I saw him coming from a football field away: a hardcore cyclist, looking like the pitchman for Chiquita Bananas decked in all yellow, in the highest of high tech gear. From the thousand dollar bike, to the sleek helmet, to the tight shirt and even tighter shorts, it was yellow, yellow, yellow, like he was leading the Tour de France.

"Who does this guy think he is?" I remember thinking to myself. "Lance?"

It was raining outside. Couldn't the dude just wait to go gallivanting around Austin on his bike? "All right, Lance," is what I would have said in a mocking tone had there been anyone else in the car.

And then, he got closer. And closer. And closer. I was sitting at a red light on the feeder, just east of I-35. The Lance wannabe was cruising underneath the overpass, directly towards me. Closer. Closer.

And then, all of the sudden, he wasn't getting closer; he was just close. And that's when I realized that it wasn't "Lance." It was LANCE. Without quotes.

It IS Lance. Lance Freaking Armstrong!

"HOLY SHIT!" is what I would have screamed to the world had any of its six billion inhabitants had been in the car next to me.

But I didn't yell a thing, even though my window was already rolled down, and I was less than ten feet away from the guy. I was stunned. My mouth was wide open, and not a sound escaped between my lips. It was like my voice was an unintelligent dog who doesn't realize he can just push the kennel door open, and remains in captivity when freedom is but a nudge away. Anything I'd ever wanted to say to him, I had the chance at this moment. And I... I... I...

I just drove away. The light turned green at the very moment I realized it wasn't "Lance," but Lance, and almost immediately the goosebumps took over my body. They are the goosebumps that come from encounters with greatness, whether in the flesh, or through a story, or a TV screen, a song or a book. The goosebumps of greatness. My jaw was so floored that it practically hit the accelerator for me, powering my car away as I stared at his tired, focused face in the side mirror, until he was gone.

Within 10 seconds I was on the phone with Chase in D.C.

Chase: "Hello?" (in his quiet, "I'm at work, can't you just text me this?" voice)

Me: (before Chase even gets to the second syllable of "hello") "OH MY GOD I JUST SAW LANCE ARMSTRONG RIDING HIS BIKE UNDER THE FREEWAY!!"

Something tells me the people working in his vicinity heard the news at the same time as Chase.

I used a similar opener in the conversations that followed shortly thereafter with Tom, Tener and Wes' voicemail.

Everyone's question was, "Does he live in Austin or something?"

Uhh.... yeah.

Lance and Matthew McConaughey: two of the three reasons why all the ladies want to move to Austin.

This guy: the third reason.

"It's too bad Wes wasn't with you," Tom said. "He loves to yell, 'This isn't the Tour de France!' whenever he sees dudes in all their bike gear like that. In this case, it would have been extremely ironic.

"Or you could have just screamed at him, 'The first cut is the deepest!'" he continued after we reminisced about other things Wes has yelled at innocent passersby (whenever the tour of prospective UVa students was being led around dorms, he'd scream, "F*** THE TOUR!!").

"'The first cut is the deepest'?" I asked.

"That's what people used to scream outside his hotel when he was in the midst of breaking up with Sheryl Crow. That's her song."

Baaaaaby, I knew that already, duh.

Tener hit it on the head, though: "Of course, for the next 24 hours, all you're gonna do is think about what you could have said."

So true. It consumed me the rest of the day at work. And, obviously, it's still consuming me now, eight hours later.

Maybe I would have congratulated him on the recent news that he got his wife pregnant, one ball and all, something he never thought possible, which the mightily expensive in vitro bills he's had to pay can attest to.

Or then again, maybe I would have just yelled something about how his new wife must be cheating on him, and that it'd be easier to win seven Tour titles than impregnate anyone with goods as damaged as his own.

Actually, no, wait, I've got it.

"F*** THE TOUR!!!"

Thanks, Wes.