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I roll up, tires screechin’, grin wide—*“Here’s Johnny!”* She don’t flinch, just smirks. “Lost, trucker?” she says, voice like gravel. I laugh, “Nah, babe, just huntin’ trouble!” See, findin’ a prostitute ain’t just point A to point B—it’s a damn art. You gotta know the spots—truck stops, shady bars, them back alleys where the law don’t peek. Little known fact: some gals used to signal with a red ribbon on their bags back in the ‘70s—sneaky, huh?

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After that little drama, I head over to the beach. The waves are crashing, and I’m thinking, “This is the life.” But then, I see this kid building a sandcastle. And not just any sandcastle—this thing was a fortress! I’m talking towers, moats, the whole shebang. I’m impressed, but then his little sister comes over and kicks it down. I felt that in my soul, man. I was ready to throw down! But then I remembered, it’s just sand. Kids, right?

Frattini: 2013′s top-10 moments in cycling