Heavy Sighs & Returns

Well, we’re back from Indiana, and I’m hitting the ground running like a freshly excreted dog turd onto a frosty spring lawn.

The four-day trip into America’s heartland of COVID negligence for a soccer tournament was better than I thought (in that it happened at all) and just as bad as I thought (aforementioned negligence, combined with COVID fuckedupedness and guilt).

I’ll explain a bit.

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Lack of Time

My time to get out for some junk miles has been very limited as of late due to weather and time, mostly time. There has been too much going on this week, including a 3 day trip to Indiana for the Crossroads of America College Showcase soccer tournament, that at this point (7:30 AM Thursday), we still don’t know if we’re going because of COVID related issues with 1/4 of the team.

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The Chronicles of Meh

My newfound custom of getting up early continued on Sunday, and with that, I got a shit ton of stuff done, including baking some crispy, crunchy toasted homemade muffin bread and installing an Ortleib bag bracket on the Fattishson (The Roscoe’s current name before it becomes a 29er in the future). 

Then I decided to ride.

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So, it’s April

I woke up early this morning 75 pounds lighter, with no signs of depression in sight, a real job to go to, and a spring in my step as my about to be fully vaccinated self danced down the steps towards a hot cup of morning coffee. 

Yeah, April fools. The vaccination part is true1, and the coffee was hot, but the rest is all lies. LIES, I SAY!! FUCKING LIES!!!

Sorry.

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That Saturday Feel

Saturday had no Saturday feel. Why, you ask? No footy to watch. Sure, there was World Cup Qualifying, but no game really spoke to me, and other than the England squad, footy on the world stage lacks the drama and top-class screenwriting of the Premier League; from the BIG 6 all the way down to the bottom three fighting for survival due to the beauty of Promotion/Relegation. Sigh.

So, with a so-called “Saturday” at my disposal, I returned to the Forest Hill Nature Area with my Nikon Z6 camera, a 500mm 600mm lens, a vintage macro lens, and Wifey.

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The Birds & The Weeds

For some reason, I was up at 6:15 on Tuesday morning. I really don’t know why; all I know is that the longer I laid there, the more I thought about other, more constructive things I could be doing. That’s quite a change from two months ago when I was on the cusp of filling out my application to be a professional bed layer. A position I feel I would have excelled at!

I’d like to give big props to the O.G. Mindbender and Mindbender II (The Wrath of Kahn) for getting me out of bed and back feeling like myself again.

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The First Mile’s The Hardest Mile

After last Sunday’s aborted ride due to the gusting wind and cool morning temps, I was convinced that not riding my bike (outside) for 5 months just may have crushed my fitness into a fantastical memory never to be relived in any form. “I WILL NEVER RIDE MY BIKE AGAIN!!” I proclaimed in grandiose hyperbolic thought as I returned Mr. Burgundy to his home in the garage. 

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Over the Moor

Imagine, if you will, the opening credit montage of an early 1990’s British crime series on BBC America. I, the unassuming sheep farmer/pub-goer turned amateur photographer/mystery sleuth, make my way across the green moors of the English countryside with a jaunty spring in my step and a small film camera around my neck as my rambunctious border collie runs ahead doing border collie type stuff. I stop and look out at the rolling green hills in front of me; the camera pans the scene in my gaze before zooming in on my face and a twinkle in my all-knowing sleuthly eye as I light my pipe filled with 100% legal in the State of Michigan kush tobacco and then take a photo with my little jank camera.

Now imagine that absolutely none of that happened.

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