21 through 32

I have done little in the way of physical activities this week. I can’t really pinpoint the whys and why nots, but it didn’t happen—until today.

I packed up Roscoe, a bottle, my bike box, and headed up to MMCC to ride miles 21 through 32 of Dirt Redux: One Fat Man’s Return to The Joy of Singletrack.

The ride was a brief 11 miles, but I have to admit that this month’s 32 miles of Roscoe riding have been the most miles I’ve ridden off (dirt) road since 2018, AND some of the most enjoyable off-road miles I’ve ridden in years.

Usually, I would chalk this enjoyment up to new bike mojo, but not sure that is the case. I mean, not to sound like a bike snob, but in this case, I’m riding a bike that retails for thousands of dollars less than some of my previous bikes (the Trek Procaliber 9.8 SL, Trek Superfly 100 9.8 SL, Salsa Ti El Mariachi, Salsa Spearfish, Dos Niner, etc., etc.). Not to mention I’m nearly 50 years old now, haven’t weighed this much and rode so little in almost 28 years, and I’ve juggled a series of health problems over the last ten years. These rides should be the worst rides of my life, but they aren’t. Why?

I can only think it has to do with my mental state right now (the good part, not the fucked up part) when it comes to riding my mountain bike.

Thus far, the longest ride I’ve done has been 11 miles. Outside of my Soiled Chamois v.1 post-work rides, there was a day that I would have considered that a fail. Now, I could give a shit; I just want to ride my bike in the woods. There is no training plan, full kit wankerness, or urge to race. I don’t care if I get faster, slower, or croak on the side of the trail. And I sure as hell don’t fancy getting into any velo-pissing contests with other riders. It’s just my fat ass in some stretchy Wal-Mart bought Wrangler “custom made” shorts ¹ over some hole-ridden bibs with a sack blistering chamois, a comfy t-shirt, and a camera stashed away.

If I want to stop at the top of a hill and take a drink of water or snap a photo, I do it. I pick and choose which trails I want to ride and care very little about whether I ride every inch of dirt available before heading home to eat too much, and drink even more. I ride until I don’t feel like riding anymore.

On top of all that mental rub/tug ejaculate, the bike has been feeling great underneath me. The mid-fat 27.5″ wheels/tires, the PSI, the geometry, the lower top tube, etc., It’s been sweet, and I couldn’t be happier. Could it be that I needed “trail bike” geometry all the long, yet forced my body into a “race bike” geometry for years out of wanna-be racer stubbornness? Probably. I’m a fucking moron.

After three rides at MMCC, I’m hoping to hit some other trails this weekend… unless I decide not to. Whatever I want, my slack bitches.

Later.

1. I went through a slight obsession with finding the ultimate stretchy pants for hiking and living large-bellied a while back. I found myself regrettably in Wal-Mart one day and walked out with some Wrangler pants. I dug the pants, but they ended up being too tight for my muscular gelatinous thighs and generously endowed manly bits moose-knuckled mangina for civilian livin’. So I handed them over to Wifey, and the Best Little Feminist Approved Sewing Machine in The World™, and she made them into some Bashful Bodz™ over-shorts. I wish I had them in black. The tan reminds me of those homoerotic tan shorts you see military folk wearing in the 40’s, 50’s, 60’s, 70’s ’80s, ’90s, 00’s movies. No disrespect, just sayin’. In any event, I gots myself a great pair of stretchy “Fuck It!” mountain bike not-so-baggies.