It’s been a while since I had a plan or a goal when it comes to my riding and/or racing. The last time I had a plan was probably back in 2011. We moved to Michigan in the fall of 2010 and my goal for the coming season was simply to race as much as I could so I could get a read on the scene, the riding and the trails. And that’s what I did…
I briefly mentioned in the opening paragraph of my last blog post that I made baked ziti for Wifey on Saturday to celebrate Valentine’s Day, what I didn’t mention was that while Wifey loved it, I wasn’t thrilled with it. For some reason I love Italian food but anytime I use red sauce I am left wishing I had made something else [also mentioned in the post Crush Pasta IV]. Sadly, my Valentine’s ziti was no different and I found it a sort of just “there.”
Whenever I feel I could have done a better job on a meal, especially something as simple as baked ziti, I try to make up for it as soon as possible. And that’s what I did today, poo-pooing Americanized Italian comfort food and embracing the Mediterranean flavors of Sicily.
I woke up today around 8 a.m. when Wifey came in the bedroom to fetch her eye glasses. I assumed she had been by my side all night, but it turns out she fled the room at some point, claiming that it got “too hot” in the bedroom. Since it was roughly -15˚ outside, I doubt that was true and this was most likely her way of telling me that the baked ziti I made for our Valentine’s Day celebration had taken the form of a vile, warm, humid gaseous cloud of digested red wine, garlic and sausage and had exited my flabby rears way too much though the night and had caused her to seek refuge elsewhere. Much apologies to my ginger haired, bosomy Valentine of what is now 20 years. You deserve better…much, much better. But I’m sure you know that already.
The other day I proclaimed the words “I’m hoping to get outside and do something–ANYTHING–in the coming days.” Today I am forced to exclaim “SHITBALLMOTHERBUCK!” Because that just hasn’t happened and I am filled with a seething hate as intense as a thousand, blistering suns.
OK, not really, not at all.
To say this week was less than stellar for “real” riding would be an understatement. My week thus far has consisted of three rides on the trainer and one “run” on the treadmill. In other words it was a week of shitty, fake exercise.
My mid-winter blog posts generally fall into four possible topics: riding my fatty outside, cooking up grub, riding the trainer, or Jake (the dog). The first of those topics is only mildly interesting, even to my closest of friends and family (even that is a stretch). The other three topics could surely be left unwritten about by me, especially on what purports itself to be a cycling blog. Well, since I didn’t ride outside today, I figured, I’d go ahead and talk about all three of those other things. Like they say, if you throw enough shit (or in this case shitty blog topics) against a wall, something is bound to stick.
I am forty-three years old. That means that I’m getting older, as well as saggier, fatter and harrier in all the wrong places. It also means that I have endured forty-three winters. I’m not sure how many wet, slush filled shoes, slips on ice, scraped car windows, shoveled driveways and bouts of uncontrollable cuss-filled shivering that adds up to, but I’m sure it’s a lot.
After I write a blog post, in a crap attempt at proof reading to make sure it sounds even a little bit correct, I find myself reading it out loud. I hate doing that because I really hate my voice. If you’ve ever heard any of the XXC Magazine podcasts, you know exactly what I’m talking about. My voice sort of sounds like a pubescent teenage boy (or girl) with a twist of Quentin Tarantino and not one tiny ounce of the talent.
Thursday has quickly become my day to head northward and ride the trails at Hanson (not to be confused with Hanson). It has also become my day to ride with my friend Napper. He co-owns the shop I frequent, and I have no f*cking job, so his work schedule is flexible and mine is non-existent. Thus our partnership in this Thursday (thankfully non-sexual) affair.
The other day during one of my winter dirt road ride rambles I rode by one of the many crop irrigators that have been left to freeze their spouts off in the blustery, wide open Michiganderburgh fields over the winter. I stopped for a moment –perhaps to piss or to stretch out my aging, crap lower back –snapped a pic and then got to thinking how seeing these giant, mechanical, water giving beasts out in the winter makes me sort of sad. It provokes the same feeling I get when I look out my door and see my grill, which I have once again neglected to cover with tarp, covered with several inches of snow and ice. It provokes a feeling of anxious waiting. Waiting for the harsh mid-Michiganderburgh winter to end. Waiting for the return of the momentum halting spring winds, shadeless sun and dry summer air filled with the scent of manure. Sadly there are quite a few more weeks of snow, ice and frigid temps ahead of us before that happens.