Busch Light on dirt.
My Monday morning was spent in my doctor’s office for a six month check up on my blood thinners and to get some blood work done. After that I drove all over Mount Pleasant looking for (and failing to find) some replacement parts for sliding drawers in the panty. I probably could have squeezed a ride in there somewhere, but to tell you the truth the low, dark clouds that hung over central Michigan, gusting winds, and temps in the high fifties just made me want to drink coffee and curse the reality of being a home owner. HOUSE GODS, WHY DO YOU MOCK ME??
The appointment with my doctor went well and it looks like I won’t be kicking the bucket anytime soon (sorry). My doc’s not even concerned about my slow and steady weight gain. I guess I’m healthy, but a raging narcissist with potential body dysmorphic disorder (just guessing on that last bit). Before I left his office I had to get some blood drawn and had this exchange with the phlebotomist as she prepped my arm for the needle…
Phlebotomist: Are you a golfer?
Me: No, why?
Phlebotomist: Well, you have some serious tan lines and white hands.
Me: Oh, I’m a cyclist, I wear gloves when I ride. I get a bunch of funky tan lines.
Phlebotomist: Oh, cool. Do you compete?
Me: Yeah. Well..no.. I used to.
Then she jabbed the needle in me to collect the blood. I had mixed emotions as I watched my blood stream into the tube. My first reaction was that of sadness of having just admitted that I “used to” compete. It’s hard to believe that I haven’t taken the start line at a race in about fourteen months. But that sadness faded as I quickly realized that I might not race, but I still ride my bike a good bit and easily identify myself as a cyclist. Sure, I don’t put up the miles like I used to, but three to five rides a week for a mid-forties douche bag like me isn’t too bad.
Why do they seemed so concerned with my presence?
With the knowledge that I am apparently a healthy, fit, cyclist, with goofball tan lines who just happens to be thirty pounds heavier than he was five years ago, I kitted up and went for a sub-30 mile fat bike ride over Michiganderburgh gavel today.
Cow No. 45490 doing that trick with its tail.
There is nothing fast or efficient about riding a fat bike on gravel road, in fact it’s pretty fucking stupid, but there was something about the dark gray skies and cool temps that had me content with pushing pedals on the fat one today instead of the Boone. That probably wasn’t best move if I want to see some lower numbers on the scale at my next check up, but it would due for today.
A sandhill crane cooperating for a photo.
I would be more upset about central Michigan’s sudden turn towards fall if weatherdotfuckingcom didn’t tell me that by this time next week it’s going to be ninety degrees. Freaking Michigan.
The ride was pretty typical for one of my fat bike gravel rides: whirl some pavement, lurch along the dirt roads, take photos of live stock, birds and roadside litter, then call it a day. Rides like this won’t get me back to the starting line anytime soon, but will keep me sane and out of the bone yard.
Moo?
Later.