Where did the week go, eh?
A week ago tonight, I was hit in the belly by the iron fist of a stomach bug. I believe the bug was brought to me via some tainted chicken thighs and caused me to spend the next 24 hours in bed or in the bathroom with a dry heaving bung. Alas, I’ve said too much.
I was tired and a bit dehydrated, but I was feeling more myself by Tuesday, and back to my usual slack self on Wednesday for some hours in the shop and an appointment with the O.G. Mindbender.
Thursday was more of the same but in reverse with the Mindbender No. 2 (You would think with all this mindbending I wouldn’t be so full of self-loathing and shame, ha!) and time in the shop after.
Come Friday, I was full of pent up energy and ready to ride, so I headed up to MMCC for an 11-mile ride on Roscoe.
I was feeling more confident with my return to singletrack, and with the new bike. I was no fan of riding my fat bike (now sold) on singletrack, but this mid-fat 27.5″ stuff is pretty legit. More comfortable than my PrOcal was, and less complicated than any full suspension I’ve ever had. I find myself sitting and pedaling through sections that I could never do on other hardtails.
The only bike I can compare it to is the Salsa Dos Niner. It’s not a full suspension, but way more comfortable than a hardtail. Not as light and race-worthy as the Dos Niner was—a bike I completed multiple 100-mile races and 24-hour solos on—but just as comfortable in many ways.
My lack of fitness and weight combined with a heavier trail bike does have me struggling on some steeper inclines, but I have a feeling if I wasn’t carrying the weight of a husky, Mountain Dew addicted 10-year-old around with me things might be a bit easier.
I haven’t been able to think about eating meat since last Sunday, so I enjoyed a post-ride portobello burger.
Speaking of bloated, sun stroked corpses, I woke up Saturday with no intention of riding. But by the time the first of my post-coffee turds entered the septic tank, I was kitting up and heading out for a short dirt road ride on Mr. Burgundy.
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The morning air was warm, and despite their constant bloat, my edema laced legs were feeling surprisingly spanky. Of course, this would only last until the late morning sun started to bake me like a luau pig. And with 4 miles to go in the usually comfortable 23-mile ride, I limped home like a red-faced DUI cyclist on the way home from a bender at Marty’s. There would be much contemplation on the Garage Step of Crap Fitness Reflection upon returning home.
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I am forgoing a Sunday ride so I can get the vast (not really) grounds of the Cul-De-Sac-Shack mowed and pick up some groceries before watching the Merseyside Derby at 2.
Hoping for some more trail time the coming week, and more goofing off with my cameras.
Later.