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.
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.
Greetings, fellow Soilers, today I bring you Reader Mail!
Why? Because I got nothing else to talk about. Yeah, I could talk more about bikes and parts like I did in the last post, but in reality, the (higher-end) retail bike biz might not even be a thing in a few months, given 2020’s perfect shit storm of COVID, factories moving due to Trump tariffs, and unforeseen consumer demand. Not to sound like a fucking QAnon Qonspiracy Qook, but if you want a bike and it’s in stock, BUY IT NOW!! Same with parts.
The past week was filled with miles on the Dreadmill, some prison-style weight training, and a tall drink or twelve of “Well, at least January is fucking over.”
I took some pics around the Cul-De-Sac-Shack (two of which you see here), but outdoor activities were limited due to a winter storm and my distaste for being cold.
Yeah, I know, nothing makes one sound old like talking about the weather, but I’m going to talk about it anyway. I’m also going to talk a little about bikes, which is something I rarely do these days on this cycling blog turned outlet for idiocy.
I know the real reason you are here, don’t lie! You’re here to find out how Jake (the dog) is after his Monday visit to the vet.
Well, Jake is still Jake-ing on, although-be-it with the need for me to shove a variety of pills down his uncooperative throat twice a day to help him with some hip/back issues and an ear infection that I had no idea he had.
On Saturday, I actually surprised myself. No, I didn’t finally eat that 30 piece party tray pizza from Gluttonz Pizza®. I said I might ride, confessed that it probably wouldn’t happen, and then I rode.
This week started off HORRIBLE, but progressively got better-ish. Still, I’m glad to see it almost over.
Having a plan on Friday proved useless, so I entered Saturday planless and brainless. In other words, it was just me being me.
I was up around 8 for coffee, toast, and a couple of dippy eggs before lubing up Mr. Burgundy (not code for sex) and getting my shit together for a quick ride in the rapidly warming morning sun.
“I’m going to do an Out and Back Better Than the Trainer Ride™ today! Wait…” — Me
Say what you want about the necessity, value, and quality of the—went on a bit too long—Soiled Chamois mini-shit show entitled The Quarantine Chronicles, it motivated me to write. Now, not so much.
