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.
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.
I don’t always ride two days in a row, but when I do, I make sure it’s the only two days I ride all week.
Everything old is new again. Well, not that old, and not that new, but on Friday morning, I found myself riding with a friend (or anyone) for the first time in years.
This week has been a rollercoaster shit show of good days, bad days, a swell 49th birthday, COVID angst, life angst, adulting, a crap walk in the woods that yielded not one photo I liked, a somewhat OK ride south of town, and a few hours at the shop.
Given how much I hate Michigan winters, I will refrain from hating on Michigan summers. I mean, the summers are just fine for people not wearing a 90-pound fat suit and trying to ride their bike on shadeless dirt roads under the steamy mid-morning sun.
After Friday’s big, fat, hot as fuck, fail of a ride, I headed to Sylvan Solace on Saturday to capture the macro shots you see today. Saving another attempt at two-wheeled happiness for Sunday.
I thought I was up early enough to beat the heat on Friday morning, but it turns out I was wrong.
After some time at the shop on Tuesday, followed by adulting, I was eager to get back out on the bike for some meager miles on Wednesday morning.
