NOT REALLY QUARANTINED DAY ____
Mere seconds after I pushed the PUBLISH button for yesterday’s word salad, my want to ride my bike went from a lowly “I’m Going Back To Bed,” 2, to a “Where are Those Silly Clothes I Stuff Myself Into to Ride My Bike,” 10. Not sure where that came from, but it did. So I rode.
NOT REALLY QUARANTINED DAY ____
The title of this post could be referring to the amount of (Lola) dog hair I find in, on, around, beside, below, and above almost every piece of furniture, in every room, and in every orifice in the house (don’t ask). But it’s not.
NOT REALLY QUARANTINED DAY ____
I debated for two days on whether to do a Pandemic Ride or not. At first, I was like, “Nah, what if I crash or something and piss the hospital people off?” Then I was just lazy, and finally, on Thursday, I was like, “Fuck it. If my slow ass crashes so bad on a dirt road ride that I need medical attention, it was probably due to something that would kill me, like a 10-ton tractor.” So I rode.
Most of the past week was spent in the gym lifting heavy things for no reason, in the dentist chair having my mouth torn apart, or in various doctor’s offices having my brain shrunk or now mended ankle looked at.
A 30-mile dirt road ride with roughly 5 feet of elevation gain should not be a big deal. And it’s NOT. Unless you’re a fat moron, recovering from an ankle sprain, who has been on his bike exactly 3(?) times in the past four weeks and waited until the hottest and windiest time of the day to ride his bike.
But, that’s what happened; c’est la vie.
The past summer has been rough for a multitude of reasons. Most of that painful miserableness has been documented here in recent posts. So, let’s move on, finally.
My life, am I right?
Yes, more catching up. Sadly, this digital shit show is dying faster than I am, but that is not to say that I haven’t been doing stuff. I have been working more hours at the bike shop, hitting the gym nearly every morning and getting some rides in. Except when I’m not.
I’m starting to sound like a broken record, or a corrupt file for you youngsters, but I find myself —yet again—playing shit show catchup.
My excuses are longer than a porn star’s manhood. My slack is stronger than a pre-castrated bull. And my waistline’s girth and body weight are that of a Mart-Cart fatty with a basket full of Ding Dongs and Mountain Dew.
