Lately, I’ve been a bit too lax in my updates on doing stuff. Mostly because I realize now—more than ever—that no one wants to read about a chubby, fair-weather cycling slacker who spends most of his time wandering around the woods with his camera and lifting heavy things for no reason in the gym. But hey, there are pictures!
Unlike you, part of me misses when I blogged almost every day. If for no other reason, I can’t remember what I did or rather didn’t do after a few days. Especially when the gloomy days have been nearly all the same for the past week. Such is life in the dank pre-winter of mid-Michigan.
The weekend was here, then it left. Similarly, the snow was here; then it melted, then it came back.
One of the worst things about my brain—and there are many—is that I don’t see the future. That’s not some suicide watch bullshit, that is just me saying that beyond the vision of my son graduating high school and moving on to college in a few years, I see nothing other than what is on my calendar next week.
Hiking. It’s pretty much just walking. And walking it just putting one foot in front of the other. So, with Michigan being graced with another day of Pittsburgh-like “partly cloudy skies” and rain on Saturday, I was back in the woods putting one foot in front of the other with my camera.
After a fun time in the woods on my mountain bike Sunday morning, I was hoping for more of that today. Sadly, a Memorial Day spent mulching and planting, and Tuesday morning rains and house duties had me settling for a quick hike around the Bundy Hill Preserve.
There have been no rides since the last ride. That’s not all that surprising these days.
Monday was spent doing whatever it is that I do on Monday. It’s now Wednesday, and I really don’t remember. Probably for the best.
The thing about a Michigan spring is that there is no Michigan spring. Sure, it doesn’t snow as much, but steady rain and 39˚ does not make a spring, nor do sunny skies, 40˚ temps with 30 MPH winds to make it feel like it’s 25˚.
A 60˚ day of pleasure will be offered forth from the raised robes of Ma Nature on occasion, but for the most part, we just freeze our tits off nine months out of the year and roast our balls/lady bits off the other 3. I don’t know why I bother typing any of this, it is what it is, and I can do nothing but do what I do: pack on another layer of blubber, never put away my collection of flannel shirts, and buy another 12 pack of IPA to drink as I sit and wait for the brief respite of summer.
