Creak, Creak, Creak

Friday Morning Preface

It’s currently 52 71 minutes and counting past departure time for my ride. Bottles are filled, chain lubed, camera battery and SD card loaded, and my kit laid out. Yet here I sit drinking lukewarm cold coffee and writing about how I’ve not left yet. Idiot.

I’ve checked the summer football transfers, watched Jake Tapper fact check the fuck out of our moron president and read snarky Twitter posts about everything from the Russia investigation to millennials on electric scooters. I’ve commented on Instagram photos, took a dump or two, and snuggled with the Jake (the dog). But I STILL have not stuffed myself into my kit and left the house.

I need to ride; I must ride. But here I sit.

I need to ride because that’s what I do. Running didn’t take, hiking—while enjoyable—is too passive in this elevationally challenged area of the state, and lifting heavy shit for no reason always leaves me asking why the hell I’m lifting heavy shit for no reason. And I must ride because I still have over 60 pounds to lose just not to be classified as obese, and I probably won’t want to ride after working at the shop tomorrow.

So, I better ride.

*Takes a deep breath, a big swig of cold coffee, rises from office chair, and goes to get into his kit.*

The Guts

I finally made it out the door for a quick dirt road ride nearly an hour and a half later than my usual departure time. I honestly think that if I hadn’t typed the unneeded preface above I would have ditched the ride, made another pot of coffee, and turned on (and possibly got turned on by) Judge Judy. Or better yet, tracked down an old episode of the erotic1 crime-solving show Hart to Hart. There really is something to be said for self fat-shaming. But I digress.

I was hopeful that my recent saddle swap to the Boone would solve my creaking issue. As expected, it did not. At one point I was ready to chuck the bike into the weeds and walk home just so I wouldn’t have to hear that creak! GODDAMN CREAK!

When done, this truck will actually have a button that will eject Busch Light cans onto the road for you.

I pedaled on, doing my best to ignore the creak emanating from my bike and settled in to not feeling too bad on the bike. I’ve felt better, but I sure as hell have felt worse.

Due to another late start, I opted out of my standard 27.5 mile loop from the Cul-De-Sac-Shack, and that cut about five miles off, which left me at just 22.6 miles. Like Alfred Tennyson once said— “Better to have ridden and only gone 22.6 miles than to never have ridden at all.”

With the ride finally done, this crap post started, and lunch stuffed in my pie hole, I needed to get some actual work done. Better late than never and all that.

Working at the shop tomorrow and even though the shop is swamped with repairs, I plan on just dumping the Boone there and telling them to take as long as you want, but make the creak go away, or just keep it! Or set it on fire. GODDAMN CREAK!

Even with the Boone creaking, it was a good ride week. I can’t remember the day I rode my bike 4 days in a row. The rides weren’t that long but like Alfred Tennyson once said [Stop it, you did this bit already! ed]

Stopped to check the creak, and got another pic of a fawn. Not a great shot, but I got something.

Not sure what the 20th 19th evening of Operation Boozeless™ will have in store. If I’m lucky, Wifey will want to do a little Hart to Hart role-playing. Or at least watch a movie or something.


  1. What, are you going to try to tell me that Hart to Hart wasn’t steeped in underlying erotica??

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