It’s become clear to me, via my bathroom scale, that my self-imposed extended layoff from riding has not helped (in ANY way whatsoever) my attempt at getting back to being a “husky” man who is a whisker under being morbidly obese. No offense to my fellow “husky” and “morbidly obese” friends and neighbors. “For there are many,” sayeth Luke. Luke, the dude that hangs out at the skatepark, not Luke of the Bible book.
I rode my bike on Friday in what I sort of feel is DAY: ONE of me trying to fall in love with cycling all over again (for the very first time all over again). It wasn’t long, but I got out in the dank, humid air of a post thunderstorm Friday morning and rode a 13-mile loop that was about 85/70 paved bike path and damp dirt roads (you do the math).
There is no doubt that I could have gone further, faster, etc. Some of the time. The rest of the time I cussed loudly in my general direction for letting myself get to where I am now; out of shape, ashamed to look in a mirror, and struggling to find fitness on the bike again. Age 50 is at the door, and I am looking at every pound of it. Fucking, hell!