Sunday and Monday were spent off the bike; doing dad stuff, catching up on some work, goofing off, and going to the shop to swap from the too knobby for Michigan singletrack, side wall Stan’s weeping Maxxis Ikons to the trusted Bontrager XR2s. Thankfully on Tuesday, the Magic 8 ball of life had all signs pointing to a ride on dirt roads.
Michigan continues to burn through its allotment of warm sunny days, saving none for the winter and early spring, and I was lucky enough awake enough to get out early enough in the morning before the real fromhundah balls heat of the day kicked in.
Sandhill crane couples retreat.
So after a quick hard-boiled egg1 and some coffee, I got into my new Terry’s Cycle bibs, admired how the fresh Sugoi chamois cradled my aging undercarriage, filled my bottles, grabbed my camera, and headed out.
Find the ground hog.
I added in a couple of roads and detours that I thought would surely get me to my desired 30-mile ride mark, but somehow I actually lost mileage and came it at just 28 and change. That sucks because I’m pretty sure those extra 2 miles would have immediately taken me back to race weight circa 2005. Sadly it was not to be.
2nd bottle of Reddi Wip® seen within 20 yards. Pie party or nitrous oxide party? I wonder…
Just prior to writing the above word salad today I attempted to upload the data from my last two rides to Strava (not used for dick swinging Strava-ing, just to keep track of rides) and nothing is showing up. Shit. They apparently have just disappeared. It’s like they never existed. Which of course begs the eternal question: If a fat man in lycra rides his bike slowly for almost 30 miles and it’s not recorded, did it even happen?
Later.