Dog Hairs


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.

“Dog Hairs” is, of course, referring to the old adage “the hair of the dog that bit ya’.” Usually used when referring to drinking more alcohol to combat the effects of the alcohol you drank the night before. While I have done that way too much in my life, and I think I’m setting myself up for doing that exact thing come Saturday afternoon, this time I actually mean getting my fat ass back in the saddle less than 24 hours after my first ride in 159 days.

I thought that I would spend my Thursday night basking in the post-first-spring-ride glow, drinking a few beers, eating dinner, playing FIFA 20, and going to bed. I attempted all of those things but found the most joy in just going to bed for a night of heavy sleep, and amazing SSRI inspired dreams1 by 8 PM.

I woke up refreshed, spanky, and wondering when/why Wifey and I moved into a boarding house with a group of female med students. One of which woke me up in the middle of the night and told me she wanted me to “swipe right” with her. SSRI dreams for the win (and morning wood). I didn’t swipe, but I think I might have done enough to feel guilty for a few minutes after I woke up.

That spunkiness translated into quickly aborting my plans of a Friday hike, and replacing it with another ride. TWO RIDES IN 160 DAYS!! I’M LIKE A GODDAMN CYCLING GOD! If cycling gods were 48-year-old men, who are 50+ pounds overweight, drink too much, ride too little, and now suffer like dogs on rides of just 22 to 25 miles.

I put away the hiking boots, got my cycling gear (opting for a real kit this time), and realized that my ten-year-old Endura™ cold weather jacket not only had a broken zipper but also doesn’t fit anymore. SHIT!

So I grabbed my fitted Columbia™ jacket from the closet that would work well enough. I put it on, zipped it up, and broke the fucking, fuck of a fucking, fuck -aced zipper. FUCK!

Back to the closet to find a lighter Columbia™ (why do I keep buying their shit clothing??) jacket that hopefully had a zipper that would last until I got out of the garage.

The jacket was too light for the mid-morning ride, but I continued on hoping that the cold weather base layer I was wearing, and the multiple inches of unsightly, white, stretch-marked blubber that I’ve been carrying around since age 12 would keep me warm enough. They did. Cold at first, but thick layers of fat for the win!

I felt unusually good (tailwind), and was enjoying the sunshine and crisp air. I pedaled, I took photos and was soon sweating (headwind) like a fat fuck who’s only been outside on his bike twice in the past 160 days. C’est la vie.

It was the second day in a row of being bitch-slapped into realizing how out of cycling shape I am and how much I love riding my bike. Sure, I looked like a Goddamn black lycra wearing Michelin Man, somewhere within the first 5 miles my Garmin jumped ship, and I had to retrace my route until I found it (thankfully only about a half of a mile), and I got chased by three dogs (again), but considering how I felt after yesterday’s ride, I’ll take that shit all day long. After a long time off the bike and riding 46 miles in two days, my anal bits felt like I was the primary recipient of “jail cell love” in an annual prison porn production, but for most of the ride, I felt my normal shitty cycling self (that’s not so bad, “shitty” is my norm).

I’m still leery of anything the cycling industry touches, but I’m happy to be back riding and #Pedaling4Pixels after such a long layoff of slack. Hopefully, my fitness will keep increasing, and by the end of summer, I won’t look like the fucking Michelin Man riding a bike.

It’s also amazing how a solo ride on dirt roads out in the middle of rural Michigan will help you forget the Pandemic-a-Go-Go 12″ extended dance remix that is playing on repeat via TV, radio, internet, and social media. Turn that shit off. I’m pretty sure you’ll know when shit’s cool again.

128 year old barn along Rosebush Road.


For what it’s worth, I’m drunkenly writing this on Friday evening. A Friday evening that I was supposed to, and fully expected, to be, having a “first night of spring break” cocktail on a Jamaican beach with Wifey and B, but I’m not. I’m riding my Goddamn bike in the cool Michigan spring air, and hoping not to die in the next few months from a worldwide virus. I guess there’s something to be said for that. Not really.

Be safe, but get the fuck outside. Ride, walk, hike, run, masturbate in public (always a good time), whatever you’re into, just get outside and put all the anxiety and fear aside for a bit. You won’t regret it. Not for a second2.


  1. If you take an SSRI, you know what I’m talking about. The dreams are fucking amaze!!! It’s like dreaming a full-length Hollywood feature multiple times a night. I really don’t know where my brain gets the budget for such amazing casts, crews, special effects, and writing. Simply brilliant! I think I would take them even if I wasn’t a miserable, depressed prick.
  2. You may regret masturbating in public. Some people are not quite as cool with it as you might think. So, ‘batur beware!

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