Roughly twice a year I don a pair of chamois-less shorts and running shoes and head into the Not-So-Stankment™ to do some heavy flirting with the weight bench and treadmill.
It’s been raining for nearly all of the last 24 hours and the dirt roads are surely a muddy, gritty, drivetrain killing mess, so today marked the start of said flirtation.
I have nothing against running or lifting weights, it’s just not my thing. It’s work. To me riding my bike is fun and only feels like work on the occasions that I’m fighting a cold headwind or sweating out a Saturday night beer bender. In recent years my bike has also become the vehicle for creativity: I ride my bike, I take photos, I write this crap and enjoy the happy accident of burning some calories along the way. There is no creative outlet associated with running intervals on the treadmill and or lifting weights.
Sometimes I think if I stuck with it long enough I could move beyond flirtation, into the heavy petting stages, and maybe even get close to some coital contact (figuratively speaking of course), I could get swolled enough to finally get that barbed wired bicep tattoo I didn’t know I wanted, forget about buying a belly bra, and maybe even run at length outside… in public (gulp).
But I know me; I’ll run and lift for a while, make some fitness and muscle gains, start watching documentaries on ultra trail runs and entertain thoughts of going shirtless at the beach next summer. Then I’ll get sidetracked with riding my bike.
You know what, I think I’m cool with that.
Later.