I had a plan for Tuesday, but that plan fell apart for multiple reasons.

First, I saw the weather when I woke up; 2˚ with a “real feel” of -11˚. Hmmm, 12˚ was bad enough on Monday, screw that.

I also started doing the math in my head for how much time I needed for the lumber, plus the Cul-De-Sac-Shack duties I needed to get done, plus driving 45 minutes each way to the dentist, not including the time actually spent at said dentist.

Shit, this whole dentist thing is a real stick in my spokes.

With that, I aborted the lumber and freed up some time to get things done proper without rushing around like a nut.

Speaking of sticks in spokes…

As I lumbered along on Monday, a stick made its way through my snowshoes, through the bindings, and into my shoelaces. My first reaction was, “How the hell does this happen to someone?”

Then I remembered the photo below.

It’s from May 2009. I was doing a ride in the mountains of PA, and just after hopping a log, my rear wheel locked up, bringing me to a standstill. I looked down to see a large stick/small log through my rear wheel. I also remember thinking, “How the hell does this happen to someone?”

I still don’t know how these things happen, but I do know that I’m the person they happen to!

Somehow, my rear derailleur survived, and my Stan’s wheel was OK enough at the time with only a couple of bent spokes to be replaced, but like every Stan’s wheel (rim) I ever owned, I’m sure it ended up fucked somehow, because it didn’t take much for me to fuck up a Stan’s rim.

At least a stick in the snowshoe couldn’t potentially cost me hundreds of dollars to fix, just some minor inconvenience and a good chuckle at myself.

Later.