Last week’s Winter Storm Elliot ended up being pretty standard stuff for my part of Michigan; however, the gusting 30+ MPH winds, my unwise decision to “hold off a bit longer” until I got the snow tires put back on the 2014 Ford Escape, and the county’s strange decision to forgo plowing or salting the roads meant that I missed two days of hiking that would have easily g0t me to my self-imposed 25-mile weekly hiking goal. Crap.
I did get out for a peaceful 3-mile post-Christmas Day pancake breakfast snowshoe at Deerfield, which got me over 20 miles and helped burn off said pancakes, Chrismas Eve’s “taste of white trash Mexico” dinner, and blow the two-day sloth stink off of me.
It had been roughly 9-ish months or more since I last strapped on the Tubbs, and I had somehow forgotten the extra work it takes to stomp through fresh snow instead of dry trails; I plowed along, watching my average heart rate a good 13 beats over my norm. Goodbye pancakes!
I also forgot that I had the snowshoes set up in advance for my old hikers with small zip ties in place to keep things from flapping around. That, plus cold pre-hike fingers, meant that I had to work super hard to stretch the rubber heel straps over the “Jimmy shoe” soles of the Hokas. This, and my idiocy, would come back to haunt me 24 hours later.
I was up early on Boxing Day to watch Spurs play like shit for the first 45 minutes before coming back for a 2-2 draw against Brentford. Afterward, I geared up and headed back to Deerfield for another snowshoe. Except this time, instead of wisely using the old water “resistant” hikers that I had already put in the car, I, for some unknown reason, used a different pair of waterproof trail runners, knowing full well that I don’t wear them because I don’t like the fit.
The result? 3.25 miles later, I was nursing a blister on my right heel.
I.
AM.
AN.
IDIOT.
The blister isn’t bad enough to keep me from hiking, a bandaid, and a piece of moleskin will help, but after years of bike racing (poorly) and other outdoor (mini) adventures, I know better than to fuck with things. And what did I do? I fucked with things!
Knowing the extra effort and time it takes to snowshoe, I now accept that I need to make my mileage goal a bit more modest the weeks winter decides to visit, at least until my body adjusts to the extra exertion.
It’s been nice to get back into a routine of hiking this week, and with temps heading into the mid-40s and rain, by the end of the week, I’ll be slogging through slush, mud, and muck rather than fluffy snow. Bring it on!!!
Oh, and not that it matters to anyone but me, Christmas was awesome this year!
Christmas Eve was spent watching goofy movies with Wifey and B while eating the “taste of white trash Mexico” dinner I made, and Christmas Day brought presents, pancakes, a snowshoe, and homemade pizza for dinner.
Sadly, by late Christmas Day, it was apparent that Wifey was coming down with some sort of illness, and 12 hours later she tested positive for COVID. So, while I spent my Boxing Day watching the footy and hiking, she was sequestered in The Rat’s Nest (her upstairs TV room) trying to get a Tele Doc appointment for some newfangled prescription and gobbling up black market horse dewormer.
Not the ideal way to end the holiday, but up until Wifey’s positive test, it was sweet. AND it gets me out of having to come up with an excuse to not go out for New Year’s Eve.
Later.
PS.
I continued my idiocy today by not using snowshoes at all, and I had to work my ass off just to stumble like a wounded mob hit through the woods for 3.25 miles. I have no idea why I do these moronic things. It sucked, my blister is worse, and I am taking Wednesday off.
THE SOILED SOUNDS TRACK OF THE POST
I have no idea when this song appeared in my recommended music lists; I assume I was deep into an alt-country and rockabilly vibe one evening, and, in a haze of upright slap bass and beer, I started putting random songs from unknown artists in the queue.
Enter one Red Simpson.
I am in NO way a truck driver; I can’t even imagine my un-macho brain being able to figure out the gear shift, let alone drive it! Nor am I a country music fan. But, when it comes to rockabilly/blues/country/sleazy bar rock, etc., I become very fluid with my music-listening rules.
I chose this song because I can almost hear The Reverend Horton Heat bashing this one out live. And this reminds me to stick a pin in revisiting the good Reverend in the future. One of the best shows I ever saw in my entire life was Horton Heat opening for Social Distortion at a club in Pittsburgh back in the early 90s.
Still, I don’t know, man; I don’t want to listen to it!! Yet I keep adding songs to random playlists. I’m sure my interest will wane (like my on/off again interest in Middle Eastern electronic music, techno, 21 Savage, and Biggie Smalls), and I will soon return to the loving arms of whatever band made the next “track of the post,” but until then, I’m mentally out there hauling ass in a truck called the Nitro Express with a bosomy, ginger lot-lizard by my side)