Shortly after hitting the publish button on my last post and digesting my daily Soiled Egg (White) Sammich, I gathered my bottles and gear, found my fender, stuffed myself into some too-small bibs and the only jersey I have that fits, and headed out for a SLIGHTLY Better Than The Trainer Ride™ before any rain moved back into the area.
My Monday was filled with all the business that Monday brings, so I was confined to the Dreadmill™ for 3 miles of lumbering and sweating my ass off to the latest techno “hits” featuring “a good beat that you can dance to,” all the while trying not to fall off the damn thing to become another sad A.A.R.P. treadmill statistic.
I was up at 6:15 AM on Friday to embrace whatever fresh hell moderate inconveniences the day might throw at me. It’s been raining for like three days straight, and when it’s not raining, it’s gloomy as fuck as if it were raining. So it took a few extra guzzles of coffee and the promise of sunshine later in the day to finally convince me to start thinking about possibly leaving the house to ride my bike.
It’s become clear to me, via my bathroom scale, that my self-imposed extended layoff from riding has not helped (in ANY way whatsoever) my attempt at getting back to being a “husky” man who is a whisker under being morbidly obese. No offense to my fellow “husky” and “morbidly obese” friends and neighbors. “For there are many,” sayeth Luke. Luke, the dude that hangs out at the skatepark, not Luke of the Bible book.
After a week or more of feeling like a mental shit show, I woke up Thursday morning feeling unusually refreshed and even more unusually inspired to ride my bike.
My newfound custom of getting up early continued on Sunday, and with that, I got a shit ton of stuff done, including baking some crispy, crunchy toasted homemade muffin bread and installing an Ortleib bag bracket on the Fattishson (The Roscoe’s current name before it becomes a 29er in the future).
Then I decided to ride.
I rode my bike two days in a row.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, WHOA! Before uncomfortable white guy high fives and fist bumps are presented to me like we’re a couple of jaoffs watching fake basketball games in a Papa John’s commercial, let me say they both sucked. Sucked real hard.
The past week was filled with miles on the Dreadmill, some prison-style weight training, and a tall drink or twelve of “Well, at least January is fucking over.”
I took some pics around the Cul-De-Sac-Shack (two of which you see here), but outdoor activities were limited due to a winter storm and my distaste for being cold.
Yeah, I know, nothing makes one sound old like talking about the weather, but I’m going to talk about it anyway. I’m also going to talk a little about bikes, which is something I rarely do these days on this cycling blog turned outlet for idiocy.
This week started off HORRIBLE, but progressively got better-ish. Still, I’m glad to see it almost over.
Having a plan on Friday proved useless, so I entered Saturday planless and brainless. In other words, it was just me being me.
I was up around 8 for coffee, toast, and a couple of dippy eggs before lubing up Mr. Burgundy (not code for sex) and getting my shit together for a quick ride in the rapidly warming morning sun.
