NOTE: There are no photos in this post. ‘Cause I ain’t got none. Also, this post is written with a tinge of dickishness and a pinch of sarcasm. Don’t take any of it too seriously because I don’t.
Hikes are very much like rides, “a bad ride, er, hike, is still better than a good day at the office” or some such bullshit we tell ourselves. And that is mostly right, but when it’s not, it goes sort of like this;
Do you want to know how NOT to start a week? I’ll tell you.
Wake up at the first glimmer of summer sunshine on Monday morning, eat breakfast, use the dumper four or five times, cover yourself with bug spray, and get into the woods before the nearby river is clogged with loud, cigarette-smoking, littering, beer-swilling, camo-swimsuit-wearing, neck tattooed river tubers trying their best to get e-coli from the tons of cow shit and crop runoff polluting the water.
Then push yourself to do six miles of hiking even though you are nursing multiple painful foot issues, the air is thick and humid, the sun is getting intense, your jaw hurts from gritting your teeth, and every item of clothing you have on is drenched with fat man sweat that smells like stank taco sauce and stale keg.
And when the hike is done, your goal was met, and you’re finally home; rinse the bug spray off, put on a dry shirt, and mow the grass of the vast (not really) estate of the Cul-De-Sac Shack during the hottest part of the morning, all the while wondering if it’s possible to buy new human feet on Amazon (surely it is) and if I might actually be mentally challenged, because tacking on a 2-mile walk behind a lawn mower after a 6-mile hike in the woods was fucking stupid as hell. I thought I might die and, like you, was mildly disappointed when I did not.
But hey, that was yesterday, it’s the 4th of July now, and we’re celebrating the way three people who could give a fuck do; Wifey went to a movie alone, B is sleeping and will remain so until roughly 2 PM before going out to scout a location to shoot a short film bit he’s working on, and I putzed around the yard trimming shit, doing laundry, making some food, and soon commenced toasting all the freedoms that we Americans enjoy (FINE PRINT: actual freedoms may vary based on tax bracket, skin color, country of birth, gun ownership, religious beliefs (or lack thereof), gender, and sexual orientation).
I only took a few photos on Monday due to the hurt I was in, and they still sit on the z50’s SD card, but I did find a stranger’s grocery list in a cart the other day, and I thought this one was the perfect 4th of July photo. And it’s all I have.
Later.
I finished up last week with 22.56 miles of hiking and missed my weekly goal by 2.44 miles. However, I finished the week with some strong lumbers and occasional running. Sadly, by Sunday, my right foot said, “piss off!” and I was hit with some raging plantar fasciitis.
Shit.
Dear readers, this post contains a LOT of my personal opinions on where I am currently at with cycling. I do not intend to talk trash about the sport, make you feel bad for loving it, or any such thing. I have dedicated a huge part of my life to cycling, and I love it. It’s a classic case of “it’s not you, it’s me.”
— Management
In the wake of last Monday night’s horrific events in East Lansing, it was nice to have B back under our roof for a few days. It was also nice to let go of some negative emotions and rage by stomping out some miles in the woods.
Sometimes life comes at you fast. One minute you’re hiking along cussing a trail packed with ice that refuses to melt despite the 40˚ daytime temps, and 12 hours later, you get word your kid needs to hunker down in his dorm room with the lights off because there is an active shooter at large on campus.
I knew I would struggle to get 25 miles in my feet last week, but I didn’t foresee it going quite so poorly; melting snow followed by 24 hours of heavy rain, followed by a return to below-freezing temps, had the trails alternating between slippy mashed potato snow and solid ice that crushed and snapped underfoot as I trekked over them with mico spikes strapped on my shoes.
This is my last post of 2022. A year-end wrap-up post, if you will. Almost all of it has to do with crawling out from the rock of depression I’ve been living under for the past couple of years. Read if you want, or don’t.
Holiday #1 in the Trifecta of Holiday Evil has come and gone without incident, as expected. Mostly because B’s schedule and dog-boarding issues prevented us1 from traveling 13+ hours round trip for the pleasure of me being riddled with enough sadness, anxiety, and resurrected childhood traumas to keep my mind racing in The Bed of Torment for the next 12 months again. Fuck that shit. Continue reading
In August, I wanted to start putting together hikes in the 5+ mile range and aim to do them at least four times a week. I thought it would fill a void between pointlessly “walking” on the Dreadmill and pushing myself physically like I do/did when mountain biking, all the while being in the woods with my camera. And I was right; it allowed all of that. However, forcing my more-out-of-shape-than-I-care-to-admit self to jump right into 5-mile hikes in the woods during the heat of August was not the best idea; my back paid the price, and I experienced multiple painful back spasms during those hikes.