Never has so much nothing been done in a week filled with so much.
Tag Archives | fucking weather
Not So Fat On Ice
The week that was, er, wasn’t. There was very little riding over the last six days. There were a few trips down to the Not-So-Stankment to climb on the treadmill (including one five-mile walk, run, lumber-fest) and one trainer ride that lasted roughly 5 minutes before I said “fuck it” and quit.
Miles & Wind
After a few days away from home, it’s been nice to settle back in and to get some riding in. Monday’s ride was a quick loop north of town in the crisp morning air. Tuesday would bring spring-like temps to mid-Michigan, but would also bring steady winds with gusts exceeding 25 miles per hour.
Small Bottles & Paranoia
If there is one universal truth concerning my “doing stuff” in the months of November through March it is that the size of my water bottles is reduced. Under the mid-morning August sun I might drain two large-sized water bottles during a ride, come November I’m either doing stupid workouts indoors or riding outside in the full-nip cold and, despite still being needed, sucking down large amounts of water is pretty unlikely. Thus I start sipping from a smaller bottle instead of big ass magnums. Whatever, it’s just an observation, moving on…
The Frigid South
After a cold ride that failed on multiple levels on Friday, I reluctantly headed back out on Saturday to attempt some sort of redemption. Redemption was had, but just barely.
The Shortest & The Coldest
Friday was one of the coldest morning of this fall and pre-winter season. Temps at normal ride time were in the low teens, and warmed up to a balmy 19˚ by the time I finally pushed myself out the door to try to get something in.
More Tales of Woe & Idiocy
After Wednesday’s lackluster ride which featured me working more on a jacked up shoe cleat and taking photos than it did actually riding my bike, I was hopeful that Thursday would be more fruitful in the mileage department. Sadly, it was not.
Forced But Worth It
I was up early Saturday morning to let Jake (the dog) out. He took just long enough to do his business that I put aside notions of returning to the Chamber of Farts, got a cup of coffee and sat down to watch Spurs lose to Man U. I did all of this with the idea that I would not be riding. The gray skies, cold temps, and steady wind made sitting around watching soccer and drinking coffee until it was a reasonable time to drink beer just too appealing.
Good Bad Timing
After multiple days of rain and mud the conditions turned optimal for a dirt road ride south of town on Thursday. While conditions were indeed optimal, it also coincided with our first heavy frost of the fall. Shit be freezin’.
The Cure For Pain
The title of this post suggests that I am going to wax poetic about my ongoing fisticuffs with the “black dog,” attempt to sell you some sort of $19.99 faux copper-infused compression stocking snake oil shit that will dull the pain of your torn rotator cuff, or talk at length about the greatness of the song Cure For Pain by the band Morphine.1 But I’m not, I’m gonna talk about my ass. Again!