This December has been pretty sweet as far as weather. We here in Michigan aren’t exactly getting the warm sixty-ish degree temperatures that some of the east coast states are getting, but for these parts in December, forty degrees and no snow is just as good, and in many ways my rides have felt more like those done in late fall and early spring rather than winter. Having said that, I feel the need to add: THE SUN COULD SHINE ANY F*CKING DAY NOW!!!
A leaky pipe in the ceiling above the Stankment’s Man Cave (actually belonging to a boy) meant that my ability to leave the house was at the mercy of a plumber, and my Wednesday schedule (or lack there of) needed to be adjusted. Any time spent on two wheels would need to be moved to later in the morning/early afternoon, and mileage would be minimal. It was the perfect day to say I was too busy to ride, but I was not going to pass up the opportunity to ride in near perfect 75˚ temperatures and brilliant sunshine. Not when I know all too well that by this time next month the air will have a distinct chill to it, the winds will start cutting to the bone, and base layers and riding jackets will once again become the norm. A ride HAD to be done, even if it meant it had to be a mere 25 mile Better Than The Trainer Ride™ on dirt and gravel roads north of town.
I know the title of this post suggests that this post is going to be about various sorts of glues, gases, pills, herbs and beverages that I may or may not be using to get high. As it is, I am on nothing. Sorry. But since Monday the weather has thrown me a bit of a velo-cock block and forced me to the Stankment and the trainer, so I figured I would waste your time talking about some things that I am digging right now, both on and off the bike.
I know my luck too well, and whenever something happens to me (medically speaking), shit always goes pear-shaped. No worries, I’m used to it. So when my dentist pulled one of my wisdom teeth last week and said “you should feel fine in two or three days… unless you get a dry socket.” I KNEW right there and then that I was destined for a dry socket. Ever see one? Here look [HERE]… ah, I can’t do that to you, sorry.
After what I would consider a good(ish) week of early March riding last week, this week has gotten off on the wrong pedal stroke and has felt slightly off. Monday greeted me with what some might call “a bout of irritable bowel.” I tend to be a bit more colorful and descriptive (at least when talking to Wifey) but I’ll just leave it at that for now and say that I’m not sure what’s up with my guts? OR what’s coming out of them!
Sometimes to stop something from driving you insane, you have to share it with someone. Since the therapist that I never really got around to making an appointment with–even though Wifey, my family, PCP and local law enforcement think I did–is off doing whatever nonexistent therapists do (I assume listening to NPR friendly Spanish guitar music whilst cutting the address boxes off covers of waiting room bound volumes of Architectural Digest), I will just share my thoughts with the Interwebosphere: Stevie Wonder is a prick!! Here’s why…
I am a firm believer in what an old bike blogging sensei once told me in a hazy drunken dream atop a rain-soaked and muddy Pennsylvania mountaintop : “If you can’t think of anything worthwhile to blog about, just post some crap photo you took while your were out riding, no one reads the shit anyway, and if they do–especially in your case–they probably think you’re a complete and utter fucking wanker.”
And so I have. ‘Cause no matter how many miles of the same freaking trails I ride, I find something that I dig and want to make mad, passionate, retinal love to. I have never said that about a road ride. Nothing against road riding, I dig it, and I’ve had some pretty freaking awesome road rides, but no matter how hard the road tries, it just ain’t as kind on the eyes.
I may not have done anything on Monday (except make rice and beans and play basketball with B-Man), and I may have only ridden the trainer for an hour today, but I DID find this bad ass photo from the 1910 Paris-Roubaix to share, so I am pretty sure that the Cycling Gods forgive me for my lackluster two-wheeled training regime. Fuck it.
I would have rather sucked the blood from the neck of my neighbor’s ever barking dogs with my bare face after hitting them with two large cinder blocks, than ride the trainer, but I still did.
OK, now shit is starting to get better in my mental dojo! I just found The Sword Black River t-shirt. This is going to be perfect to wear après race this summer and will look awesome as I wield my (yet to be purchased) Viking sword at throngs of recovering racers with one hand and hold aloft a goblet of strong ale (or reasonable facsimile) in the other while screaming “MAKE YOUR STAND WITH THE GREAT HOUND, THE FRONTIER IS LOST! BLACK WATERS LIE BEFORE YOU, TOGETHER YOU CROSS!!” as Jake The Dog walks menacingly at my side (until he falls asleep in a pool of his own jowls).
This week has been a strange one as far as me “doing stuff.” Sadly, it only allowed me one day of “real” riding: Wednesday’s hour and a half fat bike ride. The rest of the week has been a hodgepodge of trips to the gym and time spent on the trainer. Not the best of weeks, but better than many I’ve had.
I was up early today and had no problem convincing myself to get on the trainer.* The problem I had was actually forcing myself to pedal the bike on the trainer. The first minutes of my warm up were spent cursing the vile winter for forcing me to the trainer again and my belly which was bouncing off my legs like a gelatinous, beer filled, lycra covered sack with each pedal stroke. Cuss me! CUSS ME TO HELL! (or reasonable facsimile).
