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!
With the (family) unit out-of-town for a couple of days one would think that I would proceed to live the life of the rake, roustabout and debt ridden drunken mess that I am (not really). Not so surprisingly, the opposite has been true.
Lord, fashion father almighty, forgive me for I have sinned against you and the Fashion Commandments that you have set forth before thee… in particular Commandment IX: Thou Shalt Not Wear Wrangler Jeans, They’re for Squares and Cowboys. I’m sorry my narcissistic fashion father, but I gotta tell you, they feel good and I’m sure I’ll do it again!
My faithful three readers, I also ask you for forgiveness, because I am about to bore you with yet another post that is 98.5% void of cycling and 98.5% about a pair of jeans that has me and my thighs a tad geeked.
My Monday turned a bit nutso as Jake (the dog) went and got himself a yeast infection that required an emergency trip to the vet. I told him he was asking for it with his muscular, thick thighs and want to wear too tight, humid, crotch-jungle inducing leather pants, but he insisted on wearing them anyway. Stupid dog!
A week ago tonight I got hit with my first major cold/cough/sinus issue of the year. I guess I was due. In that time I’ve not done a hell of a lot in the way of riding my bike outside. So far I believe the week’s total on “doing stuff” amounts to just three hours on the trainer. Unlike in years past, I have no early spring races coming up that have me anxious about my fitness, nor am I overly concerned about the lack of recent riding, especially since the weather has been ass monkey cold (I just made that phrase up, feel free to use it at your leisure). It’s been sunny nearly every day for a week, but cold enough that I am quite content to spin my miles away in the Stankment™ as snot oozes out my face like a lanced boil.
I have no idea why, but for years I have been saying to anyone that will listen (no one) that Grady Wilson from the old 70’s NBC TV show Sanford & Son is what the flu, head cold or similar ailment would look like if it took human form. I say that with not one ounce of disrespect to the late Whitman Mayo who portrayed him, but a fact’s a fact. Or at least an outlandish proclamation is one oddball’s point of view.
I bring all this up for a reason, that reason being that early Friday evening as I sat in the corner of a local junior high gymnasium watching B-Man take part in some winter soccer drills, I knew that Mr. Wilson was about to pay me a visit. In other words, I knew that illness was setting in.
Shit.
I briefly mentioned in the opening paragraph of my last blog post that I made baked ziti for Wifey on Saturday to celebrate Valentine’s Day, what I didn’t mention was that while Wifey loved it, I wasn’t thrilled with it. For some reason I love Italian food but anytime I use red sauce I am left wishing I had made something else [also mentioned in the post Crush Pasta IV]. Sadly, my Valentine’s ziti was no different and I found it a sort of just “there.”
Whenever I feel I could have done a better job on a meal, especially something as simple as baked ziti, I try to make up for it as soon as possible. And that’s what I did today, poo-pooing Americanized Italian comfort food and embracing the Mediterranean flavors of Sicily.
I woke up today around 8 a.m. when Wifey came in the bedroom to fetch her eye glasses. I assumed she had been by my side all night, but it turns out she fled the room at some point, claiming that it got “too hot” in the bedroom. Since it was roughly -15˚ outside, I doubt that was true and this was most likely her way of telling me that the baked ziti I made for our Valentine’s Day celebration had taken the form of a vile, warm, humid gaseous cloud of digested red wine, garlic and sausage and had exited my flabby rears way too much though the night and had caused her to seek refuge elsewhere. Much apologies to my ginger haired, bosomy Valentine of what is now 20 years. You deserve better…much, much better. But I’m sure you know that already.
The other day I proclaimed the words “I’m hoping to get outside and do something–ANYTHING–in the coming days.” Today I am forced to exclaim “SHITBALLMOTHERBUCK!” Because that just hasn’t happened and I am filled with a seething hate as intense as a thousand, blistering suns.
OK, not really, not at all.
To say this week was less than stellar for “real” riding would be an understatement. My week thus far has consisted of three rides on the trainer and one “run” on the treadmill. In other words it was a week of shitty, fake exercise.
