Wednesday morning brought sunny skies but cold temps and a steady wind out of the west. Motivation to ride was high, motivation to ride in the cold wind was low. A compromise in the form of a Better Than The Trainer Ride™ was made. Who says you can’t have it all!
Heaven, earth, hell, multi-dimensional planes, planets, and universes lined up on a crisp and cool Tuesday morning to make the love making-like magic of a slow rolling dirt road ride happen. Joy to the f-ing world.
Riding has been on the back burner for a few days now due to schedules, weather, travel for B’s soccer, and other crap-ol-la. Things finally look clear for a Tuesday but I haven’t gone for it yet, so this post has nothing to do with it.
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.
After three days off the bike due to soccer travel with B, weather, and “stuff,” I was finally able to get out for a ride on a dank fall morning. The ride started off bad, got worse, then got mildly tolerable. There’s no one to blame but myself, for as you all know very well, I. AM. AN. IDIOT.
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.
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’.
Roughly twice a year I don a pair of chamois-less shorts and running shoes and head into the Not-So-Stankment™ to do some heavy flirting with the weight bench and treadmill.
It’s been raining for nearly all of the last 24 hours and the dirt roads are surely a muddy, gritty, drivetrain killing mess, so today marked the start of said flirtation.
Posts have been few are far between (it’s the least I can do for the people of the interwebs) but I have been well occupied, if not well while being occupied.
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!
