In my last post I recounted going out for a hike walk in the woods on Thursday with my camera. I was finally starting to rid myself of the cold and flu shit that I had going on, and I was happy to be goofing off in the woods. Still, I longed for a ride. Thankfully after spending my free time on Friday mowing grass (for the last time?), I would finally get to ride on Saturday, Sunday, AND Monday. Thrice as nice!
At the end of my last post I mentioned that I was flirting with illness, that a sore throat had developed along with some body aches. Thankfully the sore throat went away, but the aches and joint pain have lingered on, I also bypassed the casual flirting and went right into some Trump-style heavy petting with some coughing and stomach issues. No vomit, and no flappy sphincter, but at times over the past two days I have felt that I was right on the cusp of it, with a taste in my mouth akin to licking the metal handrail of a men’s room handicap stall. As you might imagine, since Monday, there has been no riding.
Each day, each week, each ride, fall continues to fall upon central Michigan. More and more fields are now bare; crops harvested and carted off to become Doritos, Big Macs, and corn flavored gasoline, leaving the landscape wide open for crisp winds to travel 3,800 miles from the Witch’s tit (located on a small island in the East Siberian Sea) all the way to rural Michigan to turn the nipples on my sagging pecs into glass cutting diamonds as I lumber along dirt roads on my bike.
Thankfully there are still some crops hanging on, and leaves remaining on the trees to keep all that from happening quite yet, but each day we creep a little closer to death, er, I mean winter.
Monday was spent doing all the things that Monday brings, none of which were that fun, or had anything to do with riding my bike. Tuesday however brought some ride time south of town on the PrOcal in cool, fall conditions.
This morning as I ate a hastily thrown together peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and threw back a large gulp of Starbucks® K-Cup® coffee (don’t judge!), I was hit with a memory from my time doing endurance mountain bike races, many of which required overnight stays.
Until I got too soft and started opting for crap hotel rooms–often given the “Cuckhold Room®'” against my wishes, even though I explained that my buddy’s wife was only there because we were too cheap poor to get our own rooms–most of the time those overnighters meant camping; either in a leaky, crap tent (why did it ALWAYS rain???), or the back of my [insert your choice of boxy, imported vehicles I’ve owned here].
Wednesday’s ride wasn’t just me rolling around singing 505 by Arctic Monkeys, it was also a nice 27.7 mile ride in perfect ride conditions. Sun, fluffy white clouds overhead, and comfortable temperatures with the slightest hint of a fall nip made for a perfect morning. There was some headwind heading north, but when you ride as slow as I do these days, it doesn’t really matter. Quick question: Other than 3 MPH, what’s the difference between going 13 MPH and 16 when you’re riding just to ride? Answer: Nothing.
Friday morning, just before Wifey and B took off for PA to visit her family, Wifey gave me a hug goodbye, I copped a feel, and she told me to have a good weekend, but not to do that thing where I ride singletrack, experience back and hip pain the whole time, get depressed, and come home and drink to kill the mental and physical pain of being old and shit. My mind and mouth said “yes dear,” but my heart and legs said “Fffffuckkk off! You don’t own me woman! I can do what I want, yo!” (not really, not even one tiny little bit).
And with that I was good. I ate some breakfast, drank coffee, looked at the inter-web-o-sphere, and then went for a 31 mile dirt road ride south of town.
After last Thursday’s OK-ish short and quick double loop on Sally’s Trail, I returned to dirt roads on the Fatterson on Friday. My chiropractor recommended limiting myself to shorter rides, but since it’s hard for a fat, crap, cyclist to make his short rides even shorter, I somehow managed to ride nearly thirty miles of dirt roads on the fatty. Not sure that qualifies as “long” in any world other than the one in which the person in charge of my spine lives; I rode it nonetheless, and it felt OK.
With my Saturday morning sadly void of Premier League football to watch, and the Champions League final not coming on until around 3 that afternoon, I decided to once again return to woods for some miles on the PrOcal.
Opinions are like people taking dumps. You really, really, really, REALLY like to think that the hot mom that smiled at you [which was probably gas] in the produce aisle while you were squeezing the way overripe, insanely priced, $2.50 a piece avocados doesn’t take at least one dump a day, but she does. Big stinky ones (unless she’s one of those shit camels, a universal term that can transcend gender but admittedly applies more to females, who can go like days at a time without a movement at all, meanwhile my cheeks are hitting the throne like seven times each morning!!).
Along with being a serial dumper, she’s probably got a whole shit ton [pardon the pun] of opinions about carbs [OMG DON’T EAT THEM!], breastfeeding [If they don’t suckle from the teet your kids will end up funny, good looking, ginger haired, straight A students who excel at soccer football], the best post-graduate programs for your son’s unborn child [Victorian era, dietary electrical engineering will be all the rage in 2026!], how long to cook chicken on the grill [get a fucking meat thermometer! OK, that was me], whether or not to refrigerate tomatoes [DON’T! Me again], and gravel road bike tires [see below].