There are plenty of things I should have been doing today instead of riding. We all know what those things are (probably what you did all day). I’m not happy about that, but there’s no use getting too worked up about it since I can’t do much about it.
So I rode my bike for a bit.
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!
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.
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.
Since Tuesday’s 30+ mile per hour wind gusts and -25˚ wind chills moved on, we here in central Michigan have been treated to a few days of brilliant sunshine and blue skies. Of course the lack of cloud cover also means that temperatures are struggling to get out of the single digits until well after lunch. Unfortunately, my time slot to ride is around 10 a.m., when the thermometer is grunting, groaning and moaning to get above zero.
Because of those high winds earlier in the week and the frigid temps that followed, I spent the first three days of this week hunkered down in the Stankment™ putting in miles running on the treadmill and riding the trainer. You would think that after forty-three years of living in the cold winter climates of Pennsylvania and Michigan I would be used to the cold and snow and would have learned to love it. Nope.
Like many of my cycling friends in Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota I try my best to be active through it, but unlike many of them, I always fail to embrace or love the winter. For me the result is always the same; I tolerate winter and merely try to survive it with my mind and liver still functioning properly and my pant size unchanged come spring.
But enough of that winter hating hyperbole, lets’ get to the winter riding hyperbole…
Earlier today I had the idea to take a look back at one of my early endurance mountain bike races and rewrite the race report from my current perspective to see how different I might write it now, nine or ten years removed. I still plan on doing that in the near future, but as I read over some of those old posts on the Soiled Chamois v.1 blog I found myself sidetracked with some mild embarrassment and distaste for the way I wrote and approached blogging writing back then (mostly in the ’05 to ’08 era).
Like my grandmother** (God rest her soul) used to say, “Jason, no matter how much of a disgusting, big, fat, lazy, good for nothing douche bag you are, something good will happen sooner or later.” I guess she was sort of right, because after two weeks of failed attempts at riding outside, I FINALLY got out for a ride on Saturday. It was nothing great; a short 20 mile ride on dirt roads that alternated between snowpack, solid, bone breaking ice and bare dirt. Still, I was out riding shortly following one of the coldest spells of the year and I have to say, after temps that were in the -25 degree range, 30 degrees in the sun felt like a warm, heroine enema covered in chocolate and espresso, scented with that Victoria’s Secret perfume that strippers wear. Mmmmm(ish)…
I didn’t ride today. Or yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that, or the day before that, or the day before that, or the day before that, or the day before that, or the day before that, or the day before that, or the day before that, or the day before that, or the day before that. The day before THAT I did though.
Sweet Jesus it’s been two weeks since I rode my bike outside!!
It’s been a while since I had a plan or a goal when it comes to my riding and/or racing. The last time I had a plan was probably back in 2011. We moved to Michigan in the fall of 2010 and my goal for the coming season was simply to race as much as I could so I could get a read on the scene, the riding and the trails. And that’s what I did…
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.