Given the nearly endless wintry rain, snow, wind deluge that mid-Michigan experienced last week, I was thinking that the week would leave me with nothing but a case of pent-up, crotch thumping ride rage. Thankfully, by the end of the week, Ma Nature got her shit together and threw us a few days of crap free weather. Thank you.
I woke up fairly early on Sunday morning, tended to Jake (the dog), made some coffee, and sat down to watch sub-par footy. As I sipped my coffee and thought about the day ahead I knew one thing: I did NOT want to ride. Well, scratch that, I did not want to do a paved road ride.
Earlier this month I lamented the fact that after a pretty sweet February of warmer weather and riding, March had come in like a lion with snow, ice, rain, and a lack of riding. Now here we are on the last day of the month and March is still twerking its wet, cold, slushy ass cheeks in the face of central Michigan like a trailer court queen drunk on wine coolers, wooing her step dad into paying for that dolphin tattoo she wants on her ankle. Thankfully I found some time–in between those unwanted wintry twerks–to get some miles in.
There was a time, now almost literally years ago, that me talking about riding dirt meant one thing– singletrack. These days most of my miles spent on dirt are of the dirt road variety. Something that I find to be a hexagonal tug of war equal parts a challenging, loved, creative spike to the vein, and a depressing, sad, pathetic state of my cycling life. The latter is rarely thought of unless I start to think about the days of racing–or just plain ol’ riding–my mountain bike in the woods for long periods of time.
This week has been an exercise in futility. The exercise of course being riding over 100 miles the past few days, and the futility being that despite those miles my weight hasn’t budged in a week. Not even a tenth of a mother f*cking goddamn pound one way or another. I blame the scale, I really do. F*ck that piece of shit.
[insert mental image of me frantically panting with a vein popping out of my enraged forehead like Ren Hoek here]
My plan for Tuesday was to not ride. My morning was spent doing laundry, writing a post for this crap site, returning emails and phone calls, taking care of some email issues for a website I maintain, and catching up on some other semi-work related things; all the while taking comfort in the fact that I was not out riding in the extremely crisp and breezy morning air. Until I was.
Mondays are usually all over the place for me schedule wise, and are usually filled with doing all the stuff I avoided doing on the weekend. Because of that, they often contain little to no riding. Well that was before Operation Stop Looking Like a Fat Morrissey/Orange is The New Black Inmate began back in February! Now I am willing to sacrifice freelance commitments, husbandly duties, home repairs, cooked meals, and clean undies as I attempt to lose 50 pounds (40.6 to go).
So with that I threw myself out into the crisp Michigan morning with all the gusto of a hump happy bovine, and got in my second 30+ mile ride in less than 24 hours.
After three days of indoor workouts, I finally escaped the confines of the Cul-de-sac Shack’s underground bunker to pedal out of doors. However, given that at ride time it was about 27˚ with 10-15 MPH winds blowing out of the north-west, it took a LOT of self loathing, guilt, and promises of meaty lunchtime rewards to get me into the multiple layers of cold weather gear and out on the road.
Goddamn you March…. Goddamn you straight to hell. Too much? Probably, but who cares.
Last Friday Wifey and I went out for a couple of beers before dinner at a local college bar/pizza place. It was fun to hang out with her, talk one on one, and catch up on stuff at the end of the week.
