After I hit publish on my last post, I was anxious to get outside to ride again. Sadly, after I looked at everything that needed to be done around the house—and elsewhere—before we went to pick up our new bulldog puppy late Friday afternoon, I reconsidered and slipped into a world void of riding and littered with chew toys and puppy prep.
Most medications include some lawyerish words that say something about “take as prescribed.” I can see that, despite being back to riding outside, my cycling has taken on a bit of a “ride as wanted” air. There is nothing at all wrong with that, but I must learn to accept the pitfalls (weight gain, increased pant size, lack of fitness, etc.) that come with such a slack attitude. Thankfully I wanted to ride on Tuesday, because despite the crisp, not all that spring-like air, the 25 miles ride in the sun was just what I needed, and nature rewarded me.
It took 145 days, or 4 months and 24 days if you like counting that way better, for me to finally make it back outside for a ride. There was much rejoicing; there was also some “what the fuckery?” and some generous helpings of self-loathing on the sad topic of what I’ve let myself become (spoiler alert: fat, drunk, and stupid).
We’ll get to the ride soon enough, but given there’s not much to talk about, let’s backtrack for a little bit and talk birds, dogs, and beers.
I know, I know, I’ve been beating dead horses, playing on repeat, stuck in a rut, flogging the bishop, and smacking my mackerel for two weeks now. OK, maybe not those last two but all the rest applies; I’ll explain.
I had been rolling along (going nowhere fast) with my Zwifting and eating OK enough until I came down with a slight case of body sludge (AKA a cold).
Wifey and I are going out of the country for the first time ever in a couple of weeks; Jamaica if you must know. Not my first choice for my first time leaping fuck face Trump’s “wall” around the U.S., but it looks like it’s going to be a killer time celebrating our 20th anniversary (1.5 years later) with another couple we’re good friends who are celebrating their 25th. Sun, beach, warm water, rum, and boobs; that’s pretty much all I need to survive. As documented here, I’m a woodsy-type of guy, but there’s something to be said for being a beach sloth. And rum.
Wednesday and Thursday brought two more dirt road rides. Wednesday’s ride was finally in some sun south of town on the PrOcal, and Thursday’s ride was a muddy slog north of town on the Fatterson in dense fog.
Every year about this time I find myself posting something about the Strade Bianche road race in Italy’s Tuscany region. A race that has nearly 53 km worth of white dirt and gravel road sectors along its 176 km percorso. Think Paris-Roubaix; in Italy; with dirt sectors instead of cobbles.
It’s been a while since I spewed forth notes from my musical manifesto, but I figured the holiday down time is a good time to waste time with nonsense about my band of the week/what I’m listening to at the moment.
These days–nine times out of ten–I am late to the party compared to modern-day hipsters. However as a forty-four year old living in a small town in the middle of rural Michigan who often leaves the house only to ride his bike, I’m just happy to get to the party at all, even if the trip to said party means wading through a sea of snarky “no one listens to them anymore” comments from people young enough to be my kid and wearing a slouchy ski cap in 75˚ temperatures.
Today featured a very, VERY short ride. It was a short ride for one reason and one reason only: wind.