My newfound custom of getting up early continued on Sunday, and with that, I got a shit ton of stuff done, including baking some crispy, crunchy toasted homemade muffin bread and installing an Ortleib bag bracket on the Fattishson (The Roscoe’s current name before it becomes a 29er in the future).
Then I decided to ride.
Gravel riding from the Cul-De-Sac-Shack has become about as “meh” as writing/using the word “meh” and using it in “quotes” every time. Especially at this time of year when everything is brown and leafless, and everyone now knows using quotes every time is annoying as fuck.
It’s also “meh” because I just can’t seem to shake the distaste I have for some of the vibe-killing rural nut jobs that litter the backroads. I used to find it sort of funny, but after 4 years of the orange fuck face, I am mentally exhausted and find little humor of any kind in seeing homes flying Confederate flags. Of course, in one way, it serves as an easy way to know who is a balls-out bigoted racist and who isn’t. I’m sure it also helps the FBI with their continuing investigation into the attempted coup back in January.
In any event, it turned up the “meh” on an already “meh” short 15-mile ride.
While the ride wasn’t great, it helped point me in the right direction for my riding to go in the future; the woods. When I’m in the woods riding, there is never time to get “meh.” So while the rest of the cycling world concentrates on gravel riding, gravel bikes, gravel shorts, gravel shoes, gravel dildos, and gravel whatnot, I feel like I need to return to the woods on my mountain bike to shed the “meh” and avoid the nut jobs. When this actually happens, Dog only knows, but it’s a plan to eliminate “meh” and its two punctuation mark friends.
The complete batch of photos from this walk, as well as other hikes and rides with my camera, can be seen here: thesoiledchamois.myportfolio.com.
Later.