We’ll start this unneeded post back on Friday, ’cause that was the next time I did something since the last time.
As I sat and sipped my A.M. coffee on, I started to get the itch to ride. Knowing that I am full-on mother fucking out of shape and the heat outside was some real swamp-ass type stuff, I knew it wouldn’t be a long ride, but I wanted outside. The plan was to ride the paved mid-Michigan pathway (or whatever the fuck it’s called) from MP towards Shepherd, then jump off for some dirt roads and then back. All in all, it would be about a 20-mile lollipop of a loop with a dogleg left and a cul-de-sac.
But it never happened.
After blowing my colon out my ass for the fourth time that morning, I gathered my gear, put the Küat on the Eckscape, fetched Mr. Burgundy, and promptly realized that my rear shifter is fucked and won’t shift properly. Like, not even a little.
With that, I switched bikes and plans and headed up to MMCC to ride some singletrack.
Because I am horrifically out of shape, riding singletrack was WAY down on my list of things I wanted to do. It’s bad enough that I have to look at my obese dad-bod in the mirror, let alone be confronted with my out-shapeness in the form of gasping, wheezing, a breakfast vurp, aches, pains, and projectile sweating as I mourn the fact I once competed in 100-mile mountain bike races, and now I’m happy to ride 10. Such is life.
“It’s hell getting old.” — Grandma Helen
Yet despite my unsightly girth and gelatinous poundage, I stuffed myself into some kit and went for a mountain bike ride.
I rode an 8-mile loop, startled a family of raccoons (see one baby up a tree in the photo above), I saw a cicada exiting its crusty old body (see image below), and I enjoyed being in the woods on my bike. Sure, the ride was a wake-up call concerning how far I let myself go, but one has to start somewhere. At least I remember telling myself that when I lost 100 pounds back in the early 90s. While I could technically lose 100 pounds and still be normal, I only want to lose about 50. One day at a time, sweet hay-Seuss.
“Jason, you eat too much bread.” — Grandma Helen
SATURDAY
Saturday was Wifey’s 50th birthday, and to celebrate, we were going to head up north and do a hike that ends at a beach. Sadly, the weather turned a bit up that way, and we didn’t want to drive all that way for nothing.
Instead, we drove over to the Tobico Marsh Nature Area, did a sweaty 2.5-mile hike around, and then went to a local beach to hang out for a bit. Lake Huron did not look particularly inviting (in other words, it looked skank as fuck), so we just sat on the beach; people watched and soaked in some vitamin D.
My bosomy gingie gal pal turned 50 this weekend.
That night we had some vegan cheesecake to cap off the Birthday festivities. We’ll get to do it all over again when I turn fifty next month. Shit.
***
SUNDAY
I can’t say I remember doing anything other than cooking dinner, watching the Euros, and making a run to the store for a few things.
And so another week begins. That means it’s another week to do great things! Or in my case, just survive and do some fun stuff when I can.
“Getting old is shit for the birds.” — Grandma Helen
Later.