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 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.
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.
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