I woke up Sunday morning with a Saturday night head. Little dog harpies yawped and squeeched me right out the door in a panic. Hunched over the steering wheel like a slug on the window I crept along the miles I felt too discouraged to ride. Will this story ever get older? My body is the financial crisis of 2008. The wealth did not transfer, it just ceased to be. That fitness is no longer in the market.
I hate summer. Not Summer, the Apricot poodle, but the sticky, disgusting season that covers my skin like I’m wrapped in Saran wrap and suffocates me slowly. I blame everything on north Florida panhandle heat. I have learned my lesson. The only way to ride hard through August and September is to be mutant strong at the end of May, and then launch yourself into the spiderweb of dew hoping to scrap your way through to October, which is still a lot like September.
And another thing- getting used to this new site is tough. Even as I type I have in my view a cockpit of gauges and tools. What do they mean? Why do I need them? How will they change our lives?
We will see. Until then I am dancing with the date that brunged-ed me. Complaining about the weather, and talking about bikes.
Slow, hot, Munson, whining. Refer yourself to the archives for context.