Finally headed out late Sunday for a quick trail ride after putting it off all day to accommodate my kids’ social calendars. Yeah, that’s right, I give until it hurts, but do they notice? Nooooooo. All the rain we’ve had in recent weeks has pounded the low-lying singletrack. Rover’s Run, a local favorite, is the worst I’ve ever seen it—a total mud bog.
The only good riding was higher up the flanks of the Chugach where the drainage is better, but blown-down spruce trees were blocking several routes and screwing up my mojo. Hell, I didn’t have much mojo anyway. I was tired and not in the best of moods. Given the usual fall weather pattern, I doubt that the water-soaked trails will dry out this year. They’ll either freeze hard and rough, or be buried under snow before they can harden. Either way, it won’t be long now—fresh snow is all over the peaks at the edge of town.
The loss of riding time is taking a mental and physical toll on me. School and work schedules, shuttling kids for activities, etc., is killing my rides to work and reminding me just how much of a verifiable addiction cycling has become. I’m actually going through some sort of withdrawal process that seems to be making me a pain in the ass. Either that, or I’m right about everyone else and they’re the problem.
Fall is when I start thinking about controlling my weight through the winter so that I’m not an out-of-control Clydesdale come spring. It doesn’t help to know that eating dark chocolate is now medically advisable. That stuff is like heroin and crack rolled into glorious little chunks of gluttonous ecstasy. I never liked it until about a year ago. Now I could eat Hershey’s Nuggets like popcorn. Give me a bowl of them with a bottle of red wine and a couple of free hours, and I could put myself into a happy stupor. Not exactly a healthy training regimen. I’m gonna need the discipline of a monk this winter.
Yeah, that’ll happen. Maybe I’ll just start looking for riding partners who know CPR.
Speaking of tasty things, I would like to publicly thank the people who make Clif Bars for rescuing me from those fossilized turds known as Power Bars. I have no idea how I ate those things for so many years, or why it took me so long to realize there’s a decent alternative. Ya gotta love an energy bar that’s named for its creator’s dad, comes in multiple flavors that are actually palatable, and made by a company that donates money to IMBA. Clif Bars and Gu held off many a bonk this year—and I’m the Wizard of Bonk.
Let’s close this beast with the Funny Picture of the Day. I felt bad for Cindy Sheehan when I heard she was arrested at the White House, but it appears to have been a pleasurable experience. Hey, she’s been busy for weeks with one protest after another. A woman has needs.
And on that offensive note, I’m outta here. Thanks for shopping with us. Your receipt is in the bag. Sorry, no refunds.