Survived

Business travel is inhumane. I don't know how some people do it regularly. First, there’s the sadistically cramped space in coach class. Then there are the shitty in-flight snacks. A couple of nights ago, I was handed one that was so small that if I hadn’t already said I’d take the peanuts, I’d have thought the flight attendant was offering me a condom. Excuse me? Fifteen peanuts are supposed to keep me alive from Atlanta to Seattle?

And, of course, there are all the hours spent in conference rooms, dinners and receptions, interrupted only by quick trips back to a hotel room and brief glimpses of the exercise facility that there’s never time to use.

But by far the worst torture was to be facing a row of windows Monday night as I was talking to a colleague during a large conference dinner and a pack of cyclists rolled down the street. I don’t remember what we were discussing at the time. All I know is that my mouth was moving, sound was coming out, and I was staring over this person’s shoulder and through the windows as if Pamela Anderson were standing there naked and pressing the twins against the glass.

I would have cut off an arm to trade places and be out there riding. Not my arm, of course, but someone else’s for sure.

Now I’m home, there’s a long weekend in front of me, and the trails are open.

Butt, meet saddle. Saddle, butt.

Let the fun begin.