Go kiss a trail

My life has turned into a steaming pile of suck. Instead of riding bikes and having fun, I spend every night sitting up alone, coughing and enduring what some might call post-nasal drip. I call it a snot hemorrhage. It makes sleep impossible, and fistfuls of drugs don't help, so I cough, sniff, and surf the Internet.

A few nights ago, I came across an unusual post on the mtbr.com "Passion" forum. The guy who wrote it happily recounted driving for three hours and paying a $20 admission fee to ride an indoor mountain bike park in Cincinnati.

Sorry, but "indoor" and "mountain bike" just don't belong in the same sentence. Haven't these people heard of warm clothing and studded tires?

Concrete floor, plywood, steel roof supports, walls painted with someone's perverse idea of what a pine tree looks like ... my list of reasons for being glad I don't live in Ohio just grew.

Some people complain about riding indoor trainers. I'm happy that I've used mine damn little this winter, because I've spent more time than ever riding outside on ice and snow, among trees that didn't come out of a paint can. But if I thought the only way to ride in winter was to spend several hours driving to a warehouse that charged admission, I'd rent a few DVDs full of cool explosions and hot babes, and I'd ride that trainer like a meth-crazed hamster on an exercise wheel.

The next time you wipe out and get covered with snow or dirt, or rain falls on you, or nettles scratch your shins, or your new jersey gets splattered with mud, or you get lost for an hour, be happy.

Remember this picture, and be happy.