The dog is upstairs barking at the outside world. I’m in the basement, drinking the first of what will be several beers. I’ve been climbing at the rauck jim with my friend Kevin and my fingers hurt.
There are bikes to my left. Hanging, standing… Waiting.
There is a whole pile ‘o crap to be gone through. Many parts to be sold by my pal Scott and his confreres at ye olde parts selling shoppe. I used to do this stuff myself. I also used to sniff starter fluid to get high. Neither is good for you in the long run. Scott does not sniff starter fluid. But he is willing to brave the wilds of the interwebs to sell my old crap. It will kill him. Bless you Scott.
Other stuff is going to Second Life Bikes in Asbury Park.
Second Life Bikes is rad. Second Life Bikes is a better person than I am. Second Life Bikes is a better person than you are. This is one of the ways I assuage the guilt-beasts that stalk my carefully tended hedge-rows. My hedges are small, and the beasts are big.
I should be riding more. My coach, the long-suffering Ken Lundgren, sends me lists of things to do. These things are important. I have not done these things.
I am having another mid-life crisis.
This assumes I’m going to live to be 99.
It’s April 2nd. I have been hammering the shit out of my rollers in the basement since early January. I had a goal race. I was ready pummel it. No beer for two months, down to CX season weight.
There was too much snow, so the date was changed. I couldn’t make the new date. Things got vague. They are still vague.
Time to square my shit away.