I feel like sighing for some reason.
Let me tell you about Saturday.
But this week, my pants are falling. I need to buy some new pants, probably, or buy a belt, because if I take ten steps Air Max 90 Br
across the parking lot, my britches do a swift beeline for the ground. How could I possibly bitch about this? I am shrinking! Does this not mean I am speeding on my way toward the sort of endlessly happy fitness we dream about when we're alone at night, gazing at our bicycles with a love we reserve only for the most profound, transformative elements of our lives?
So on Saturday we had plans essentially from one o'clock in the afternoon till midnight: a concert, a birthday party, a fundraiser, some shopping, some happy time at the coffee shop, et cetera.
Cycling Training Love
We treaded water for 15 minutes and did some laps and did a nifty little balancing act on kickboards, which means we stand on the kickboards and then maneuver around the deep end like we're riding snowboards. Maybe it's stupid, but it's fun and most certainly not unhealthy. It is happy time in the best sense. I wouldn't trade it for anything.
After the ride, my girlfriend came over to my place, and I was yapping about my great ride in the morning. She wanted to see what that's all about so we hopped in the truck and reviewed my three hour bike route, or most of it, and she said, "I can't believe you rode so far."
The next day was sunny, and I rode for three hours in the morning, which will go to show you that I'm getting some riding in after all, that everything's good, that I've got no complaints worth voicing.
I am so happy this week. Really. No irony intended. I know I look pissed off or like I need to take a dump or like I need to take a nap. Well, a nap wouldn't kill me. A dump wouldn't, either, now that I think about it. Nevertheless, in my little sector of the cycling universe, joy rules, or at least a 92 percent version of it does, and if 92 percent of Mike Magnuson is happy, this should occasion the villagers in my imaginary fiefdom to dance in the streets.
At one point, I saw a group of cyclists way off in the distance and chased them down over a period of about 20 minutes and finally caught them and had a nice time talking about the weather with them. Actually, the chase was so ferocious that it was a miracle I could speak. The chase also made me think, hey, that was not a bad piece of riding.
Bone Ride because of love, if love prevents me from riding 158 miles in one day, I will not be disappointed.
Sometimes, I feel like I have been sent to Earth to complain about everything I am unable to do: eat properly, train properly, think properly, behave properly, speak properly, meet my obligations properly (just ask the editors of Bicycling about my pathetic history with deadlines), and so on. For me, life has purpose only if I have numerous items about which to bitch, and because I am prone to making mistakes and prone to inadequacy, my waking life tends to be series of orchestrated cranks and not the kind of cranks on our bicycles.
I told her she can ride that far, too, if she wants to. I'm guessing, in time, she will in fact want to. The world can always use another cyclist, and she would be a great one.
Me, 92 percent happy.
Later, we went to the indoor pool in my townhouse complex, a pool that is almost always devoid of human life. Whenever I see it, in fact, I think of some lines from Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot: "the Dead Sea was pale blue. The very look of it made me thirsty. That's where we'll go, I used to saywe'll swim. We'll be happy."
In the afternoon, after the concert, we shot the breeze at the coffee shop and laughed about nothing in particular and talked about the cool things we have planned for the rest of the spring. We were happy. Clouds hung overhead. But the streets were dry. Temps were in the knee warmer/arm warmer range. You almost couldn't dream of a better afternoon to be out riding. You almost couldn't dream of a better afternoon for coffee and conversation.
I choose love. I'm sorry. That's non negotiable.
my life will be worthless. When those pangs come, I do my best to beat them back.
My girlfriend is not a hardcore cyclist, not yet, not till either she can pony up the cash to replace her 800 pound steel mountain bike from World War II or till I do the right thing and ride regularly with her, at her pace, over terrain of her choosing, and content myself knowing that spending time with her far surpasses the ecstasy I might experience in the hammerhead world of carbon fiber and spandex. That's just a fact. She's more important than cycling. I mention this, of course, because cyclists sometimes forget what's more important: A) the big Nike Air Max 90 White Red Black ride and the blocks of training necessary to pull it off, or B) the people we love in our lives.
Maybe it does. I've been riding a couple to three hours every day, sure enough, and I've been feeling the first huge mental pangs that go along with riding regularly: the feeling that if something gets in the way of my daily ride, of my training regimen, Nike Air Max Black Grey
In the morning, I had work to finish at my desk, plus I needed to do some chores: dusting, vacuuming, and various other forms of removing the tire tracks from my underwear and from my floors and from my life. This left me with about a 90 minute window to ride on a cold, drizzly morning to boot.
I suited up and rolled on wet streets through a cold mist. A big rain had fallen the night before, and the streets were covered with so many worms I thought I was going to slip on them. A chill shuddered into my bones in a way that did not awaken my inner hard man of Flanders. Ninety minutes. A miserable, lonely, grim spin. That was it.
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