Frosty the Bike Man

Tags

fat bikes, life, middle age

Once upon a time, in SHenry’s land far far away, the prince of SHenry land used to throw care to the wind.  No matter the weather, the prince would ride his trusty steed, undaunted by wind or rain or sleet or snow.

He’s beginning to rethink those days.  What in the world was he thinking?

It’s definitely winter in SHenryland.  Never one to complain too much about weather that always happens, I am OK with the single and sub zero temperatures as of late.  With the addition of a fat bike to my stable, I am downright giddy when fresh snow has fallen overnight.  However, I don’t throw on the layers of clothing required without a thought, like I used to.  My mind tells me to hold my horses, it’s cold enough out there to cause body parts to fall off.  At my age, body parts are at a premium.  Said body parts may not fall off in cold weather, but they have a tendency to remind me that it was freaking cold.

 

The sun was out today.  I had plenty of time available.  However, the temperature was barely pushing 5 degrees.  Ride, you say?  Nay, nay, said the little voice in my head, stay inside in front of the fire, take a nap, eat some popcorn.  It really took a lot to resist that little pipsqueak in my brain, pull on the cold weather gear, get my princely butt on the fat bike.

Butt I did it.

Four pairs of socks, including a Goretex pair, with my Woolie Boolies on top.

Under Armor mock tee

Padded capri bibs (yes, I call the knee length ‘capris’)

Fleece lined tights

Fleece lined long sleeved jersey

Zip up fleece

Neoprene ski vest

Helmet liner

Full face gator

Insulted head band

Booties

Gloves

I swear that one of the reasons I have second thoughts about riding in the cold is that it takes such a stinking long time to get all that crap on!

It was glorious.  After three weeks of riding my new fat bike, I am still amazed at how easy it rides.  There is so much beauty to ride right out my front door.  It’s a blessing.

Nothing fell off.

 

 

So what if it’s not January 1?

Tags

life, middle age, personal

Recently, I shared here that I am trying out a fitness app and using the diary feature to log my food and calorie intake.  The log takes into account any exercise for the day, a helpful motivator that helps keep it real for me.  I set a reasonable goal for weight loss and control of two pounds a week, which for a guy my age and height is 1500 calories per day.  If that sounds difficult, think again.  It’s not been difficult at all.  Since the app also has a food blog with tons of healthy recipes that are also good meals, it’s literally been a piece of cake (strawberry banana bread, actually).  Using the app has provided the discipline that my personality requires, so I have not missed a day of logging since I started nearly four weeks ago.  I can’t give a weight I am at right now because I don’t have a scale, but I know where I started.  I also know that there were clothes, especially jeans, that I couldn’t wear a month ago because they were uncomfortably tight.  Those jeans are now loose on me.

For an example of the report the diary generates, here is today’s count as of lunch.  Because of two hours of exercise this morning (that will change once I go back to work), I have some fudge (yes, real chocolaty fudge) in the calorie count today —

Optimism abounds for me right now, not always my state of mind this time of year when it comes to my body.  Instead of sinking into a winter pudginess, I am going the other direction.  Perhaps the old ladies at the pool this next summer will be impressed?

It doesn’t hurt that December started with snow, then turned mild.  Combined with extra days off, there has been ample opportunity to ride outside, something I have taken advantage of.  My mountain bike suffered a minor breakdown Monday, a broken rear derailleur, but thankfully I had an extra part and chain waiting — I am a little hard on that particular bike component and was ready for it.  I did use the breakage to scam a test ride on my buddy’s extra fat bike yesterday, a beast with 4.5″ tires.  Since I live alone, the Plus One factor does not affect me, so the call of new bike is very loud right now.

Here’s a picture taken last Sunday — because I know there are those who will be insisting I prove the above.  Yes, that’s my ‘lady friend’.  It’s obvious I have some ways to go, but my goal is a few months away.

 

Crisco is not the Answer

Tags

life, middle age, relationships, technology

This time of year is always filled with transitions, changes required due to cold weather coming on and the snow/moisture that comes with it, as well as the decreased amount of daylight available.  As soon as I come home, I am greeted by the mass of Christmas decorations that adorn my condominium unit, a brightly lit and Cardinal infested tree in front of my living room windows reminding me that the season has begun.  When I wake in the morning, I am reminded quickly that my exercise and diet need to be adjusted to a disciplined routine, my waist straining to overtake my jeans as I pull them on.

Warning — Using Crisco to facilitate pulling on tight pants is not recommended.  People question the stains and lard can cause a painful rash.  Shoehorns are also not recommended as they can get stuck.. or lost depending on the extent of your “transition”.

Last night I visited a friend for a night of watching football, something that is becoming a bit of a weekly thing.  When I arrived, he was showing another friend the bicycle training set up in his kitchen.

Yes, we’re single men.  Single men are able to keep bicycles inside the house without fear of repercussion or bicycle destruction at the hands of a distressed female.

John has a nice set up, his Cervelo connected to a Wahoo Kickr resistance trainer.  That trainer transmits via Bluetooth to a PC which has a Zwift subscription.  Zwift is a training app that controls the resistance as you “train” online with (or against) friends, a virtual group ride through various simulated terrain.  My friend’s eyes glistened as he described a recent training ride where he and another friend dropped the lead group, then carefully waited for the right moment to sprint to the finish line.  John raised an arm in triumph as he recalled edging his “training partner” at the line.

Let me pause as I wipe the drool off of my keyboard.  I WANT THAT TRAINING SET UP!  Can you say ho ho ho?

This time of year can be filled with dreams of training sugar plums.  Last Friday morning, my friend Mike gleefully showed me the app he uses for his diet and training.  Mike is a body builder, so he watches his calorie intake closely.  He has some cred, enough that I respect what he is telling me.  Mike uses an app called My Fitness Pal, something I think I am going to try to help me make it through the Winter transition.  The app is free, with a premium option, so it can’t hurt to try.  It features a dietary log with tons of restaurant food and recipes loaded in to aid in tracking calories.  Favorite recipes can be saved, a useful tool when setting up a menu and grocery list.

We shall see.  My best riding seasons have been preceded with a disciplined off season that includes some kind of electronic resistance training (usually Computrainer) and diet.

Happy Transition-mas!!!

 

Raising a Ringer

Tags

lessons learned, life, middle age, sports

During the course of the last 15 years or so, I had the privilege of coaching my children as they played a number of sports.  My son was one of those boys who wanted to try every sport — constantly wanting me to play catch with him, kick a soccer ball around, shoot hoops in the driveway, compete at ping pong, and go to the tennis courts for a few rounds.  Never did he allow me to take it easy on him, especially when it was tennis.  Rarely did he care that I was tired or fried.  He wanted to play.  Not wanting to be the father from Harry Chapin’s Cat’s In The Cradle, I rarely turned him down.  He always had me to be his partner in whatever activity he wanted to practice.

Having a strong boy who wanted me to compete benefited us both.  He was better because he has a father who is a decent athlete, able to show him a few things and compete well enough to cause him to improve his skills.  Constant activity kept me sharp, strengthened my throwing arm (just ask any first baseman who has taken a throw from me at third base) and improved my athletic ability even in my late fifties.  That said, I am beginning to wear down a bit, especially as my midsection grows.  During the last 15 years, I spent a good portion of my time and money supporting my children in their endeavors.  If I wasn’t coaching them, I was taking them to an event or watching them.

I wouldn’t trade those days for anything in the world.

Despite some rocky times with my son as he grew up, especially during the years when my marriage to his mother began to fail, all the time we spent together developed a bond.  Do I wish it was a little stronger?  Yes.  To be honest, the rocky times stunted that bond a little.  But as time goes on, the investment is showing.  Respect is returning, honor beginning to become a part of our relationship.  He is giving back to me, slowly, but he is doing it.

A few weeks ago, my condo association announced that they would be hosting a doubles tennis tournament.  I mentioned it to my son, hoping that he would show some interest in playing as my partner.  Nate was a talented tennis player, a standout in singles on the high school JV tennis team and in doubles on the high school varsity tennis team.  If he played as my partner, he likely would be my ‘ringer’.  I am a decent tennis player, won an intramural singles tournament in college, but it has been a few years.  In reality, it didn’t matter if we won.  I just wanted to see how would play together, wanted to spend some time with him.  Reluctantly, he agreed to play.  He was pretty sure that the competition would be an older crowd, plus he felt a little rusty since it had been over a year since he has competed at any level.

He showed.  Our first two matches, he held back, didn’t hit many serves hard, just took it easy.  We won those matches easily.  It helps that Nate is 6’4″ tall and very strong.  With him at the net, we had a wall that made our opponents lob the ball, setting me up to place the ball down either line.  In the championship match, Nate crushed several serves, some real aces that evoked several WOWs from the people watching.  We won the tournament.

It was nice to have some time with my son, time I really haven’t had in the last year since the separation and divorce.  We had a great time.  Now we get to share our prize — a gift certificate to a local restaurant!  And yes, the kid is just a tad taller than I am now.  I swear he grew 2-3 inches in the last year.

Steve is old

Tags

lessons learned, middle age, mountain biking, personal

Why in the world do I do this?

My body hurts.  My body hates me right now.  Seriously, my body is screaming “HEY, YOU CRAZY OLD MAN, DO YOU REALIZE THAT YOU ARE OLD, OLD, OLD, OLD?”

Listen, body, I know that.  Do you realize that stuff like this is the responsibility of old people who ride mountain bikes?

Alcohol was necessary tonight.  It really was.  I punished my body.  It needs to be numbed.  I apologize to those who struggle with alcohol addiction.  But tonight, my body begged me to please allow it to have a brief respite from pain.

My friend Greg asked me a few days ago if I was available to ride tonight, to ride some trails that are freakishly difficult.  I laughed, but I said yes.  Why did I laugh?  I am a pretty decent rider when I am riding trails that I know will not beat the snot out of me.  I am pretty decent rider, but I am not one of the most skilled riders.  Greg did not care.  He invited me to ride.  Sometimes it’s not about how well a person rides, it’s about what they add to the quality of the ride.  I add quality.  I am the type of person who encourages.

It’s true.

Greg wanted me to ride with him and a young, upcoming 18 year old rider who is thinking about racing, who needed exposure to some really difficult trails to ride.  The trails we rode tonight are so difficult that they have been declared off limits.  They are no longer sanctioned by the local trail advocate.  They freaking beat the snot out of me.  Early on, I realized that all I needed to do was try, to pick a line on the freakishly steep drops and finish them.  I needed to watch this 18 year old boy finish and rock the impossible rock gardens, tell him what a rock star he really is.  I needed to finish the trails with them, no matter how slow I finished them, because it’s cool for a guy my age to take those type of chances.

Tonight was an absolute blast.  I rode some of the really tough stuff, walked when I just plain couldn’t.  It didn’t matter.  Riding like a rock star wasn’t my purpose tonight.  tongith, I just needed to enjoy myself.  I watched an 18 year old clear what seemed impossible — oh my, that kid rode some gnarly stuff.  I was a cheerleader.  I listened to him exclaim the joy of how freaking impossible some of the stuff we rode was.  He fell to the ground at the end of our ride, totally wasted but satisfied.

OK, body, are you happy now?

Let’s see how we feel in the morning.

 

Musical

Tags

life, middle age, relationships

One of the benefits of the changes in living situation…

I am learning new ways to not say ‘divorce’.

… is that I am having a lot of fun trying new recipes.  Before my living situation changed, I had to stick with food that worked.  Food that worked most often was frozen pizza, maybe some home made lasagna or stuffed shells or cheese potatoes or parmesan chicken now and then.  Now, it’s whatever seems interesting.

Cheese filled gnocchi in a tomato cream sauce

Soy and honey marinated grilled chicken served on a flour tortilla with cabbage and peanut ginger sauce

Garlic, broccoli, and cauliflower mashed potatoes

Pork loin slow cooked with sauerkraut and potatoes

Pulled BBQ pork sandwiches topped with cole slaw

Toasted french bread topped with grilled mushroom, red bell pepper, onion, zucchini and melted mozzarella

Hungry?  Good thing that I was a bad boy at lunch and had that jumbo hot dog and fries.

*burp*

Recently, I decided to cook dinner for a pretty lady that I have been dating now and then.  D is a princess type with long dark hair, petite, always dressed very nicely.  We know each other well enough now that she is comfortable coming to my bachelor pad (do people still use that term?).  I have proven that I am not a perv or serial killer.. or I hide it well.  D also is one whose diet prefers not consuming whatever is cute or squeals (unless it’s a pork chop), so it’s safer to cook vegetarian for her.  Thus, my choice for our dinner at my place — Pumpkin Chili.

The recipe was courtesy of the fitness advisor I consult with monthly while in the beginning stages with the health share that I joined at the beginning of this year (screw you, Health Care mktplace).  It’s a veggie chili chock full of beans, tomatoes and veggies.  A large can of pumpkin serves to thicken the broth and adds an interesting flavor.

I served a nice lettuce salad on the side, as well as cornbread with strawberry jam.

About an hour after dinner, her stomach started gurgling. So did mine.  It became gastronomically pain-fully obvious that we were about to find out how comfortable we were with each other.

BRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPP

She moved the wrong way.  To her credit, she barely blushed, merely shrugged it off.

BRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPP

It was my excuse to relieve the pressure.

She passed the test.

My guess is that if you go to a dinner party hosted by vegetarians, it had best be outdoors.

 

Strobe

Tags

Humour, life, middle age, neighbors, personal

I hear you crawling up my front lawn

Flipped the switch and you were gone

I feel better when I turn it on

Get real simple when I make a song

Strobe (I want to tell you)

(lyrics from Adam Again’s “Strobe”)

This song occupied my waking mind this morning.  The tune is catchy, the lyrics downright comical.  Then I realized the lyrics also are eerily appropriate for me today.

I feel creepy and it feels good, the kind of creepy that creates a twisted chuckle in my gut.  It’s not Aqualung creepy, not yet at least, thank goodness.  I won’t be sitting on a park bench any time soon.

Is he out there?  No, I don’t see him.  WAIT, HE’S WATCHING US!  I heard last night from the other side of the privacy fence that faces my second floor condo.  In a minute, I would be “out there” on my deck after I finished filling a bucket with water from my kitchen faucet.  My new wood deck furniture needed to be cleaned, then treated with teak oil to protect the finish from fading, my project for the evening (it was too muddy to ride my mountain bike).  That twisted chuckle began to churn in my gut as I looked out my patio door, observed the dirty tennis shoes and bare legs gathered in front of a large gap under the privacy fence.  Those shoes and legs belonged to a group of boys from the shabby apartment complex on the other side of the fence.  They play outside in the parking lot and grassy area at the back of the parking lot, that gap under the fence one of the spooky games they like to challenge each other with.  The object seems to be to crawl under the fence, then dash through the thicket that covers the steep berm on the other side.  Each trip through the gap is always preceded with a few minutes of challenges and anticipated danger.  It’s a pre adolescent boys’ game, the imagined danger and mystery the reason for the draw, a rite of passage of sorts.  Adding to the danger is the old NO TRESPASSING sign that leans at them as they emerge through the gap.

I add to that danger, I know, the looming stranger that lurks on the other side, a middle aged monster who belches out warnings.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING OVER THERE?!!? 

A week or so ago was the first time I noticed the boys, already through the gap and huddled against the fence.  Judging from their confusion, it must have been their first time braving the other side.  The boys had waited for the cover of dusk, didn’t expect to be detected, yet were not quite sure what to do once they were there.  They didn’t know that I was sitting out on my deck, taking in the last few rays of daylight, enjoying the ambiance and peace, the sounds of the children playing on the other side of the fence all part of that peaceful ambiance.  I smirked when I saw the boys.  It was my chance to make their game a bit more interesting.  My question to them was just loud enough to seem serious.  I heard girlish screams from the boys, likely wetting themselves as they fought each other to flee through the gap under the fence.

One boy, the ringleader of sorts, paused in mid flight, turned and managed a weak who are you, mister? before completing his escape under the fence.  I heard muffled exclamations of delightful fear mixed with the sound of running footsteps from the other side of the fence.  I wondered if my visitors would return any time soon.  From then on, I knew I would be legend, the mean/creepy man who lives on the other side of the fence, waiting to challenge any boy who dared enter my domain through the gap in the fence.  I remember the creepy legends from my own boyhood, the small town rumors that made them seem worse than they likely were.  One such man, a clerk at the small local grocery, was supposedly a pedophile who had been caught sodomizing a canteloupe and fired, a rumor obviously fabricated as the man still worked at the grocery.  His story grew more perverted, the fear perpetuated as we all crossed the street when going past his house rather than walk directly in front, lest he grab one of us.

One late night, when my friends all camped out in their backyard tents, we gathered at the hedgerow that lined the side of the grocery clerk’s front yard, taunting each other to go knock on his front door.  A brave soul did just that, banged loudly on the screen door, then ran back to the safety of the hedge.  He reported that the front door was open.  There was no response to the knock.  Our next move was to light firecrackers on his front porch.  No response.  I was appointed to go light another firecracker.  As I rounded the hedge and began my unsteady journey across his front lawn, the dark figure of a man burst from the front door and began running at me.

WHAT’S THE MATTER, CHICKEN SH**???!!!! he screamed as he ran at me.

I turned and bolted back towards the hedge, the man nearly breathing down my neck.  As I rounded the hedge, my friends had already taken flight.  The man chased me for nearly a mile before I finally lost him.  He was pretty fast.  Not too much longer after that night, I would be setting records for the school track team.  That mile chase was probably faster than any of the records I would set running for the track team.  When I started the trek back home, I met my worried friends who had decided that maybe it was best to rescue their fallen comrade, scared that maybe I had become a canteloupe.

I wonder what kind of rumors the boys from the apartments are generating about me?  I am most definitely part of their game, now, judging from what I heard from them last night.  They returned a few minutes after the initial sighting with what seemed like a bigger crowd.  After all, the monster was lurking.  The game had become more dangerous.  By that time, I had started my task outside, had cleaned the two person wood glider out on my deck and was applying the teak oil.  The boys returned while I was kneeling behind the glider.  I listened to them, watched as faces appeared in the gap.

Is he there?

No?  Are you sure?

I don’t know.  You go first.

I started to chuckle as I witnessed the first of four boys crawl through the opening, then follow their leader a few steps through the thicket.  When I stood up, I merely smiled as the boy in front gasped at seeing me, then knocked down the three boys behind him as he scrambled over them to get away.

OH NO, HE’S THERE!!  GET OUT OF HERE!!

I am legend.

My phone rang a minute later, so I sat down in one of the chairs that I had not treated yet, amused as two faces appeared over the fence, a few more gaped at me through a space in the fence below the two faces.

I wonder who he is talking to?  Maybe it’s the police!

More sounds of running feet.  By that time, it was dusk.  After a few minutes, the faces peered over and through the fence, but I heard a mother’s voice calling the boys to come in.  The game was over, at least for last night.

I intend on establishing friendly dialogue some time soon.  After all, these are boys just like I was at one time.  I don’t want them tossing fireworks over the fence or, worse, rocks at my glass patio doors.  For now, I don’t mind fueling their legend, making the game daring fun.

For now… stay off my lawn.

Felix

Tags

life, middle age

It’s hard to believe it, but I have lived on my own for nearly a year now.  Life has changed in a good way, has changed me.

Look at my condo, for instance.  Perhaps the change to Felix Unger tendencies started a while ago, it just wasn’t noticeable whilst living with a large teenage male.  Now that I am living in a smaller space and with only myself to speak for, that space is in fine order.  My bed is made each morning, the first thing I do before even traipsing to the bathroom for tinkle time.

Yes, I flush the toilet, much to the chagrin of my downstairs neighbor, T the Nitpicker.

Strange addictions have reared their ugly head.  One of my first purchases upon moving in was a nice carpet shampoo machine.  My berber is so spectacularly spotless that one can roll around naked without worry.

I often do.  That’s another benefit of living alone.  I should probably be more careful about closing the drapes on the large sliding glass door in my living room.  Or should I?

My bathroom sink and fixtures receive a quick wipe down every time they are used in the morning.  The shower reaks of the scent of daily shower cleaner, the gleam of the faucet handles and spout a glory to behold.  Kitchen dishes are washed after they are used, the stainless sink also wiped down with a rag and towel after each use.  Bare floors are swept and mopped several times a week.

I am going to make someone a fabulous house husband some day.

Some day I might even shine my bike with floor polish….

Hoop Dreams

Tags

life, middle age, neighbors, personal

dribble dribble dribble (pause) swish BAM bounce bounce pad pad pad pad

dribble dribble dribble (pause) swish BAM bounce bounce pad pad pad pad

dribble dribble dribble (pause) swish BAM bounce bounce pad pad pad pad

I wonder why my parents never ever said anything to me about the noise I made while shooting baskets in the driveway?  Hour after countless hour, I continued the ritual.  It was an obsession with me, the enjoyment of shooting basketball an exercise that I never tired of.  Even now, I still love it.  And the memory of the large concrete square in front of the family garage, a makeshift particle board backboard attached to the front of the garage roof with brackets.  Any time the was a perfect shot, the basketball smacked loudly off the aluminum gutter underneath the backboard, a loud BAM that reverberated around our neighborhood.  Harry, our lunatic next door neighbor that hated his noisy neighbors, especially during the warm weather months when there were countless ball games on that concrete court, often fought loudly when a foul call didn’t go our way or when the game got rough.  Even worse was when dad added a spotlight, enabling us to play past dark.

Mom and Dad used to sit on the front porch stoop, holding hands and drinking the sweet iced tea that Mom used to brew in a jar on our back porch, watching as my brother and I sparred with Wayne and Mark and Kevin (even my cousin, Phil, always hopeless when it came to sports — but later on quite a hit with the ladies) or whoever else strayed into our neighborhood for a game on our basketball court.  Quite often, they would watch for a while then retreat back inside the house, the sound of Mom playing hymns on the piano while Dad sang.  Those days, it wasn’t embarrassing.  It was just what people in our little community did.  Church was cool.

In my teen years, shooting baskets became a contest with myself for imaginary rewards.  If I made ten shots in a row, then I would get that get that kiss from Edie, a lovely green eyed brunette who I actually did get my first kiss from.  Those imaginary rewards provided motivation that sometimes gave me the courage to make them not so imaginary!  As I hit my upper teens, I upped the ante, ventured out to the street and vowed to asked Tami, my current serious girlfriend, to marry me if I made the shot.  Sure enough, it was nothing but net, slamming even louder into the aluminum gutter after passing through the slightly bent hoop.  I never asked Tami to marry me, an opportunity that I sometimes regret, sometimes am very glad for — she has been divorced twice!

I am about to reenter the dating world after a long hiatus (marriage).  I wonder what will take the place of shooting baskets for me.  Maybe I will rediscover the joy again, shoot baskets at that little court at the condo clubhouse.  The imaginary rewards will be different, I assume.  Maybe not.  Teen or “mature” adult, I still need that kiss.

Resurrected Titanium

Tags

biking, health, lessons learned, life, middle age, personal

I never intended to neglect her, even as I stopped to admire her pearled finish and timeless beauty as I passed her each day.  We used to be constant companions with hardly a day where we didn’t spend at least an hour together.  She was a gift, cherished in a way that expressed my true thanks to have such a wonderful machine.  Never a spot did I allow, never a fault or blemish.  My partner was too precious, too much a part of me, to allow any harm.

Then came the other one.  The dirty pleasure who showed me things that I had never even dreamed of until I met her.  She brought me back to nature, a satisfied peace that helped me escape to a place of refuge, my body experiencing a different challenge than my pearly beauty could ever give to me.  I was taken away, away from the stress of the road, away from the constant effort that the other required of me.  Sure, she had a bigger, more sturdy frame, but the ecstasy she brought made me forget all else.  With her, it was about the experience, not so much the sheer appearance.  Soon, all I wanted was my time in the woods.  Rarely did I come back to my pearly beauty, my first love.

I had to come back.  Saturday, I donned the spandex that I had spurned during my hiatus from my titanium beauty, the Serotta road bike that I have loved for so long.  Tentatively, I returned to the garage, prepped my white steed for a ride, picked it up, still astonished at how light the bike is for such old technology — the frame is over 20 years old.  It felt strange to wear spandex again, the tight material stretched over my 56 year old frame, a bit self conscious as I rolled down the first stretch of road.  The click of cleat to pedal brought a smile as my right foot found the Look Keo pedal, a surge as the first down stroke took affect.

It was a different feeling, not unfamiliar, the speed of the light bike underneath me, the resistance of high pressure road tires to the pavement much less than knobby mountain bike tires to dirt.  I rolled along at a nice, 18 mph pace after my body warmed up, content on a pleasant but humid Saturday afternoon.  The traffic was light, the ride easy.  10 miles in, I encountered an old friend at a stoplight, a fast rider who races, and settled in behind him for another 10 miles.

Home again, I realized that my muscles were sore.  Riding the road bike works different muscles than the mountain bike.  I was happy to know they still existed, annoyed that I had let them go.

Sunday found me with a text message from my “wife”, telling me that she had visited our daughter at her summer camp, where she is a camp counselor.  The air conditioning on our daughter’s car wasn’t working, so my “wife” wanted to know what to do about it.  I drove the 90 minutes to the camp, exchanged cars with my daughter, brought her car home.

The car went to the mechanic early Tuesday morning.  Instead of hitching a ride with my office manager, who lives close, I decided to take advantage of my renewed relationship with my road bike.  I rode to work.  For more than 20 years, bike commuting was something I was known for around the office, an activity I took advantage of nearly 12 months out of the year.  But since I took my new job over three years ago, I have bike commuted only a few times, not once since we changed office locations at the beginning of 2016.

Commuting by bike is different than merely riding for pleasure.  Unless one gets up to commute before dawn, a bike commute is going to mean that I am riding in the presence of a large amount of motor vehicles.  Even a dawn ride involves more vehicle interaction than an early Saturday morning ride.  Almost immediately, within the first few pedal strokes, I felt the uncomfortable closeness of cars constantly zooming past my backside.  Years ago, riding with traffic had become second nature.  It took a bit for that second nature to kick in again.

I enjoyed the ride, parked my bike in my office, a bit of pride at once again using my hobby in a practical way.  Really, I should have parked the bike in the storage unit my company rents in the basement.  Instead, I left the bike in my office window for all to admire.  She is a beauty, after all.

Last night, my second ride home on my commute.  Approaching a stoplight where I had to cross over a second lane to get to the left turn lane, a small brained motorist behind me decided to take his aggression out on me.  I won’t share the details — they are not important.  But I remembered another reason why the peace of the woods and dirt trails has become so precious to me.  I arrived home with clenched teeth, a result of stuffing the temptation to react to the angry motorist.

I will continue to return to my pearly white beauty for weekend strolls along less travelled roads.  I am pretty sure that I don’t want the stress of commuting any more.  Oh, I could get used to it again, as I did so many years ago.  I got to the point then where I rarely had an incident.. but the roads are different now, the congestion of the suburbs more pronounced.  I ride the bike to relieve stress, keep my body in tune.  I want to keep it that way.