Monday, March 5

Over Take, Take Over

A weekend fueled by coffee and bad ideas. Saturday I couldn't get enough of the brown liquid, and I was full of limitless energy without direction. I totally finished the bike room/Pegboard of Plethora project.

I have hanging file folders. I thought they were stupid at first. Now my manuals, maps, and stickers all have a place to call home. I haven't been this organized since I had an E.T. Trapper Keeper.

Other areas that were spill over locations for excess gear are now tidied up. Trophies placed on high shelves for maximum dust potential.

I am now in a happy place.

Sunday I was up at 5:00AM for no apparent reason. Zac had clued me in on a standard weekly ride outta NoDa, but it didn't head out until 9:00AM.

Coffee, coffee, coffee...

and out the door.

They roll Loco in NoDa.

That Swiftwick is not like other Swiftwicks... it's special, like a black rainbow. Wool, but with a linked toe (no seam). Something I've wanted for cold weather riding for years. No more Phantom Stranger. I hate seams. Hate them like the day is long and so are the lines at the porta-potties. That doesn't make sense. These socks do.

I rode over to the the meeting spot a little early. I was alone. I tried to call Zac. Fail. I called Kurt. He was going to ride mountain bikes.


Zac rolled up on time'esque and made a phone call of his own (apparently his phone only works for outgoing calls). Oddly enough the 9:00 ride wasn't scheduled to go off until 10:00. Decision time. Drink coffee until 10:00 at the Smelly Cat or do our own thing.

"Zac, you wanna do my Tour de Greenway idea that I've never done before?"

"Why not."

So we left NoDa, rode some distance greater than 10 miles, stopped to pee...

and drank more coffee...

and then we were off to ride a shit ton of greenways all over the Queen City.

Sixty something miles, one sore knee, and many snotty mud covered greenways and bike lanes owned.

If it were a race, we would have been declared the winners over our fellow Sunday afternoon greenwayers.

But it was not a race, it was more like self-propelled human napalm raining down mercilessly on the suburban utopia. Dog walkers, joggers listening to Tom Petty, elderly citizens gazing at nature, and children on striders VS two elite road riding athlete warriors?

They never stood a chance.

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