7:45 Publish blog post in which I'm leaning towards not racing cyclocross on Saturday after a thorough cost VS benefit analysis.
7:50 Realize that I am part of the Faster Mustache team... friends with benefits. The race won't cost me as much as I had originally thought. Hmmm...
8:15 Out the door for my commute to work on the cross bike. Don't know if I can really call it a "cross" bike, as I've never actually ridden it in a "cross" race. It's just a bike. Anyways, intend to ride some of the course on the way home and see how a 39X16 and a bald Larsen Mimo will feel.
8:25 Notice the sore throat.
8:40 Feel like someone shoved cotton balls covered in hot beach sand and Vaseline up my nose.
9:02 Get to work and warn The Pie of a potential outbreak in the Dillen homestead. Nia was Case 0. Sharing pop corn on the couch the night before... maybe not so smart.
12:00 Give up the dream that it's just allergies. Head out and buy Zicam. Hope for the best.
1:05 Eat a burrito... because... burrito.
5:02 Get off work and head outside. Raining. Screw "cross practice." Head to The Spoke Easy for beer.
5:17 Drink assorted beers, discuss Saturday plans with two people racing cross (Dip n Spray and Kevin) and with two people planning on spectating/drinking (Danger and the other Kevin present).
7:09 Head out, stop at Total Wine for beverages, get home, eat leftovers, pass out on the couch before 10:00.
Meh. The very temporary excitement of realizing that I was finally going to race cyclocross again... gear selection, tossing around the logic that I have a mountain bike that weighs just as much as my "cross" bike, playing in the sand pits.
All to end up sick and none of it mattering. I'm not deathly ill. A half hour of jumping over tiny walls in a park wouldn't kill me, but I'm planning on hitting Pisgah on Sunday for some seasonal trail delights. The Wilkes 100k is just a week away.
Discretion is the better part of valor. Shit. I'm no longer a 21 year old man-child that can spring back immediately after sickness.
I still have my wind jacket from the team... which is older than The Boy. One shoulder torn from an endo over a German Shepherd (at speed).
What was I talking about?
Oh yeah, the weekend. No racing. Spectating. Then a glorious day in Pisgah (whether I'm still sick or not). Discretion may be the better part of valor, but Falstaff wasn't riding in Western NC in October.
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The guy in the back row right: Matt Mercer, fastest of the flightless birds. And, for the record, I have a photo of me on that funny bike in the middle.
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