Almost completely pointless

Saturday.  Wake up to a beautiful day on the horizon.  Tell myself to take it easy on my ribs.  Decide to keep it indoors as much as possible.  Make the decision to get on the trainer that I borrowed for The Pie's use.

Pull up The Interview on Netflix.  One hour, fifty one minutes.  I can do that.  Or less if I so choose.  Drag the bike down the stairs from The Pie's office on the 1.5 floor of our split level mansion to the .5 floor known as my "bike room."  Then the trainer comes down.  Then the front wheel brick.  Set it all up.  Start riding.  Take mandatory "I am an athlete" trainer selfie.

Went with the "looking down on the legs and shoes" VS the "sweaty pain face."  Hope it captured the energy of the moment.

Stopped to adjust the box fan.  Like a million times.  Also stopped to lean over and check the run time on the movie.  Although the movie is playing (the characters are moving, dialogue exchanged), time is standing still.  With the bike being a single speed and the trainer's resistance only variable by getting off the bike and adjusting the amount of tire squish, the only variety I have is painfully slow pedaling, slightly harder pedaling, and stopping.  I swap between the three quite often.

I lasted between 45-50 minutes.  No more than fifty, but some definite time lost to messing with the box fan angle, getting back off to pick up the fan when it fell over, and stopping due to lack of interest.  I spent more time in setup, pedal swaps, and tear down than I did riding. 

Are they still considered "junk miles" if I didn't actually go anywhere?

I have no desire to do that again.  Perhaps it's my disconnect with what I'm doing now having any affect on what I'm going to do in April.  More than likely it's the fact that I like riding a bike, not sitting on one and playing "bike."  At least I tried.  I can say that.

Drag all the shit back up to The Pie's office, reset the saddle height, walk away knowing what I now know.

Sunday.

I'm looking forward to an easy ride over to the short track race.  Standing around under what should be "the sun."  I never end up seeing it.

Start gathering clothes too late and take the Niner JET9 RDO upstairs and outside.  I haven't had to get on a (moving) bike without a drooper in nine days.  I figure out a way to get on and then head over to Bill Nye's house to scoop him.

He did not get the memo that today's road ride was not a "road ride."  Get to the park, watch the end of the women's race, some men with beards (many men, actually), children (most without beards), single speed, the fast guys.

I also see a donkey piñata violate a inflatable flamingo and vice versa.  Many #creepybabyhands as well as a foot.  A single speeder wearing a flattering Sombraero™ amongst the fastest of men.

photo cred: Paul Cunningham

Time to head back home. 

Emboldened by the full suspension road bike, I hit the cracks in the sidewalk at (my) full speed.  At home, I decided perhaps it was time to try to see if I could go back to riding the Fastest Bike in the World at work come Monday.  I used my new found technique to mount up, struggled to get out of my driveway, swung around at the top in defeat, realized I had no exit strategy, and endured an extremely painful dismount before walking back into the house and putting the tarck bike back in the corner.  Looks like another week of geared, knobby, droopy deliveries.

Three weeks to go?