Tuesday, January 10

Typing With 1.2 Hands

The Pie asked me Friday night if I had any weekend plans.


I did not.  A couple offers to meet up with others in the WNC for two totally different rides.


I don't relish a solo drive to the mountains to meet up with others then ride, only to leave the stoke behind as I pilot the Fit of Rage and Infinite Sadness back the Queen City.

The local trails were either going to be closed, moist, or muddy (in places, natch).


There's always the final trail work day of winterizing the Winter Shart Tarck course... that was scheduled for 9:00AM... which totally screwed with my plans to wake up without an alarm and get to the stores before they start getting crowded.

But for some strange reason, my eyes opened at six something o'clock, and I started moving the chess pieces around on the ceiling.

If I denied myself the chance to get more sleep, I could drink my 30oz of coffee, enjoy my morning constitutional, get to Target in time to make a mad dash through uncrowded aisles for certain various necessities, pull up at Trader Joe's when they open and smash/grab my staple TJ items, get home, unload the car, change clothes, grab my bike and garden rake, and join in on the fulfilling labor that is spreading gravel over dirt.  Three or four hours of raking and shoveling and clearing drains and riding around in a non-person area of a six wheel vehicle.

I was feeling early onset old people sore about forty minutes before quitting time.  Work done, grab my bike and helmet, knock out a quick (and pretty pointless) lap before racing home to smash leftovers in my face and get another bike ready to head out with Dr Mike to ride as much Sherman Branch as we could get.  On the bike and hungry, I was feeling a bit too much ooggity boogity and was too close on his wheel flying through some tight twisties.  My eyes saw the first and second tree, but not the third.  Full fisting action with my left hand, an immediate cessation of forward progress, and I'm on the ground in milliseconds with my hands still on the bars.  Ripped (another) knee warmer.  Did that thing to a couple of fingers that you just go ahead and ride through... because... "fun?"

Beer at Brawley's Beverage, Squeezy Leg Bags™, ice my hand in front of the TV.

I'd already settled for the idea that Sunday was gonna be a Dad Dad™ around town due to the shit weather we just call "normal" now, but I woke up with a very stiff, sore, puffy, angry hand.  I hemmed.  I hawed.  I turned down two invites.

I Zwifted.

Once again, I'm thankful for the option to be active in some manner.  I couldn't even think about going up the ladder and scooping the gutters out with one hand (which was the only thing I could think to do with my spare time), so riding inside the cartoon world and climbing four thousand cartoon feet over fourteen cartoon miles was better than day drinking, in terms of physical and also mental health.

I'm "preparing" for Winter Shart Tarck to begin in a little under two weeks.  Last time I did the whole series, I was in the kinda shape you can get when you're doing a one week on/one week off work schedule.  Last year, I skipped it because the course was just not to my liking.  Now I'm all over the place "training" with Sad Dads, gravel biking, Zwifting, and actual mountain biking sometimes... with the occasional self-sabotaging of illness or injury... to include trying to slice my fingernail in half yesterday with a box cutter.

BTW: It wasn't the cut that actually hurt after about twenty minutes.  It was the thousands of times I relived the moment in my head.  I hate cuts.  Yuck.

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