Sunday, May 20, 2018

Two Days in May That Weren't Rainy

Mountain Road at Rocktown Road

20 May 2018

The day after Tom's Yardley loop I had enough legs and time left over to drive to Allentown for Chris' "Sumday B."

The forecast was iffy. Sue and Chris were standing outside Bruno's when I got there. Both had riders who had pre-registered. Neither showed up, leaving Sue standing around by herself and Chris left with me and a new guy, Pete R, who had met us at the PFW Spring Fling the week before. Jim Bruno said he'd take a ride with Sue if she were willing to wait an hour. I don't know what happened after that, but the experience left me pissed off enough that I was determined to bring it to the PFW Board's attention at our meeting the next night.

Before we got started I noticed the moose weather vane across the street and scuttled over to get a picture.


Chris was leading without a script, as usual. He figured we'd head down to Mount Holly. The rain would be coming from the south. All we'd need to do would be to get back to Allentown before the rain did.

At the top of Harker Road we could see what the sky was up to at the southern end.


At 18 miles out we were farther away from Mount Holly than Chris had planned to be, so we made our way towards the Old World Bakery in Smithville instead.

Inside was packed. Maybe because it was Sunday all of the tables were covered in linen cloth with linen napkins. Chris pondered the pastry display.

"You want that one," I said, pointing to an oversized pair of cookies separated by a thick, white filling.

The woman behind the counter, far more cheerful than the situation needed her to be, started to reach for it.

"No, no!" I said. "I'm only kidding. If he gets that I'm not riding behind him."

"Why's that?"

"If he barfs it'll land on me."  That cracked her up. Chris settled for something smaller.

Outside the azaleas were beginning to bloom. I love azaleas. If I could find one of every kind I'd plant them all in my yard. The ones here were different from ones I'd seen before: the flowers weren't a solid color. They were light pink with a darker pink rim.


We got back before the rain.

The following weekend was rained out. Monday was clear enough for me to take my bike into work. It rained on Tuesday. It rained on Wednesday. It rained on Thursday. It rained on Friday.

Tom had a ride scheduled for Saturday.

It rained on Saturday.

His blog post hinted that he might move the ride to Sunday. I woke up at 6:45, fully prepared to scurry around and get out of the house and into the car, bound for Lambertville by 8:15. Tom usually sends an email and posts to his blog before 7:00 a.m.  Today there was nothing.

I emailed him and Jack H emailed him too. Hearing nothing, I volunteered to lead from Pennington, and Jack was raring to go. Two is a quorum.

I sent an email to the usual suspects and posted to the club ride calendar too. Within an hour Pete G had registered. Two is a quorum; three is a party.

Pete R, the guy from last week, was already there when I rolled in. So was Jack. Pete G arrived a few minutes later, followed by Ken.

My goal was to get some hills in. It had been two weeks since the last time I climbed anything, which made me nervous, because in a little over a week I was hoping to be working my way up Cadillac Mountain again.

So we headed up the Sourland Mountain towards Frenchtown.

The forecast was for clearing skies with a chance of thunderstorms after 2:00 p.m.

The sky over Mountain Road at Rocktown Road didn't look like it had any plans to clear up any time soon. (I didn't edit these pictures one bit; the sky really did look like that.)


Around the corner, on Rocktown, one of Unionville Winery's vineyards was starting to come to life.


Ken left us at the end of Rocktown Road. He went south; we turned north.

On our way out of Mount Airy we came upon three Anchor House riders in training. They were slightly faster than us. I tried to keep up but thought the better of it. Jack stayed with them. We all reconvened at the top of Sandy Ridge. They were headed towards Federal Twist.

"Better down than up," I said, assuming they'd be starting from the top.

"We're starting from the bottom," they said, with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

The turned right and we turned left.

A group of C+ Free Wheelers was already there when we rolled in. Bill C had seen me on my way to Pennington. He'd been a minute behind me, heading to Rosedale Park to ride with Bob P, Alan K, and David S.

George D was there, too, inside the vestibule, with another group of Anchor House riders.

I found a spot on the stone planter next to Bill's group. We griped about the weather. Nothing elicits a collective groan more effectively than someone saying, "It was so bad I had to spin indoors twice."

When a group of Team In Training cyclists came by there was no room left for them to sit.

I was taking my time, catching up with Bill's group, when Jack called over. "There's thunderstorms coming," he said, and everyone got up at once.

"When?"

"2:00."

That would give us two hours to get home.

We didn't dally on the way back, although I did pause for a minute to talk to the cows in the creek on Dunkard Church Road.






The creek leads to the Third Neshanic River, which leads to the South Branch of the Raritan River, because of course it does.

I probably didn't choose the fastest route home, now that I look at the map. I picked Back Brook Road. It's one of the prettier roads around. The problem is that it dumps out on Van Lieus, one of the most annoying roads around, with its rough chip-seal pavement and those steep little inclines.

We made our way sideways up the mountain, all the while the dark clouds to the west getting darker and closer.

A brief downpour hit us on Wargo Road. The cool rain felt good.

I didn't spend much time in the parking lot at the end of the ride. With fewer than four miles left for me to get home, I was relatively sure I'd beat the rain. I was less sure when I got within half a mile of home. It was looking mighty dark for mid-day.

A quarter mile from home my rear tire hit something that sounded like a rock. I saw the tire start to go flat. I didn't stop. There was air enough in it to get me home.

I fixed the flat as soon as I got inside. I fully expected torrential rain by the time I was finished. That didn't happen. I had some lunch. No rain. I took a shower. The sun was out.

The forecast for this coming week looks a lot better than last week's. We might only see one day of rain.






Saturday, May 5, 2018

Tom's Yardley Loop

Calhoun Street Bridge, Trenton, NJ

5 May 2018

Last summer Blake led an off-the-books ride from Yardley. Cheryl, visiting from Florida, said, "I'm surprised you didn't ride over." I shook my head. "No way. It's too far."

Not that far, it turns out.

I had no intention of riding to Yardley when Tom posted a hilly loop for Saturday. It was Bob N who made the suggestion of extra miles from Pennington. I wasn't keen on that. It would take me as long to drive there as it would to Yardley. He suggested we could leave from my house instead.  Taking the scenic route to avoid traffic and traffic circles would add over 14 miles each way; going through the Pennington circle would shave off about a mile. I wondered what would happen if I were to ask ridewithgps to plot a route for me. I clicked on my house, panned across the river, and clicked on the Yardley Park and Ride.

And there we had it: a 10-mile ride through Trenton with two turns: one from Princeton Pike to Calhoun Street, and one onto River Road in Pennsylvania. And it was relatively flat.

Expecting red lights and traffic, Bob and I left home with more than enough time. I'm used to these streets during weekday mornings when I drive down to get my car washed (it needs washing again; it's covered in pollen), or on the rare weekend to visit the Trenton Farmers Market.

As we coasted downhill on Princeton Pike, I noticed that my tires were turning green from pollen.

"I've never been down here on my bike," I confessed as we approached the intersection with Route 206. (As I write this I realize I was wrong: I once sold an old car to a used car dealer near the car wash. I had Kermit in the back seat. The dealer looked the car over, looked into the window, and said, "Your bike is worth more than this car." I agreed, took $1100 for the car, put the license plates in my jersey pocket, and rode my bike home.)

"Even the busiest streets are quiet if you leave early enough," Bob said as we passed the Trenton Farmers Market. The car wash had just opened for the day and it was already bustling. Past Olden Avenue we turned onto Calhoun Street, where we pretty much had the road to ourselves. Our tires went back to their usual color.

In no time at all we were walking across the Calhoun Street bridge. The pedestrian deck is wooden; we didn't bother with cleat covers. We had plenty of time for pictures. Looking north I couldn't see the next bridge up at Washington Crossing.


To our south was the Trenton Makes bridge.


Behind that was the railroad bridge, where a New Jersey Transit train was crossing. I think they have a storage yard on the Pennsylvania side.



Now that I've crossed this bridge I only need to get over the Trenton Makes bridge and I'll have crossed every one from here to Riegelsville on my bike. Or, rather, with my bike. We can't ride across any of them.

As we were clipping in again, Jack H came down the hill across from us. He moved to Yardley last year. "I figured I'd find you guys here," he said, and the three of us went up Route 32 together.

Never having been on 32 this far south, I spent much of my time gawping at the mansions along the river. Jack explained that a lot of the houses needed to be raised above flood level. Some were up on stilts; others had ugly, bare, cement foundations. Some of the foundations had windows and fancy doors. The whole point of raising a house above flood level is to not be living at flood level. Whatever. Maybe all the furniture down there was inflatable.

The railroad bridge that carries the West Trenton Line out of New Jersey, yellow in the morning light, stood out above the water. I didn't want to break our rhythm by stopping for a picture from a distance. I caved in at the bottom of it, though. Jack said he was surprised the thing was still standing. "The cement is crumbling," he said.


We arrived at the Yardley Park and Ride so early that Jim didn't know what to say. Ricky was there too. Pete showed up, and then Tom. Ken coasted in; from his house in Pennington he'd come almostg as far as we had.

Bob requested the blessing. Tom dug into his car and retrieved the Holy Kickstand, its continued presence in his car being comic in its own right.

Tom even remembered the litany, the gist of it being that it would protect us from mishaps but not from stupidity.



As is custom, he doused the Holy Kickstand with Brita water from his Camelbak


before dousing us with the kickstand.


Tom promised 50 miles with 3000 feet of climbing and without any nasty hills. For the most part he stuck to it, which is to say that I only went into my granny gear once, on Holicong Road.

My back bothered me for the entire first half, for no good reason. I must have been slouching yesterday.

I'm beginning to get a sense of direction in Pennsylvania. I'm not ready to lead a ride, but the road names are starting to look familiar. I knew enough to know that we'd be in southern Bucks County, where the hills aren't as nasty as they are above Carversville.

We stopped in Carversville. There was barely room on the bike rack for our group. The general store had iced coffee in an urn. With last week's temperatures reaching 90 degrees it was no wonder.

I had more energy after the break (16 ounces of iced coffee and my cappuccino peanut butter sandwich from home will do that). It helped, too, that we'd dispensed with most of the climbing in the fist half.

I can pinpoint the exact moment when the 24-hour allergy tablet I'd taken 14 hours before, and the prescription eye drops I'd used 6 hours ago, stopped working. It was when we crossed Windy Bush onto the lower half of Pidcock Creek. Instantly, my eyes started burning and my nose started running.

I must be allergic to pidcocks.

Behind me, Ken and Pete were having a protracted conversation about some sport -- hockey, I think, but it might have been basketball -- and I didn't understand a word of it. In front of us was Jericho Mountain and we went around it.

Ken left us at Washington Crossing. Bob and I decided not to go with him; the Trenton route would be shorter, I had a time constraint, and I still didn't want to go through the Pennington traffic circle. We went back to the parking lot for the post-ride hangout.

Then, with Jack, we headed back towards Trenton. Jack turned on one of the Yardley side streets.

On the bridge I paused for a zoomed-in shot of birds on a tiny island to the north,


and for a zoomed-out picture of the river.


We had a tailwind back up the gradual hill from the river to Olden Avenue. I thought that traffic would be a problem near the farmers market but it wasn't. We weren't the only ones on bikes in the city either.

The Trenton-Lawrence boundary is on Spruce Street. Route 206 comes in 0.7 miles to the north of that, and there the boundary becomes painfully obvious. To emphasize the point, our tires turned green again.

I went inside and doused my eyes with saline. Halfway through my shower I finally stopped sneezing.

Sunday, April 29, 2018

Winter Larry's Improvisation

View from Roy's

29 April 2018

The roads were still damp from the overnight rain when I arrived in Cranbury for Winter Larry's springtime ride. He'd listed it as C+. I figured he'd wanted to keep the fast B people away; last year he wound up abandoned by his own riders and stopped leading altogether.

Given the rain, the cloudy chill, the steady northwest wind, and Bruce K's C+ ride leaving in an hour from down the road, I wasn't too surprised that nobody else showed up. 

Wanting to avoid a headwind, Larry had planned to head east. The only eastern route he has is to Battleground Orchards. It's no secret that I don't like that route. The rest stop comes too early, at 15 miles, the coffee is terrible, the food selection bad, and I'm never hungry at 15 miles anyway.

We'd head east. Larry knew of a bagel shop not far from the orchard. Right out of the gate it was clear that he was improvising. He wanted to ride on Schoolhouse because there would be more descent than ascent.

At the end of the first half, as we neared the light at Buckelew, I looked ahead and said, "You found all the hills!" Across the street a series of small rollers bumped off into the distance. Larry was going to turn right but when he saw me looking he changed his mind. "Wanna go straight?"

"Yeah!" 

So we did, and if we both hadn't been there with Tom three weeks ago we both would have been lost. Fortunately we remembered enough to know which way to turn so that we would continue east toward Englishtown. After that, Larry knew where we were and I had no clue.  I only knew that we were on Route 527 heading south.

We were climbing gradually. At the top we were next to a long, open field. On the other side, off in the distance, were two obvious hills. 


I tried to guess at what we might be seeing. The only hills I could think of out here in the flatlands were the ones near Millstone. Were we looking at the rise north of Clarksburg? I had no idea where we were.

One minute later I did. We were across Route 33 from where Kinney meets Sweetmans. We could see the mill from the intersection. "We're back on home turf," Larry said.

We turned onto Oakland Mills. Now the sun was out, the light filtering past the clouds in that way that makes every color pop.



We were facing west now, and the wind was picking up. Larry began to fall behind on the rollers. We passed Le Chatau de Ptomaine. I slowed, not sure if he wanted to stop there. "Do you want to stop here?" he asked.

"No!" I said. "It's Clarkburg!"  There was a group of cyclists sitting outside. We didn't recognize them. We moved on. "Roy's is only a few miles away," I said.

We continued along Route 524, past the Assunpink, past the Horse Park, looking at the houses and commenting on them. Larry notices every one, and he notices things I'd never pick up on, like the color of paint on a porch, or the size of a barn in the back yard. All ride long I'd been pointing out houses, as if he were on the market. I did my best to pull Larry through the wind to Roy's, four miles west of Le Chateau on the same road.

As we were turning in we saw a group leaving. While we sat outside a group from the Central Jersey Bike Club pulled in.

Roy's is the Sergeantsville of the flatlands. Roy's is the new Clarksburg.

We got talking and, after about ten minutes, the leader realized he knew Larry from way back. After that the rest of us witnessed a recounting of a who's who and where are they now. There was a brief discussion of big biking events that no longer happen, and of declining membership.

The breeze was making me cold. I hadn't worn a jacket, just arm warmers and leggings. I put my glove liners back on while we talked.

From where I was sitting I had a clear view of Route 524 and the field beyond. With proper framing and a moderate amount of zoom, I could make the road disappear, leaving two mailboxes to look as if they were standing in the middle of an open field.


We stayed put until the Central Jersey riders were ready to go. They went east, with the wind. We went north, towards the Assunpink WMA. Halfway up Imlaystown-Hightstown Road we found horses.

I'm a sucker for a horse with fuzzy feet.




To the right, a third horse stood, and, when I focused in on it, I noticed the stripes*.



Larry noticed the bird.


Then we both notices the miniature donkeys who were grazing their way toward us.


Larry was struggling on the rollers again. When I got behind him I realized that his seat was too high; his hips were rocking and they shouldn't have been. No wonder he had no oomph!

I told him what I thought right away, which might have been a bad idea. Getting this sort of information can really take the wind out of your sails because it's all you focus on for the rest of the ride.

Fortunately we were almost finished.

Larry confessed to having swapped saddles without thinking that the height from the rail to the top of the saddle might be different from what he'd removed. Now he's got a small homework assignment. The next time we see him I'm sure he'll be back to full strength.

We stood talking in the parking lot for a good 20 minutes before I finally begged off. I had to pee and buy bagels.

At home, yesterday's wide-open tulips were closed. I guess they don't open up until it's warm enough for my leggings come off.



(*I posed the question to a couple of equestrian friends, who told me that horses have a winter coat that comes in a different color than their summer one. With careful clipping, one can create stripes on a very patient horse.)

Saturday, April 28, 2018

New Spring Fling

Morning fog at Tall Cedars Picnic Grove 

28 April 2018

Some Freewheelers were apparently griping about the traffic and hills around our traditional Spring Fling location, so we PFW Board members put our heads together and came up with Tall Cedars at the southeastern edge of Hamilton instead.

Tall Cedars was the starting point for Ride for McBride. The McBride family has scattered across the country, so we're not holding the ride this year. Instead, Ira let me beg for donations ahead of time and gave me permission to do more begging at the picnic.

As I drove towards Tall Cedars the morning fog got thicker and thicker. I wondered if anyone would show up Oh, sorry. I got distracted by Ken G. He posted a thing about a big Warren County hill* on the Freewheeler's Facebook and I got all map geeky. and was glad I'd grabbed a spare set of lights before I left the house.

Fog makes for good pictures. From where we were parked on the grass we could barely see the pavilion at the other end of the field, a few hundred yards away.


Ten people signed in for my ride, which was good, because with me that made 11 and I wanted to cap it at 12. There were a few regulars (Jack H, Ricky, and Chris), a few strangers, and a handful of people I only see when the going gets fast (Dave H, Phyllis G, and Bob W).

Jim, who had generously volunteered to lead a C ride so that he could spend some quality time with TEW, was looking nervous. TEW had called out sick, and Jim didn't know if he'd have anyone at all to lead.

My plan was to follow the 2016 Ride for McBride 50-mile route. I'd loaded it into my GPS but, in all the pre-ride chaos, I forgot to start the gadget. I'd written a paper cue sheet, though, and most of the J arrows from 2016 were still visible, if barely.

Eight miles in the fog was still thick. I let the group get ahead of me on Burlington Path so that I could take a few pictures.



At ten miles we turned south and the fog dissipated. At fourteen miles we had a collective strip break.

I wasn't paying much attention to our speed, just glancing down now and then. We had a slight headwind from the south. It wasn't enough to get in our way. The air was at that sweet spot between warm and cool. The ride felt fast.

When we got to New Egypt Dave asked Chris to take a picture of his GPS. His showed our average as being slightly above the maximum B limit, at 17.2 mph. A B ride isn't supposed to go over 16.9. I looked at my computer. "16.8," I said, "I'm the leader so it's mine that counts."

Jim and his crew of four or five pulled in.

Now we're geeking out on road names. The store across the parking lot from Scott's was once a bike shop. That lasted about half an hour. It was a yoga studio for about ten minutes. Now it might be something else. Or not. Anyway, about a dozen decrepit wooden doors were leaning against the place.

After I ate my cappucino peanut butter sandwich (yes, this is a thing, I took some pictures.





Dave and Chris ribbed me some more about our speed. "We'll be slower on the way back," I said. "There'll be a few hills."

And a tailwind.

I missed a turn. I zigged when I should have zagged. I didn't realize I'd missed it until we wound up back where Province Line meets 528. We'd already been there once today. We turned around and I got us back to where I'd wanted to be, which was Hill Road northbound.

During the climb out of the Walnford Mill valley some of the people who had been hanging in the back all day suddenly bounced up to the front. I had been leading; now I was chasing a third of the group.

As we passed a planned turn I called it out then said "Never mind!" We flew on into Chesterfield, over to Old York, and east on Sawmill. With one mile to go I was pushing harder than I'd planned to. "When did this become a race?" I asked Phyllis. She and I had been yo-yo-ing around each other for a few miles. Jack H and Prem were off the front.

I found out why when we turned into the gravel driveway at Tall Cedars. "I was trying to get my average up to 17," Jack explained. He didn't make it.

I looked down at my computer. "16.9. Still a B."

So that was it, my good day for the year.

After a quick de-griming I made my way down to the pavilion to stuff my face. Ira started announcing the annual listing of ride leaders and the handing out of leader jerseys. I usually get 15-17 leads in each year; 10 earns a jersey. Last year, because of our new calendar system, I listed 20.

Somehow that made me the top B ride leader. Something is wrong with the universe. I used the chance to beg for McBride scholarship donations.

There's always something amiss with the leader jerseys. Sometimes they're defective. Sometimes they don't arrive on time. Sometimes the sizes run small. And then there was today.

Carol came up to me and said she'd set aside another in case this one was too small. I'd asked for a large one because I like room to stuff stuff in the pockets. I held the jersey in front of me. It was ridiculously small. Child size small. I tried to pull it over my head; I couldn't even fit my arm in the sleeve.  Carol scurried off and came back with two more. I went into the bathroom to try them on.

Now, frequent readers of this blog will know that I have some serious body image issues. Trying on an extra large jersey and finding it too small did not help one bit. The XXL size was slightly better in that I could have gotten away with wearing it in public.  I folded and re-bagged both of them.

It's not a big deal. I have a closet full of jerseys. Carol said she'd find me the right size. I wasn't the only one. Ira had tried the sample large. It was too small. So the company sent an extra large. It was even smaller.

I'm fond of Business Bistro's Harvest Salad. I was happy enough to go home with the entire salad tray, barely touched.

When I stepped out of the car at home, I was knee-deep in tulips. They had all bloomed while we were riding.






As is customary, Moxie plopped himself down on my discarded leggings and sleeves.


Tomorrow I'm going to drive up to Cranbury. Surfing through the ride choices, I found Winter Larry hiding in the C+ category. Perfect.





(*About that hill:
.)

Saturday, April 21, 2018

Bit Off a Bit Much

Route 579 at Route 523 Near Flemington,  NJ


21 April 2018

A handful of factors came together today that resulted in a herd of beat-up Slugs:

I've been doing more leg work at the gym this winter. My weight has been creeping up, which may or may not be related to the leg work and may or may not be related to my age. I didn't ride at all last weekend. The last time I was in the hills was at the end of March. I wanted to leave from somewhere other than Pennington so I chose Hopewell. I didn't have time to come up with a new route so I picked one from last year. I wanted a tough ride and extra miles.

Ricky, who, as far as any of us can tell, has never been tired on a bike, joined me and a somewhat trepidatious Jim, for an extra ten miles to Hopewell. Andrew rode in from home too. 

I feigned shock when I saw Pete had driven in. "I have no faith in the universe anymore,"I told him.

He said he wasn't up to long distance yet, and he wasn't yet into the complete exhaustion and inability to do anything else for the rest of the day that a long, hilly bike ride brings.

None of us had seen Bob N in ages. Jack H and Tom were there too. I almost asked Tom to bless us with his Holy Kickstand but I didn't.

While the guys got ready I took a picture of something stuck in a tree on the opposite end of the lot. I figured I'd be able to get a better look after uploading it at home (a flag maybe?).


We didn't have much of a warm-up before we hit the first little hills out of Hopewell.

At the bottom of Rileyville I complained that nobody was giving me any grief over my blindingly obnoxious polka-dot leggings.


For the rest of the ride they tried. In all honesty, though, they were pretty lame. 

The trouble started when we got closer to Flemington. Tom said his legs weren't cooperating. He was having a bad day. I've broken Tom before but never so early in the season. He'll get me back later, I'm sure.

The bastard hill where Route 579 climbs up from Route 523 west of Flemington finished him off. It didn't do wonders for the rest of us either. Tom stayed with us until we were almost in Frenchtown, then turned south on 519 when we turned north.

"That was almost like work," Jack said as we dismounted in Frenchtown. The Bridge Cafe was teeming with pooches when we got there.


I took a few quick pictures of the river from the deck of the cafe.


We lingered on the patio. The weather was perfect for a nap. Andrew eyed the benches across the street.


We took Horseshoe Bend to get up to the ridge again. After that we rolled up and down 519 almost to Rosemont. We passed the Sergeantsville General Store but nobody needed to stop again.

When I was getting close to 60 miles my back started to hurt. That's about when it usually happens on a hilly ride. My legs get tired, my hamstrings get tight, my posture fails a little, and I use every stop to arch my back while we wait to regroup or for a light.

Bob rode up to me on Stony Brook and said, "Some of you have ten more miles after this."

"Shut up," I sang.  "Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up!"

As we approached Hopewell Elementary, Jim said, "You know that hill on the way out?"

"Yeah."

"We can not do that again."

"It builds character."

"You know that other hill on the way back?"

"Horseshoe Bend?"

"Yeah. We can not do that again either."

"Builds character," I said.

Of all of us only Ricky didn't complain about being tired.

"Hey," I said, when we were finally back at my house. "Notice I didn't stop for pictures and make you guys wait for me?"

Ricky said, "I noticed."

So I took a picture of my neighbor's fire hydrant.


The three of us had 74 miles and about 4000 feet of elevation gain.

About those stats, Jim said, "It's a little early."

"Yeah, but the temperature is perfect, the air is clear, and there isn't much wind. Imagine if it were 20 degrees warmer. That would suck."

Head to toe, everything hurt as I wheeled Miss Piggy into the house.

I unloaded the layers I'd peeled off during the ride, took off my vest, and left everything on the bed so that I could go downstairs and stuff my face.

When I came back up, Moxie was sacked out on my clothing. He looked the way the Hill Slugs felt, only more comfortable.


Later in the day, Mojo took over clothes-sitting duties.


I went into the next room to try some stretching, and then down to dinner, where I tried my best not to eat all the things. Fearful of what the scale would say in the morning, I'm going to bed hungry.

Maybe I'll do a recovery ride in the morning, or maybe go to the gym and lift instead. It will all depend on whether or not I say "Oof!" when getting out of bed.