Worn Out

No eagle this time. 

"I look forward to your blog. In a month," Tom said.  Well, Tom, it is a new month, but you said that four days ago. Ha. So there. Sometimes I do keep up.

1 January 2020

Around November I realized I hadn't taken a break from exercise since March. Knowing we'd be taking a trip to England at the end of the year, I kept going, moving indoors to spin classes when sunset was too early for me to commute by bike safely.

By December 27, after exercising five out of the last six days, including a bike commute to work on Christmas eve, I didn't have much left. I listed a ride anyway, "no registrants, no ride." Only two people registered. One didn't show up. Fortunately, the one who did was Ricky.

There was still a lot of salt on the road from the snow squall panic last week. The temperature was up near 50 degrees, and, like a soft pretzel left out on a humid day, a lot of the roads were wet.

We were on Rocktown Road, having crossed Route 31 without Jim to sing us safely through, when we hatched the idea to stop by Wheelfine on our way back from Lambertville.

We had to stop by the Mount Airy cows first, though, because we knew Jim would expect it.

After caffeine at Rojo's, we climbed Route 518. It's a slog, for sure, and there's traffic; but it wasn't as bad as I remember it being. At Wheelfine we summoned Michael from the depths of the store and settled in for the monologue of stories.

I asked about wheels for Kermit. He showed me a few. The Campagnolo Zonda set looked zippy, but when I poked around online I decided I could do better. Pity. I was looking forward to being able to explain Campagnolo rims with Shimano hubs: "The dramatic tension keeps them stiff."

Our flight to London was on the evening of December 28, out of Philly. I would have to stop for some family crap on the way down, meaning that if I were to finish packing on Friday night, I could get out for Tom's ride with just enough time to clean up and leave the house again.

Kermit, Miss Piggy, Grover, and Beaker all had been given a turn over the past seven days. That left Rowlf, Gonzo having been retired to the indoor trainer.

A tailwind brought me into Mercer County Park, where I stopped to get pictures of mist at the edge of the southern woods.

The asphalt path has been newly repaved. All the cracks and most of the bumps are gone. On the little bridge over the Assunpink I stopped again for more mist.

Tom had a big crowd. Except for Pete, who is roasting in Florida, all of the Slugs were there, plus a new guy whose name I never learned even though I talked to him a little.

We were heading to Bordentown. About halfway there I found myself feeling far more tired than I ought to have. I chalked it up to not having drunk any coffee because I'd need to sleep on the plane. Being worn out didn't help either.

Not much past the break, I peeled off on Old York Road to bumble on home by myself. I was facing a headwind, but I was struggling beyond that. Every pedal stroke seemed to take an hour. I felt, at 40 miles, the way I usually do at 90. When I looked at my average speed, I confirmed my need for a rest.

Which I didn't get on the flight. I alternated between shivering and sweating, with bouts of nausea brought on by an airplane-specific stench somewhere between food and sanitizer. I got out of my seat several times, hoping to shake the nausea. "It's the smell," I explained, lamely, to a flight attendant.

"I know," she said. "Every time I get on the plane my nose dies."

I did sleep, eventually.