Back in the Saddle

The Mighty Trek...

Rode the long 27 mile commute into the office and all was good. My Layton Light had shown particularly bright as the moon must have been sleeping in this morning. The big Match Play—sans Tiger Woods—is underway up where I live, and although it was 5:30 a.m., there were many trucks and TV crews out and about.

Once I got off busy Tangerine Rd, after three miles of steady climbing, I turned onto rural Moore Rd—without so much as man or machine in sight—and beheld the Heavenly stars above, mes amis! Tucson, twenty miles south, lay in what looked like a dim orange glowing lake.

I surprised a coyote crossing the road. Coyotes don’t like surprises, let me tell you—and they seem belligerent if you make eye contact with them. Like if you realize that somebody sees you scratching your balls or putting your finger in your nose or something—you just want to disappear. You want to say, “Hey! What you looking at, Buddy?”

Alan had commented on our last ride that I seemed to be riding a single speed—and he’s right. I have this habit of mashing away in my big ring, and I just heave ho. He suggested I try more the middle ring (I have a triple) and shifting more—and he noted the stress on the chain the way I’m riding in my gears makes the chain very tight. Not good to break you chain in the middle of a brevet, Gentle Readers of This Blog. Evac can be a long wait and your remote location bewildering to the wife as you try to explain, “See that mountain over there? Okay… Well, I’m on the other side of it…”

Later in the afternoon, Gentler Readers...

As luck would have it, my neighbor Bruce was close by the Desert San having his hair cut, and he offered me a lift home, the bike stowed in the back of his truck.

You may recall that Bruce’s wife is Heather—the one who texts while driving? Not only that but she is on her cell while driving their huge SUV, having mind-numbing conversations with her girlfriends… Well, as Bruce and I drove home, she called his poor ass about seven fucking times! This meant that Bruce was on the his cell phone the entire trip back, as he had to call someone, and then call Heather back to tell her what the previous conversation was about—on and on and on.

Unlike Heather, Bruce drove very slow—we crawled down the road like a couple of retired snowbirds. Other drivers were passing us, going around us, like we were standing still. I just wondered to myself if this type of bull shit meaningless cell phone talk could wait.

Then Bruce had to make a stop at the grocery store, and take a few more calls from his charming wife about which brand of cereal to purchase.

Oy!