I'm just the chipseal spread out across the road to hell

Now believe me, I had every good intention of writing a post this weekend, but you know what they say about good intentions, right?  As it turns out, bikes were at the heart of the events that conspired to keep me away from the keyboard until now, so I feel somewhat vindicated.  I also have an uncanny ability to justify my own bad behavior, I am a very deep sleeper, and yes the two are inextricably entwined.

But so anyways on Saturday morning I got up early to do my first big club ride.  Spidermonkey Cycling is a local club sponsored by the shop, and they graciously allowed me to tag along with them on their weekly ride.  Despite the fact that I was one of the only riders in the twenty-odd pack that wasn't wearing their kit, the 'monkeys made me feel right at home.  I had seen many of them in the shop, of course, but this was the first time I was able to ride alongside them.  We traveled along the North Shore, beyond the old-money mansions and the intricately-carved Baha'i temple, past the gates of Ravinia and downtown Highland Park, and finally turned around at Fort Sheridan, a small quiet community that looked for all the world like one of those nameless beach towns in northern California - maybe it was just all the incongruous fog and the salt tang in the air rolling in from the lake.

But I was happy to be riding with them.  Besides the fact that I would have been hopelessly lost without their leading me, it felt good to be a part of a pack, accelerating without effort, leaning into turns in unison, stringing out along the front of the group and regathering at lights.  I had fun, although it had its price: I spent the rest of the day in varying degrees of slumber, dragging myself off of the couch only to forage in the kitchen for 'recovery food' (bowls of ice cream and handfuls of red licorice) before napping again.

And on Sunday, I worked.  Hard.  It was the first truly pleasant weekend in a very long time, and the customers came in droves and many rode out on new steeds.  It was all hands on deck for hours straight, and while time flew, fatigue set in as well.  Nevertheless, many of us in the shop had made plans to meet up afterwards at a viewing party of one of the one-day classic bike races held that day: Paris-Roubaix.  Johnny Sprocket's, one of our friendly competitors, opened their doors and turned off the lights after closing and fired up the large flat-screen on their sales floor.  Add a large washtub of ice, a few cases of beer, and a large assortment of bike geeks and you had yourself, well, a bunch of drunken bike geeks.  Not that that's a bad thing.  I had a blast.  Saw friends I hadn't seen in ages, and made new friends who had room in their cars for future trail rides.  I got to marvel at a locally built handmade frame, then got to shake the hand of the really nice guy who built it.  And I got tipsy off of a grand total of three - count 'em, three - beers.  Although in my own admittedly lightweight defense, the last one was a smoked beer from a microbrewery in Wisco and it kinda tasted like bacon grease.  I did finish it, though.  Needless to say, I was unable to accomplish anything once I got home - besides deep sleep, of course.

I can always do that.