Time to catch up...

So I've been gone for awhile, because my interweb's been down.  Kinda hard to post when you ain't got the 'b in blog.  It's been pretty maddening watching my connection flickering intermittently, much like the olden times of UHF/VHF television.  Except I didn't have any rabbit ears to reposition.  Which was too bad - as a kid I was an expert at catching the strongest tv signal, a skill I honed through my tireless devotion to the daily 'Johnny Sokko and the Giant Robot/Space Giants' afternoon block of dubbed Japanese-imported kids' action shows that played on channel 44 back in the day.

Ah, youth.  Seriously, Google image them - it's why we invented the internet.  You'll thank me later.

Anywhoo, freed from gawking at bike porn and VeloNews comments pages, it's kinda like having a twenty-seven hour day at your disposal.  So I've been riding a bit more.  Haven't been getting appreciably faster, but I'm having fun nonetheless.  And I've been seeing sights I haven't expected:

I've watched a single bead of sweat rock back and forth on the brim of the saturated cycling hat I wear under my helmet, undulating in perfect rhythym to my cranks.

I've seen a tiny Smarte car equipped with not only a hitch, but a four-bike hitch rack.  Granted, the rack itself was unloaded and folded down, but besides the fact that the weight of four bikes would probably tip the mini car back into a perpetual wheelie - much like those old penny toy cars it bore a remarkable resemblance to - the car itself is a strict two-seater!  You gotta be a hardcore cyclist to drive a car that has double the bike capacity than actual bike riders. 

I've seen a rider on a bright summer day struggling up a hill in full-roadie kit - clipless shoes, wraparound sunglasses, Euro-rated helmet, and bibs - but WITHOUT A JERSEY!  Besides the questionable wisdom of displaying the famed 'cyclist's chest', one has to wonder about the bizzaro tan-lines produced by that fashion choice.  Not to mention the fact that it's actually much more comfortable to ride with a jersey on.  People, don't ever ride shirtless.  It just isn't right.

I once rode up to an SUV that was pulled into an overfilled body shop that not only blocked the sidewalk, but the bike lane as well.  Particularly galling was the fact that she managed the last bit of this feat because she was unloading a bike from the back of her 4-Runner.  As I stopped there, dead in my tracks, waiting for traffic to relent so I could pull around her, I said cheerfully, "Well, this is ironic."  She didn't acknowledge me, but her face screwed up like she just bit into an Asian dessert.

I've stared at disbelief at two flat tires I'd simultaneously given myself by hitting a particularly nasty pothole at speed.  I ride like a monkey on a coconut rolling down a steep hill, I'm telling ya.

I returned from a ride once to find my cat feasting eagerly from the jar of chamois cream I'd left open in my early-morning stupor.  One frantic internet search of feline poison-control later, I could laugh about it, but I now make sure to screw that lid back on tight.