Rest Day

At least that's what I'm calling it.  Made plans the night before to join the morning shop ride and had every intention of going, but I made the mistake of peeking at the weather forecast, which predicted snow.  I knew right then I wasn't gonna make it out the next day. 

So I slept in.  Had my coffee in bed, reading Charles P. Pierce's 'Idiot America', with twenty-odd pounds of snoring pug pressing down on my chest.  There's worse ways to spend a Saturday morning, I guess.  Eventually, though, I had to get up and do something at least vaguely productive.  So I went downstairs to the makeshift weight room in the basement of our building and benched.  (By the way, don't worry - I won't bore you with the details of my workout.  No recounting of maxes and reps and sets.  I hate when people do that.  Kinda like when someone you don't even know very well tells you in great detail about the really strange dream they had last night.  I'm sorry, but I will never be able to vicariously experience anything that personal and specific to you.  I am willing to nod at the appropriate times, however.)  Bench presses being a series of exercises, by the way, which is as useful to a cyclist as a set of tits on a bull.  But I guess I did them as a means to exorcise the self-loathing I had for wussing out on the morning's ride.

It didn't take.

I should have gone out.  And I will forthwith.  Because there's a race three weeks from now that I've got my eye on.  And I've got to get some miles in these legs.