3010

I try not to be too boring all the time posting about biking, since my biking isn't all that thrilling. It's not like I'd be giving reports about this or that alp, or playing domestique on some tour de coolness. My ride reports would be more along the line of "went for a ride" or "rode County [enter a letter here], slow!" or maybe "rode with group." You get the picture. I have a good time, and usually a big goofy smile plastered on my bright red face.

Yes, my face turns bright red. You know you see those pictures of Lance Armstrong or Alberto Contador finishing an 80 mile stage straight up an alp and they look cool and collected? Not me, just riding my little rides gives me a BRIGHT red face and the look of someone who's undergoing a really horrid nightmare about being chased by zombies. And that's on the flats. Uphills, I look worse. Did I mention that I usually have hair sticking out the top of my helmet somehow?

But anyway, when I finished my "recovery ride" (Bikers call it a "recovery ride" when they're feeling too lazy to go ride hills. It makes it sound like you weren't lazy, but rather strategically thinking about preparing for your next race.) this afternoon, that's the number that showed on my odometer. That's miles. (I'd go even faster and further in kilometers; why haven't I switched to kilometers?) It's a little thing, this number, but it's been a lot of fun biking.

Yes, I could have ridden to New York and back (mostly?), or to California, except I'd be stuck on the way back in a desert or something.

To celebrate, I bought my bike a new bottle of teflon lube. Yeah, fine times here at the BardiacShack this weekend, let me tell you, fine times. We're going to turn on some Marvin Gaye, clean the chain up a bit, lube it nicely, and then probably go play in the street.