When There's Nothing Left
I should have rode today. It was cold, but sunny, and from the looks of it the driest day of the coming week. But I didn't. I was busy catching up on XXC and would have felt to guilty taking 2+ hours to get a ride in, so I settled for time at the gym. Sort of glad I did. After riding only ONCE in the past week, I knew that my legs would feel like two stubble-haired meat loafs with feet attached on the bike, so I figured easing back into routine with the gym would be the best.
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I did regret not riding, but I was right about the legs. Just doing my warm up on the StairMaster felt like a freaking chore. But after the weights, it was time for the longer higher intensity MasterStair-ing session, and by that time I felt great. That is when the regret of not riding moved in. It was also about this time that Iron Maiden's Bruce Dickinson was wailing on about "numbers" and "beasts" on my iPod, and in my twisted mind I contemplated, hopping down from the machine, propping up my semi-hairless and increasingly bone white leg on the machine in front of me (as if I was the aforementioned Dickinson atop a stage monitor) and letting rip with my best metal croon...
Can this still be real or just some crazy dream?
But I feel drawn towards the chanting hordes,
seem to mesmerise...can’t avoid their eyes.
Just to prove to you that this IS a bike blog is more than potty talk and heavy metal fantasies about evil beasts and taut buttocks, I give you some killer video of my friends Montana and Samwise (Gamgee) Morrison busting out some tan-dumb hurt at Pittsburgh's infamous Dirty Dozen.