I went out for a ride this morning with my pal Sharon Gill. Nothing too intense, just enough to tickle the fancy. I climb up to our starting point at Eagle Rock. Not amused. My season’s done. The only climbing I’m good for now is out of bed and maybe onto a bar stool. Other than that, I’m licking wounds from a subpar season and planning to do it better, next. Sharon and I put in a good 30 at a talking pace. I don’t like riding my race bike all the time, because it wasn’t designed to go slowly. Sure, I get to places faster and my calves totally pop, but the destination is never as interesting as the journey. It sorta sucks to crank hard for several hours past the beauty this state has to offer, rest and recover at a Wawa, then do it again to get home.
After the ride was done, we go have pricey java at some pricey java joint in Montclair. My presence brought the class in the neighborhood down for that brief moment. Definitely not the canned beer crowd. Prescription drugs? Probably. Mumford and Son’s mixed in with a little Phish? Definitely. Sharon and I part ways. She has houses to sell and I have an apron to don. The house has to be in order before I bring in a 12 pack of Schaefers. My old lady don’t play that shit.
I decide to do a couple of laps in the park before turning my wheels homeward. Before I complete a lap, I’m climbing up a incline and a kid runs out in the street. Lucky for him, I was too fat to really have gotten up to a speed where I could do him damage. I haven’t nailed a kid in ages. I spun my wheel before asking about his well-being, because bandages don’t cost shit compared to a new wheel. He scurried back to his folks and I rode on. I was more pissed with his parents. If I injured that wheel, I would’ve been distraught. I understand how unleashed kids are prone to do anything, but don’t scream on junior because you took your eye off the ball. The moral of this story is to always have a replacement set of wheels and a Schaefers.