Wednesday, November 2, 2016

A ride, recently: Volume 75.

Wherein neither a light breeze, nor a heavy workload, nor a middling kennel cough could keep Greg and I from a mellow spin on some classic trails.








Although we're both filthy with new bike smell, his is a few weeks newer and thus (so I tell myself) he was destined to clean more moves than I.










In reality Greg is riding as well as I've ever seen him, blending a lifetime of skill, finesse, and fitness with a certain ever-present childlike stoke and the aforementioned stink.








Little Jeny Sunshine caught us in the waning moments of daylight, and ushered us at a more spirited pace around the last short loop of the evening.




Racer geeks refer to daily workouts as "bricks", in the sense that each is a small but integral component to building something bigger.  I haven't raced in a coon's age and don't miss a thing about it, but haven't yet let go of the curious lexicon nor the flawed mentality that drove it for so long.  I'd like to repurpose the word brick for us currently unhurried types, to use in describing outings like this where each one placed is a non-linear and unquantifiable measure that something, perhaps many things in our lives, are incrementally gaining in emotive and substantive value.

Thanks for checkin' in.

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