It's Green, But...
It has managed to become mid-May, and we have had some riding weather, not that I have ridden as much as I would like to believe. It's green, and the woods have lost their winter transparency. We have had a half-hearted bout of black flies, and the mosquitos are starting to fire up, but no deer flies as of yet.
For the past week it has managed to rain continuously, and so it is to continue for the next. I managed twenty three miles on pavement Friday, wandering around New Haven and Ferrisburgh and Vergennes and Waltham, visiting, doing a few errands, getting more than unreasonably wet. Not a mile off road, nontheless satisfying.
In four weeks, the Lemming ride, this year in and about Keene, New Hampshire, getting lost in the woods for thirty miles or fifty, with emphasis on uncertainty and painful climbing, to be followed by beer and food and beer.
After that, Monkeyfest, repeat the above for three days, hold the getting lost.
Then in August, the 24 Hours of Great Glen, five old farts doing lap after lap in the woods at the base of Mount Washington, noon Saturday to noon Sunday, allegedly racing.
And in September, the Vermont 50, for me eight hours of sustained cramping climaxed by utter hysteria and fatigue, cursing the organizers each time the ground rises again.
Why am I thinking about this, projecting forward into it, rather than going out and riding?
It's raining.
So what?
For the past week it has managed to rain continuously, and so it is to continue for the next. I managed twenty three miles on pavement Friday, wandering around New Haven and Ferrisburgh and Vergennes and Waltham, visiting, doing a few errands, getting more than unreasonably wet. Not a mile off road, nontheless satisfying.
In four weeks, the Lemming ride, this year in and about Keene, New Hampshire, getting lost in the woods for thirty miles or fifty, with emphasis on uncertainty and painful climbing, to be followed by beer and food and beer.
After that, Monkeyfest, repeat the above for three days, hold the getting lost.
Then in August, the 24 Hours of Great Glen, five old farts doing lap after lap in the woods at the base of Mount Washington, noon Saturday to noon Sunday, allegedly racing.
And in September, the Vermont 50, for me eight hours of sustained cramping climaxed by utter hysteria and fatigue, cursing the organizers each time the ground rises again.
Why am I thinking about this, projecting forward into it, rather than going out and riding?
It's raining.
So what?
posted by johnbryanpeters at 6:43 PM
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