Day 51 | Drier Than a Popcorn Fart | I’ll Have My Garden Salad Dressed Naked
Beautiful. Great. Nice.
A lady in a Prius (really, I want to avoid stereotyping here, but I’m wagering she learned how to drive in some other country), takes a right when I’m about to cross the intersection. It’s blatant.
Who can miss a 52-year-old porker on a bike wearing a neon yellow top that can be seen from outer space?
As she makes the turn, I yell, Beautiful. Great. Nice. Pleasantville isn’t the place for me to whip out my handy arsenal of Rosie Perez expletives. Especially in this case. A soccer mom is pulling up to the intersection in a minivan. She sees the whole thing and toggles her window down. You alright?
Humiliation is galaxies away from describing how I would have felt if I had yelled motherf*****r at her ladyship driving the Prius.
[Mohammed, a fat white girl called me a motherf*****r today]
I tell the soccer mom, I’m okay, part of the territory.
It doesn’t occur to me a mile later, like, maybe, I could have thanked her.
Three O’s in a row: Offenses taken to cyclists’ rights are gratuitous.
Whenever a driver like the Prius pulls a fast one, I say, this is where I live, this where I ride. They can’t hear me, it’s for my own self-entertainment, or the old lady walking on the sidewalk who later tells Old Albert an odd tidbit of the passing day.
A fat lady on a bike said ‘there is where I live, this is where I ride’ near the Pleasantville Mall.
The dog’s been lame so I end up leaving around 11:00 for the 16.5-mile ride. It’s a ride I haven’t done before and at the halfway mark I encounter a steep incline with little shoulder. Cars zoom past at 60 M.P.H.
It’s fine and good, it’s the challenge of the road that busts the cellulite and makes me recite this is where I live, this where I ride, but I find not even a quarter of the way up the hill, I’ve got nothing left.
Like, one moment I’m burning premium-unleaded and the next, the bits of sediment at the bottom of my tank are clogging my fuel line.
Breakfast didn’t cut it. I ate up a bunch of time feeling guilty about the dog, not getting her 3-4 mile walk in, and by the time I headed out on the road the two hard-cooked eggs were a faint memory.
And who rides 16 miles without carbs in their digestive track, treading as close to the sun as that lady’s Prius had crossed my path?
Not a very smart person/cyclist.
On the HMR Diet Program thing.
Well-hydrated, rubber-legged and possessing a funky heartbeat (thump, delay-thump, thump), I walk the bike home a good part of 8 miles, sitting my big butt down in the shade at times, coasting down the hills. This is someone, my person, who I don’t typically allow to stop on rides, no matter the duration, except at red lights.
I was dying.
But there’s an upside to dying.
It’s three hours since I arrived home and the euphoria in recovery [consuming a match-size entree of beans and potatoes and abundant swallow from the front yard’s hydrant] feels like I just drank the 6-ounce painkiller.
I like it.