I haven’t ridden enough lately. Consistently, that is. Yesterday three hours. The day before two. On Saturday nothing. Friday made 100 minutes. Thursday that five hours I wrote about. It’s no way to get a program going. And when there’s no program the lights begin to flicker. On days with no rides at all, I replace the moments with an equal amount of time in a scolding hot bubble bath. My way of simulating the shvitz since there are no bathhouses near by (that I know about). I’m a Vita Bath slut if anyone’s making gift lists. But I’m a rider, so riding is the currency my constitution trades on. I need the routine. Without it there is no center. Most of Wednesday got away from me and I was almost ready for a few laps in the tub with my liter of San Pellegrino and a new issue of W. But I decided to invest in my self esteem. I kitted up, rode to the secret circuit, and pedaled for an hour and then some around the parking lot. Me, riding circles, until I didn’t. By the end I was clean and smelled lovely. Centered.
All This By Hand
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