Saturday was a mess.  Unless your thing is to enjoy getting barreled on abbey or trippel before noon and sit at the computer watching the Omloop in one of 8 unidentifiable languages, then there were very few reasons to to anything but get barreled on abbey or trippel before noon and sit at the computer watching the Omloop in one of 8 unidentifiable languages.  So, for moments I did part of that, watching confused attacks form early, the men in shortspant dashing to the front for camera time, the generals riding well-layered, snug in the pack.  I got bored.  I was weary from a long night of pixel manipulation, but it felt like a slog was in order.

My motivation gathered, and as the temps crept up towards 40, and the cloudmasses continued to leak consistantly, it became evident that a cycling unit was appropriate.  Though it has been spoken of elsewhere in certain terms, Superissimo refer to the act of throwing together dissonantly coloured garments as Feeding the Pigs.  What a snack they had that day, which provided all the more reason to find every puddle and annihilate it.  My spin was choppy and grass clods slapped my shins, and facecheeks.  Thoughts were elsewhere, like at the bottom of a mug of trappist or maybe grappa.  In all, a good unit — gentleman status was maintained.

Sunday the sun arrived with an approving grin, my having passed the test of the day before, and the objective presented itself.  It was time to go meet Mexican Dale for a saddle committee hearing.  He holds in stock a gem, which I was glad to inspect while he fretted over which base layer to wear:



To paraphrase Joseph Conrad:

We exchanged a few words lazily.  Afterwards there was silence on board the bikes.  We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring.  The day was carrying on in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance.  The sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light.

Whatever.  We made jokes du farte, and aimed to passively edge each other from the road.  It does go to show however, that if he were still living and writing, Joseph Conrad would certainly be generating copy for Rapha.

There may be an end to the cold gloom in sight.  This particular winter is on its way out, if not by evidence of weather, then by calendar limits.  Hang in there.  We’re but a few carafes from a season of turbo mega domination.

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