Melting like a pot. Melting like your heart for me. Melting like Frosty. Melting like fondue, and that wicked witch. The ride this morning was hot baby, and I know, I should have been here two weeks ago. Hi-tops was strong like a metronome. I was the butter, he was the churn. The whole time I rode in a silently horrified state, unable to find the soggy, waterlogged breath to voice my disapproval. Out on the turf of the Miccosukee Greenway, or the “green desert” as it was called today, the soaked earth of last night was giving up the convection with vigor today. 20 miles of convective vigor, that’s what it was- and I don’t even know what that means. On the final leg I came across a beatiful sight though, Ole’ T.C. Wreckin’ Ball Zipper Neck himself was out logging some secret rehab miles. I believe the man has been confined to quarters for upwards of three months at least. If not for the fear of appearing sentimental I would tell you how great it was to see him back in the saddle, but you will just have to go without that information. By the time I crossed his path, ‘Tops was a few minutes up the trail on me and I was more than ready to make like Fat Lad and “have a chat”. All I lacked was pints and cake.