I will be gazing across the water towards Cape Canaveral by this afternoon where the shuttle Atlantis either already took off, or will soon take off on another mission to what I suspect is little more than a poorly kept trailer in the sky, the International Space Station. Like the shuttle, my new mission is inexorably underway. Miles were logged this weekend, with four consecutive days out on the new bike. Aside from a drool problem which threatens to prematurely degrade the top tube, all heat shields are in place and I expect a smooth ride. The only thing between me and total redemption is a lot of time and pain. My time, your pain!
I don’t want to go to work this week, down in the yawning maw of the Beeline Expressway. I exit this morning with my bottom lip leading the way by a good yard and my arms folded across my chest like I’m in a straight jacket. I have found over the years though, that I can do many things I don’t want to do by simply leaning forward into the breach and bringing my feet with me.
Conch fritters and Law and Order in a hotel bed is no way to train.
In order to avoid any awkwardness during the San Felasco weekend, I have booked travel on a commercial airplane to a foreign country. That’s right, I’m calling an “international” as in, “I would love to kick your ass at San Felasco, but I will be out of the country.” Take that you hijos de putas!
I will be collecting Mel (not his real name) on Friday and bringing him to town for the weekend. So far we have not discussed a ride, but we have discussed dining at Huckleberry’s BBQ in Fanning Springs so make of it what you will.
To my gentle readers who do not lay awake at night scheming to dismantle my hopes and dreams, I will miss you this week, and I am sure I will manage a dispatch from the road somewhere.
Every journey begins with a single schlep…