Yesterday was Day 1 of my coming out ceremony, where I announced to the world that I was forswearing driving a car forevermore.
Rode to the office and back, 10 miles. Return 5 is all uphill and the 1/4 mile climb to my apartment 18%. Felt awesome and free and empowered and independent and ready to conquer the world.
Rode to the post office. Downhill coast all the way, 2 miles. Return 2 is all uphill and the 1/4 mile climb to my apartment was still 18%. Didn’t remember 18% being so steep.
Rode to the eye doc to get a new prescription. 2 miles all downhill, sweet! Return 2 was all uphill and the 1/4 mile climb to my apartment was an even steeper 18%. Legs ached a tad. Kind of wondering a) who designed this stupid street? b) who built a fucking apartment on it? c) who’s the moron who decided to live there?
Rode to a dinner in Brentwood, a fundraiser by Chase Bank/Phil Gaimon for No Kid Hungry. 2 hours, a stiff headwind, going slow on my ‘cross bike, lugging a giant cable and U-lock, extra pair of shoes. Jeans saturated with sweat, rubbing my saddle sores from the Big Day ride on Saturday, and dropping down off my hips. Note: Wear suspenders next time.
Got to fundraiser not feeling very independent or free and thinking that the world was a fierce adversary. Considered asking Phil to switch the night’s beneficiaries to No Cyclist Hungry.
Free valet parking … but not for bikes!! Explained to hostess that I wasn’t insane, I was just a cyclist coming to a fundraiser organized by cyclists, and therefore, bicycle. Awesome restaurant manager Leann put our bikes in her office.
Stood in the swanky restaurant making small talk as my legs went from wet spaghetti to pureed oatmeal. Famished turned to “Blind from hunger.” Consoled myself that I could, guilt-free, eat everything on my plate and probably my neighbor’s.
Power outage stepped in just before dinner was served. Stood in the dark for an hour and contemplating killing a patron in the dining area and eating thigh tartar.
Stumbled outside, retrieved bike at 9:00 PM to face the free, independent, world-conquering 2-hour ride home. Wondered if the 18% grade up Ravenspur had been graded to something more manageable in my absence.
Collapsed in Santa Monica at the Caribbean jerked chicken joint. Ate jerked chicken. Watched patrons break down the toilet door to drag out a woman who had passed out in the bathroom with a needle in her arm and the front of her dress covered in mildly digested jerked chicken.
Rode home and enjoyed a whipping tailwind. Got honked at once. Enjoyed the late night empty streets. Saw stars on the MdR bike path.
Climbed Ravenspur. The street had increased to 45% since our last encounter.
Ate a second dinner.
Asleep, independently, by midnight.
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