This morning I was debating on where to ride to. I dragged out Mapquest and looked all over the city. Been there. Been there. Tired of riding there.
There just aren’t many places I’ve yet to ride within the city limits. Hell, there are few places outside the outerbelt I’ve not cycled my way through.
I’d toyed with riding 60 miles today, but decided to take it a little easier on myself. I don’t want to get too sore. Incapacitated sore, that is. I expect that my leg and back muscles will take a hit. Might as well work my way up. 50 miles is going to be my daily goal when doing The Ride. It’s easily enough reached without killing myself. And that pace will definitely will get me from CA to SC in 60 days.
When I took off, I just meandered hither and yon, with no destination in mind. At the halfway point, I had a very rare — yet interesting — sensation.
I had no idea where I was at.
The street names were familiar but they weren’t where I thought they should be. It could be dementia settling in, but I’m guessing I was on parts of these familiar-named roads I’d never ridden before.
Passed this place:
Even though they had pictures of lots of happy cows on the doors, it immediately reminded me of this joke:
A farmer had a sow he wanted to get pregnant. Without a truck, he lifted the pig and put it in his wheelbarrow. He toted the pig to the closest service which was five miles away. After the service did their thing, he loaded her up again and trotted her back home.
The next morning he was a little stiff and sore as he headed out to the pig pen. He was more than a little disappointed there were no little piglets. So he thought he’d try the more expensive service ten miles down the road. Once again he loaded the sow, trudged 10 miles there and ten miles back.
Next morning, even more stiff and sore, he was again disappointed at the lack of little piglets. He thought he’d give it one more try to a service twenty miles away. Load. Wheelbarrow. Trudge. Wait. Load. Trudge. Unload. A forty mile round trip with a 300+ pound hog.
That next morning he rolled over to his wife and said, “Honey, I’m just too sore to go check. Would you please?”
His wife did so and came back in a few minutes later. “Well,” the farmer asked, “are there any little pigs?”
“Nope,” she said, “but that sow is smiling and sitting in the wheelbarrow.”
As I started to ride away, I noticed this silo of liquid nitrogen:
Kept hoping for the bulls’ sake they didn’t just dip the old mountain oysters in LN2. Talk about blue balls . . .