During a bike fitting many years ago, the fitter quizzed me about my riding style and habits. “You need to ride during the week, too; otherwise you're essentially starting over every weekend.”
I miss my occasional bike commutes, and I've gotten lazy. Why get up early, pull myself together and ride before my workday begins—when I can just step into my office after breakfast?
Why? Well, because otherwise I'm essentially starting over every weekend.
The days are getting longer, why not hop on the bike at the end of the workday?
Despite good intentions, I got a later start than I'd wanted. How far could I ride? I set a goal. [I think I can, I think I can ...]
I rode at a brisk pace; although it had been a warm day, it was cooling fast (as soon as the sun dipped below the nearest ridge). I'd misjudged the temperature as well as the distance (27 miles, a flat 460 feet of climbing); a comfortable test of my recent repair work (no mishaps).
There were no visible stars overhead when I finished—so technically, it wasn't dark.
But ... oops, the moon was rather bright ...
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