Morale like a Glass of Sour Milk

Harsh. Windy. Snow. March like a wounded animal, a chiseling weasel. Nothing so far to encourage Dubstoevsky. Now is the time of Russian tragedy and farce. A single measly ride in March, and that a timid rambler on the Crux Elite, touring through the neighborhoods like an urban tourist.

Not exactly honing Dubstoevsky's non-conditioning. 

Once, the season looked promising. A half dozen rides in January, nearly the same in February. Not a lot of miles but enough to keep a sense of the edge, the fitness edge, the line that, when you slip over it, you know you're in a place of sloth and lard.

I rolled over that line, mutton leg in hand, some weeks ago. 

Scenes from what amounts to "training for the Rasputitsa." It feels dishonest even writing that sentence.

Harvard St, Woo City, March 19, 2017

Slow Above

Tagged

Bancroft Tower, March 19, 2017