Hot ‘cross buns

New Year’s Day. Late arising for some reason. Check the trash for dead soldiers. Christ, it looks like the Battle of Verdun in there. Thank God we had the good sense to leave the sparkling wine corked.

I am in the midst of preparing a massive American breakfast when Dr. Schenkenstein phones to propose cycling somewhere, on ‘cross bikes, within the hour. We can do that. We don’t even need a reason, though breaking fast with a skillet full of eggs, peppers, potatoes and ham after an evening’s debauchery certainly provides one.

Off we roll, me feeling mildly retarded and wildly overdressed. The computer said 47 but those things lie. It’s the usual route, north on the bike path into the Air Force Academy and back, and the warmish weather has yet to completely melt several sheets of ice coating this and that, which makes for some nervous moments, particularly on descents.

My neural network being slightly jangled, I actually walk one of these treacherous pitches, which proves even sketchier than trying to ride it. But I figure I’ll be much slower and closer to the ground if I spaz out, and thus won’t T-bone some iPlodder focused on his playlist in the blind corner at mid-descent.

The rest of the ride unfolds without incident, and once we are into the academy ice gives way to mud and damp sand. Now I have two ‘cross bikes in dire need of cleaning. Happily, I have three more in the rotation before it’s off to the car wash with a bucket, rags and brushes, pockets packed with quarters.