Looking back over some old training logs I was smugly congratulating myself on what I thought was a strong start to this, the Year of Our Lard 2026.
“366 miles for January,” sez I to myself, no one else being handy. “Wrapped it up with the first 100-mile week of the New Year. Not bad; not bad at all.”
And then I checked in with a couple old velo-newsie bros. No, not fellow refugees from that once-storied journal of competitive cycling — rather, fellow refugees from the Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph. Like Your Humble Narrator, they also ride bicycles.
The Supervisor and the M-Dogg both live in Northern California now, and it’s been nearly 20 years since the three of us last saddled up together. I’m the only one who’s fully retired, in part because I’m the only one who has a wife with a job of work, which for an old slacker keen to skip his pulls into the wind is like drafting a UPS truck on a summer day.
Anyway, there we were, chatting away via text, and the M-Dogg mentions that he just wrapped a 49.6-mile ride with 2,020 feet of vertical.
Yow.
I mentioned having done a leisurely 3-mile trail run, explaining that I got a late start and didn’t feel like kitting up for a ride.
“And here the M-Dogg is already cranking out the half-centuries,” I added.
“Mo, tell him your January mileage,” says The Supe.
“760 in January,” replies the M-Dogg, “only possible in a very dry January.”
That’s 760 miles. Not kilometers, furlongs, cubits, rods, or whatever the hell it is that Californicators use to measure the distance between organic vineyards and fair-trade java shops. And here I was, cackling over the little 366-mile egg I laid last month, which was even drier here in the Duck! City desert.
“Comparisons are odious,” they say. Ho, ho. When When John Fortescue wrote that shit he was probably on the short end of a miles-gobbling contest with Henry VI, who covered a lot of ground during the Wars of the Roses.
“Better luck next year, Forty old chum! Oh, dear, here comes Edward, with that ‘Oo’ d’ye think is the bloody king around here, mate?’ look on his face. Right, I’m off. …”
Which brings us to this poem from James Crews, “Winter Morning,” from which our headline comes. Unwrap your gift and be grateful for whatever it is you find inside.
Mad Blog Media 
PO’G: Great start for you to the New Year! Congrats!
And as Teddy Roosevelt allegedly said “Comparison is the thief of joy.” 🙂
I’m going to try riding one of the regular road bikes today. See if my back is still happy afterwards.
Miles are like tying cement blocks to pleasure’s feet and pushing it off the pier into 100 feet deep water. Fun and relaxation becomes work, training, goals and other joy killers. Ditch the cyclometers, computers, ear buds, smart watches, and cell phones. If you must take a phone to call for an unlikely medivac, turn it off until you need it. You know how strong you are. You know how far your favorite out and back or loops are. Just go for a ride, walk, or run. Don’t drag the digital fentanyl with you. Leave it in the garage. When we did the Santa Fe ride, that was the first time a computer was on that SOMA Double Cross disc. Damn, that was a nice bike.