I gave the Innertubes the slip at midday yesterday and went out for a rolling 23-miler, missing exactly 23 tweets. This I call a fair trade, especially since I had a tailwind on the hilly bits while Twitter is always pretty much up in your grill.
The hard part lately is finding that sweet spot in the actual wind. Some days it seems to be generated by the handlebars. If you’re riding deep-section rims you’ll occasionally get a probing gust from port or starboard, generally when riding no-hands to adjust some article of clothing or fetch something from a pocket.
While out I noticed a new bridge on our major north-south bike path. It replaces an iffy concrete dip that was occasionally underwater during spring runoff and thus seems a major upgrade, unless you’re the sort of GOP dipshit who thinks that bicycles should be the littlest pig at Uncle Sammy’s trough.
I crossed it on the way home and felt as though I’d hit the lottery. Unc’ usually spends my money bombing brown people, giving a wink and a nod to white-collar criminals or holding hearings on women’s health issues to which only Penis-Americans and those who love them are invited.
But every now and then the crooked, simple-minded old fool throws the little people a bone — like a bridge that actually goes somewhere.