Friday 8.20, Breckenridge
I got winded brushing my teeth today. And running up the stairs...forget about it, I end up doubled-over at the top, feeling like I'm trying to suck a fish eye tapioca ball out of my mango bubble tea with a regular size straw; not one of those bubble tea specific, gigantic diameter straws. I'm hoping this is the worst day, although it's hard to tell, I wasn't exactly pushing out it there on the little, neighborhood flume ride I did. I did manage to flat though, which has led me to begin re-thinking my wussy-ass tire selection. The rocks here may be few, but they are pointy bastards.
This was the kind of ride I had...I stopped to smell (and photograph) the flowers.
Monique Merrill's house is a crazy place: a place where people on their day off go for a two-and-a-half hour bike ride...then a forty-five minute run...then another hour-and-a-half ride later on. I'm going to feel like a massive wuss-bag if I don't make that 5:45 ride. If I'm going to do that, I should probably go deal with my tire-issues, stat!
Breckenridge is pretty sweet. Any place where you can ride out your door and hit trails of this quality is aces in my book. Ya I got The Fells in my backyard, but it's just not the same. I'd rather ride in places where you have a better chance of being mauled by a bear than man-raped by a man-raper.
After last night's frigid monsoon, I have opted to go in on a condo with Dicky, Doug, and Dieter from Misfit Psycles. My goal is to keep referring to Peter Keiller as "Dieter from Misfit Psycles" until he goes to Google himself one day and Google asks him:
did you mean: Dieter from Misfit Psycles