Grab your kit. Find your shoes. Where the fuck did I leave them? Aah… Under the couch. How do they always end up there?
Feed the cat.
Lock the door behind you.
Clip in, and finally let go of it all. There’s a road you've been wanting to explore. A few acres of Italy, shoved up into West Lake Hills. One you get past the traffic and those few sketchy sections you’ll be on it. Unexplored territory.
The regular crew is tied up, but that’s OK… Riding solo is a pleasure. There’s something uniquely gratifying to finding your own rhythm. Settling into a climbing pace that you can maintain for days and tapping away. No bullshit attacks. No sprint signs, or suffering for vanity’s sake.
Suffering should be reserved for something much greater than that.
Pedal home. Damn... I did a bit of time traveling there. But I guess that if your only concern is the present, there’s no use for time. It’s just another thing to leave behind.
Perhaps that’s why I’m always home late.