The Folly of Wisdom

Today is Easter Sunday. I hope a lot of food drink blessed your tables today.

The weather is sitting in the upper twenties. I don't have the motivation to get out in the frozen tundra like I used to. Ari and Michael did, however. The taste of summer two weeks ago still hangs in the cobwebbed synapses of my memory. Global warming? Maybe. Strange weather is afoot around the globe the past few years. It makes commuting a drag too. There's nothing like rolling to work in shorts and a tee. And the token trade team cap to keep out the sun...

I told Miroslav yesterday we should move to Mallorca, Spain. I first learned of Mallorca from CycleSport magazine in the mid 90's. It looked like a paradise of blue skies, vast beach front, and smooth roads. Screw that boot camp, commando shit Bjarne Riis dictates. If Cipollini had frankensteinian training methods thrown at him like that, he'd send a can of Chef Boyardee and a postcard explaining very cordially how he'd rather be putting sunny miles on his legs and doggin' chicks in his spare time.

Ah, well, I complain too much, I know. I should toughen up and make a bold return to the wide eyed naivete that was my youth. I used to suit up in the winter kit and roll for hours with my racing mates, or alone in all sorts or nasty weather. I was immortal, I was tough, I was driving the break with Museeuw toward the invisible finish line just over the next hill. And the next. I came home exhausted, hungry, and satisfied with my courage and tenacity. I would wash off the embrocation (it was Lavit Warm-Up oil then) in the shower and grimace at the burn searing my legs and marvel at my Flandrian-like toughness. That was some time ago. A different me. Age hasn't made me wiser, it's made me average.

Here's to brighter, warmer days that don't end. And the tenacity to ignore the "yield" signposts of mental and physical age.