(no subject)
So I woke up this morning from now unknown dreams which were so realistic and vibrant at the time that I almost completely forgot about my real life and it took me one or two unsure seconds when I woke up to remember who and where I am. Shaking that off I changed into some athletic clothes, went to the local bakery to grab a sandwich and a coffee, and then made a bee-line to the the local bike rental shop. Armed with a smart looking mountain bike and helmet, I set off on the Taff trail, which led me mostly slightly uphill along canals, past farms, and through the beautiful Welsh countryside. After eight miles which completely killed me, I got to an enormous, picturesque dam about a half mile wide, I believe the name was something like the Tolybont Dam. I crossed over the damn and snapped some amazing photos and started on the unpaved trail on the other side, which was at the base of an impressive looking hill/mountain. As I slowly labored away at the the unpaved road and the base of the hill, I toyed with the idea of hiding the bike in the surrounding woods and hiking up the mountain; since I have come to realize that the views from the tops of these rolling Welsh mountains are awe-inspiring. I scrapped the idea though when I realized I was already exhausted from the first half of my bike trip and I still had to make it all the way back. I snapped some more photos of some very cinematic looking trees which seemed to have other smaller trees twisted/braided around them before getting back on my bike and setting forth the eight miles back to town. As I sailed along the first two miles, I began to realize that the resistance of the pedals was non-existent, even in the highest gear.
I stopped and realized that something was wrong. Yep, my bike had broken on me, and after much fiddling and getting my hands dirty, I realized that I was going to be unable to fix it on my own. The only number I had though was for the tourist office, which gave me the number of the bike shop that I had rented from. However, as I went to call the bike shop, my phone announced to me that I was now out of credit. All the while, a friendly looking, middle-aged Welshman was observing my plight from his cottage. Upon realizing my phone was useless, I asked if he had a mobile I could use. He immediately invited me into the cottage to use his house phone and was even nice enough to tell the clerk back at "Bikes and Hikes" exactly where the cottage was. I went back to the front of the cottage and played with the housecat while the Welshman and I talked about being from New York and vacationing in Bermuda. He excused himself as he said he had to drive into town but not before offering me a cold drink which I declined as I had a bottle of mineral water in my backpack. So I sat in the strong sun in the Welsh countryside as I read my Philip K. Dick book (let this be a lesson to you, always have reading material) and waited for Bikes and Hikes to show. After a very brief ten minutes, a van arrived to give me a replacement bike and I was back on my way.
To my pleasant suprise, I realized that the ride up had been steeper than I realized and most of the return journey was on a slight decline.
Now for an emo moment. As I sailed down the road, picking up speed and coasting, I hazarded taking my hands off the handlebars. Finding that to be a stable move I put my hands at my side. Then I lifted them up and spread them out and sang out loud a few choice lines from The Magical Mystery Tour. It was one of those very contented moments in my life, which are usually few and far between even though this is the second I've had in three days (reaching the peak of Sugarloaf Mountain in the rain and the wind on Thursday was another moment). If I could have a moment like that once a week, I don't think I'd want for much.
Now to have a kebab and perhaps catch a showing of Pirates of the Carribean 3.
And allow me to leave off on a lighter note than usual, captive audience. I realized, the most draining part of biking is not the muscle fatigue, its the strain on one's ass. Now I have a marginally chunky ass, chunkier than most men I know who are my age, and my ass was killing my for about 70% of my journey. How the hell can someone bike everyday and not have a constantly sore ass? And what about these friggin Tour de France guys?! They're tiny, my ass must be several times the size of theirs, but they sit on those seats all day long. Look at Lance Armstrong, the guy has like 3% body fat, his ass must be non-existent, how does he survive being a biker? Seriously, if anyone has an answer, please let me know.
Until next time, I'll be thinking about you.
Love,
Mike
I stopped and realized that something was wrong. Yep, my bike had broken on me, and after much fiddling and getting my hands dirty, I realized that I was going to be unable to fix it on my own. The only number I had though was for the tourist office, which gave me the number of the bike shop that I had rented from. However, as I went to call the bike shop, my phone announced to me that I was now out of credit. All the while, a friendly looking, middle-aged Welshman was observing my plight from his cottage. Upon realizing my phone was useless, I asked if he had a mobile I could use. He immediately invited me into the cottage to use his house phone and was even nice enough to tell the clerk back at "Bikes and Hikes" exactly where the cottage was. I went back to the front of the cottage and played with the housecat while the Welshman and I talked about being from New York and vacationing in Bermuda. He excused himself as he said he had to drive into town but not before offering me a cold drink which I declined as I had a bottle of mineral water in my backpack. So I sat in the strong sun in the Welsh countryside as I read my Philip K. Dick book (let this be a lesson to you, always have reading material) and waited for Bikes and Hikes to show. After a very brief ten minutes, a van arrived to give me a replacement bike and I was back on my way.
To my pleasant suprise, I realized that the ride up had been steeper than I realized and most of the return journey was on a slight decline.
Now for an emo moment. As I sailed down the road, picking up speed and coasting, I hazarded taking my hands off the handlebars. Finding that to be a stable move I put my hands at my side. Then I lifted them up and spread them out and sang out loud a few choice lines from The Magical Mystery Tour. It was one of those very contented moments in my life, which are usually few and far between even though this is the second I've had in three days (reaching the peak of Sugarloaf Mountain in the rain and the wind on Thursday was another moment). If I could have a moment like that once a week, I don't think I'd want for much.
Now to have a kebab and perhaps catch a showing of Pirates of the Carribean 3.
And allow me to leave off on a lighter note than usual, captive audience. I realized, the most draining part of biking is not the muscle fatigue, its the strain on one's ass. Now I have a marginally chunky ass, chunkier than most men I know who are my age, and my ass was killing my for about 70% of my journey. How the hell can someone bike everyday and not have a constantly sore ass? And what about these friggin Tour de France guys?! They're tiny, my ass must be several times the size of theirs, but they sit on those seats all day long. Look at Lance Armstrong, the guy has like 3% body fat, his ass must be non-existent, how does he survive being a biker? Seriously, if anyone has an answer, please let me know.
Until next time, I'll be thinking about you.
Love,
Mike