I'm all warped out about the Midnight Century. There is no way. I haven't put on any miles since freaking April. I've been pounding $5 Subway 12" Meatball Marinara Subs like I have nothing to live for.
John thinks he's preoccupied . . . jeez, he should spend a few minutes in my head. And I'm not even doing the damn ride!
Or am I?
I know. It's insane. But with riding season slipping away, I'm grasping for the gold ring. Not that I'll do it, but just having the idea and pretend-preparing and thinking that maybe, just maybe, I can squeeze in enough riding in the next few days to get me ready. Preposterous.
Tuesday was Recon-1:
It's these gorgeous roads. John can have his handlebar tweaks. I dream-float through the descents like dogs must dream of chasing cats.
The angst is damn-near unbearable.