on the seventh day of bikeness

When we last visited, our reluctant hero was getting disgustingly sentimental, and it was a godsend for us all, and mostly for him, that the post ended when it did. Lest the entire blog should meet a premature and untimely death.

Fast-forward then to the "morning after" . . .

Pat S awoke wondering whether the 24-hour course was fatbike rideable. So intense was his curiosity that he was compelled to find out.

Not only was it rideable, but it had been ridden by skinny-tired bikes just days before (see above) as well as [gasp], another fatbike (see below).

Trees had fallen during recent windstorms, and Pat S was able to clear many of the smaller ones.

Unfortunately, his might notwithstanding, he is nonetheless mortal, and was unable to lift huge logs. And so they remain. Let it be noted that it was not for lack of trying.

There were many deer present on this day and for the most part they were alive.

But not exclusively.

He arrived at the top of 5-minute hill to find deeper snow than was down below.  He was annoyed.  Heroes don't complain.

He stopped to engage in some bike porn, because in his mind, why shouldn't he.

He took the Devil's-Down bypass because he was chicken wise, and then wondered if he had made the right decision, after all.

He "had something to do" back in town, and so skipped Little Saigon and the rest of the course and soft-pedaled back on the CT.  So lame.

Upon arriving back at the trailhead, he marveled at the halaciousness of the workout and basked in the wonder of his ability to meld his love of fatbiking with nature.  He was blown away by the prowess of his machine, as well as the sustained power his legs had just exhibited. But still, something was missing . . .

As with any existentially-based tale such as the 'twelve days of bikeness', tragic flaws come into play. Pat S is nothing, if not self-aware. And yet at the same time, our hero is unable to help himself. While pretending to enjoy his vacation, his Don-Quixotish vision of a machine that can train any man or monkey to WheelieForLife™ in 2 hours or less has come to consume him, occupying his every waking moment, along with most of the sleeping ones.

In clinical terms, he is unable to separate his wheelie fantasies from reality. Compounded by his perfectionistic tendencies. Which he denies. Of course.

Or in common terms, the dude is way out there and makes mountains out of molehills.

People seem to handle retirement in two different ways: Either they a) lose their anchor and can't figure out how to spend their days, or b) have the time and energy to pursue their passions and get so busy that they wish they were back at work so they could rest up. Or, they strike a reasonable balance. So three ways then.

Or go apeshit bonko. So four.

Eleven days off, as an experiment in how to handle eventual retirement, far away as it is, should be a wake up call for the dude. Hope he's paying attention. Lots of retirement planning to do, then.