For my hypothetical readers not familiar with where I live and work, the ride is only about 4.8 km (3 miles), and it’s downhill both ways, generally with a tailwind. Anything else, and riding would be out of the question – I am, after all, a lazy-ass ‘Merkin.
Incidentally, the page on which I found the km-mile converter (while I am a lazy-ass, I am certainly not without consideration for
Above: BE YE FOREWARNED, O MILEPHILES, FOR THE FEET CONTAINED WITHIN ARE THOSE THAT WILL SUM TO FIVE THOUSAND, TWO HUNDRED, AND FOUR SCORE, AS PROPHOSIED IN SCRIPTURE!
I guess if I should perchance meet my demise in a high-stakes game of Trivial Pursuit To The Death as a result of not knowing this, I’ll have no one to blame but myself. “Damn you, Dead Acorn!” my final thoughts will be. “Why did you not heed the warning? WHY?”
Though the physical demands of the ride aren’t enough to keep me from biking in, there is one demon temptress that I battle daily in the bike vs. car war:
I’m an addict. I can’t stop. I refresh the pages every 30 seconds or so, waiting for that once-in-a-lifetime deal on a 1980 Campagnolo Nuevo Record clamp front derailleur, or the 12” Delta planer being sold for $10 by a disgruntled and spurned lover. When these things appear, one needs to be able to Act Now!, and Acting Now! does not allow 20 minutes to change clothes, ride home, and get the car. And trust me, I’ve been burned … for example, I once had a shot at a free
Stupid goatheads. For lack of Slime in a tire, my dreams were dashed. By the time I finally got back to the house, the trailer was long gone, as were, alas, my hopes of winning my fair trailer-trash princess.
[Update:] Goal for 2010: Write a blog post that doesn’t somehow wind up on a “love gone wrong” note. Seriously ... WTF?