Life here in Tucson is great! I’m just sitting here at the kitchen table, stress eating and waiting for the locksmith to arrive. My car keys are missing and after ransacking the house and dumpster diving the neighbor’s rolling trash can (try to look dignified while doing that), I’ve resorted to calling a professional. The $46 fee is spent at this point, so now I’m really hoping the keys are locked in the car. If not, I will be devastated that my keys are still missing because I will have no way to go buy the alcohol required to move past this.
Other than the obvious, things are good. I did the famous Shootout group ride on Saturday morning and while I wanted to die a million deaths during the ride, my first thought after it ended was that I couldn’t wait to do it again. Sunday was a sufferfest up Mt. Lemmon, noteworthy for the glorious moment around mile marker 9 when another cyclist called out, “I love your blog!” and for the fact that I neither cried nor panicked on the descent. It probably had something to do with the planned post-ride stop at Le Buzz; my subconscious was all, GET ME THE EFF OFF THIS MOUNTAIN AND TO THE COFFEE.
On Monday I drove back to Phoenix to do my time trial bike fit at Cyclologic. It felt like going home; I showed up in sweats, Steve brought me a cup of coffee, and I flopped onto the couch and started whining about being sore all over. Then I made it maybe an hour into the session before the snacks came out, and there was definitely a point where Steve had to tell me to put down the sandwich and get on the bike. In the end, we found a TT position that is as comfortable as one can be while hunched over a bicycle like an overeager frog. Steve probably really misses the quality time we spent together, but I’ll be back once more next week to flop all over the studio dramatically and talk about how my butt hurts.
Aside from training and the trip to Phoenix, things are pleasantly uneventful. The roommate and I spend 96% of our awake free time gathering, preparing, and consuming food and hot drinks. There is an overly sensitive smoke detector in the kitchen and I’ve learned that when it starts shrieking, that doesn’t mean the house is in flames; it merely means lunch is ready. This place is starting to feel like home, except that my dogs are a million miles away and nowhere will ever truly be home until it is covered in their fur. But this is a good place to be for now.
The locksmith just came and broke into the car, where I found the keys sitting in the trunk. Funny how a self-inflicted wound cost $46 and yet all I feel now is joy and relief. As my roommate put it, “Less than the cost of a night at the theater and probably feels even better.”
Leftover Christmas fruitcake beats mochi any day.
I’ve got you beat. Try locking your keys inside your car while it’s running…at 1:30 in the morning…outside a Richmond, VA 7-Eleven in the middle of December…when it’s 14 degrees…and the neighborhood reminds you of a scene out of “Escape From New York”…talk about stupid!