Life on the road can be crushing. But I was beckoned by the clarion call to mount my bicycle steed, which had been covered by a veil of cobwebs in a corner of the garage.
I was promised that well-being was just down the road, and beauty would flourish from unexpected places.
Inveterate back vertebrae, an achy arthritic knee, arrhythmic heart heaving, problematic prostate pressure, and general malaise notwithstanding, I am at least attempting to get with the program of physical enlightenment, as part of the current national bicycle promotion.
Besides, where else am I going to wear that body-contouring, cellulite-clinging spandex I once bought online while in a zombie-like trance after binge watching hours of very early morning Tour de France coverage?
After all, I was already an accomplished wannabe (yes, an oxymoron, I know) in multiple outdoor activities.
An added bonus the bike shorts afforded was the large bulge I was packing in front, which I was convinced would impress certain members of the female persuasion.
Speaking of members, once I eventually realized the large padded area in the crotchal region (as Ron Burgundy called it) was not for carrying an extra bike tube, my reputation—among other things—suffered severe shrinkage.
Speaking of shrinkage, just pity the poor snake whose only sin was a thwarted attempt to cross the road.
Why DID the snake—almost—cross the road?
Beats the hell out of me, but apparently it WAS a crushing experience.