Total distance, one way: 11.3 miles.

Distance traveled while using the wrong gear: approximately six miles.

Animal sightings: One deer; one chipmunk; countless squirrels; six dogs. Including one with a cone around its head.

Number of times I probably could have made it across the big scary street with many swift and vroomy cars zorching by, but totally chickened out instead: 4.

How difficult pedalling up the Oakton Bridge was this time, on a scale of one to ten: 6.

How much I’d like to sleep right now, on a scale of one to ten: Uh huh.

How much I deserve some coffee cake right now, on a scale of one to MRMFF NUM NUM NUM: Six point MRMFFF.

How much coffee three yeah what ha!111!11@ ok thankyou happy fridady

We did the bike route on Sunday. We set out a little before noon and got to my office at around 1:00 pm. We stopped for water and I got on my computer to look at the map again, just to confirm that yes, we’d been at that turn, that crossing, that bridge—all the stuff I’d hovered above while playing with the Google maps satellite view, spying on Magical Bikeland for months. It really is beautiful on the trail, with winding creeks, patches of prairie, and deer staring creepily as you ride by. It felt good to be down among the trees. When we went fast it was maybe just a tiny tad like the speeder bike chase scene in Return of the Jedi (except without the Ewoks, and thank God for that).

The best part is the bridge. There’s a foot/bike bridge that goes over Oakton, one of the few places on the trail where you don’t have to dash across the road in terror. But the trade-off is that, of course, the bridge is an arc and to cross it you have to pedal uphill, though you can’t even call it a hill, just a wimpy little bunny slope. Still, when I tried this trail a couple years ago, the bunny stomped my ass. I mean I saw how easy it looked and I began to ride up the incline and it kept, you know, inclining, just as it was inclined to do, and my legs lurched on the pedals and the bike got stubborn and finally I just stopped and stumbled off the bike and walked it over. And I wasn’t surprised, because I was always finding new and exciting ways to discover my physical shortcomings, and I figured pedaling uphill was just an awesome new vista of inadequacy.

But then on Sunday we were just riding along and suddenly there was the bridge. So I downshifted and then pedalled fervently and with much grunting, and then, eventually, my ass was over that hump. And then on the way back I did it again. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised this time, since I’ve been doing weight training since the fall, but I am pleased. It was still a wobbly ride over the bridge, but Chris pointed out that the riders we passed there were wobbly, too. Maybe the only folks who can glide over that thing easily are the ones who ride around dressed like Olympic luge competitors.

But anyway, we did it. I think the total distance—round-trip, and with additional wandering around in search of lunch—was close to 25 miles.  Making the return trip in such a short time was pretty rough, but I think I can do it as a commute on Friday, which is what I’m planning on doing, weather permitting.

I like being on the map.

What was up with this week? I felt sort of worn out nearly every night, even when I hadn’t worked out that day.  My guess is that I’ve spent the last few weeks shoving myself along through all the  snowing and the souping, all the while I kept telling myself: this is as hard as it gets; it gets easier after this; if I can do this now just think what a breeze it’ll be in the spring; go me go. And so on.

And then it got warm, and the snow started to melt, and there I was all bundled up tight in my own resolve, which suddenly felt heavy and uncomfortable. I suppose I needed to relax. I skipped a gym night. I got in bed early the other night and read a bunch of East Village Inkys that Chris had gotten me. I think that helped.

*  *  *

We’re still doing the Lifting Weights to Hateful Pop Remixes class (heretofore called Weights & Hates). Wrongy Lady stopped coming to the class a long time ago, as I knew she would. But now we have Crazy Pants. Crazy Pants wears plaid flannel pajama pants and is in his forties, I think. In the class we all use plain old bars and plates specially made for the class, but Crazy Pants brings in a pile of extra stuff from the free-weight area: ankle weights, two pairs of massive iron dumbbells, a big honking 50 lb thingy. It’s all strewn out on the floor next to his step platform. It looks like he’s building a fucking robot. He could keep all this stuff in front of his bench, where it would be more out of everyone’s way, and surely with his strength he could reach a little farther for the seven extra weights his crazy muscles crave, yes? But this is not the way of the Crazy Pants.

He doesn’t come to class to do the class, really. He does a special parallel universe-version of Weights & Hates involving higher weights and fewer reps and lots of random flailing around. Sometimes when we’re between songs and the rest of us are adjusting our bars, he’ll grab his special crazy weights and toss off a quick set of curls or extensions or deadlifts or rows or squats triple axels or lindys or bootyclaps or whatever the hell it is he does. But perhaps he knows what he is doing. And actually, if he came to class every Monday and Wednesday morning like most of the rest of us do, I would have a great deal more respect for him and his manic muscle ways. But he only shows up every now and then, and he’s all, look at me! Gaaarrr! I am working so haarrrd!

Chris has a theory that Crazy Pants puts his pants on in the morning and they tell him what do to and where to go, and he doesn’t get a say in any of it. What if he belongs to several gyms and his pants march him to a different one every day? If so, perhaps you’ve seen him. Tell him we say hello.