That is, we will see how long this lasts. I've finally scrambled down to a coffee shop to procure a wi-fi connection, since the existing connection in the house I'm sitting is being quirky and balking at my every attempt to access the world wide waste of time.
We'll see how long this lasts, since one eye is on this screen and one eye is blinking nevervously at my unchained road bike outside. Lots of googlies on Idaho Street, passing by and snapping lusty teeth at my shiny ride. Yet another eye on my battery (blink, blink, you have no power cord, blink, sucker, blink), and another on my watch. Yes, I am blessed with at least four eyes (eight since I wear contacts) and they are all busy.
I am housesitting this week, have been since Saturday night, and absolutely dig it. Spring break, you see, has presented me the opportunity to relax with school and amplify the cycling training... the weather is not cooperating, not adhering the the prearranged contract I've been scheming since January. Vicious undulations in temperature and precipitation create blue skies one minute and black slush-vommitting clouds the next. The plan was to slap down at least thirty hours this week of ride time, much of which with specific interval and strength-training efforts, and although I've not yet strayed from the schedule I am not going to log the next four days on an indoor trainer.
Times like these... thank God I have a coach. You see, knowing me (I started this tweaked-out behaviour in high school) I would pedal like mad inside, I would log the full thirty hours indoors. John is there to keep my head on straight and my ass from going numb on an indoor trainer, there to reveal the truth that mental freshness is directly correlated to physical prowess. Could I ride inside that much? Sure. Would I hate my bike next week, and the week after, and the week after... perhaps. Trying to avoid that means revamping this week's schedule, trading quantity for quality, and being confident in the decision.
So just me and Sierra in my rained-in training camp cottage; just up the hill from the North End of Boise in a late-eighties style box-trend casa, complete with stucco walls and huge sunrise-catching windows facing the sun's origin. Sierra is a yellow lab, probably twelve years old, likely oblivious to the fact that her owners are gone since (as we all know) labs operate solely by the whim of their bellies, and she has not missed a meal since her owners left Saturday morning. If anything she may be slightly confused that she's no longer having to guard her dog-bowl against the one and three year-old children usually running around. I myself do not prefer dog food, so Sierra is eating well and seems content.
I do feel, however, almost too out of touch with the normal Boise world. I haven't seen Greg in a few days, which sucks, and the crap-rain continues to fall and often traps me indoors. Lauren and I have done a good job of keeping in touch. She lives about three minutes from the house and drove up last night to make me Spaghetti...
I can not wait for Scott to get back. Not that I am tired of house-sitting, but since I'm watching over his dog and possessions I've discovered that we share a whole lot of common interests. He and Mallory (and perhaps the little bumpkins, too) apparently enjoy indy music as much as I do. Plus, considering that Scott is in his mid-thirties (I think?) he has an amazing collection of albums that he actually listened to before they were cool. I am a wannabe, just jumping on the indy music bandwagon, and Scott's collection is overwhelming and exciting to have access to.
Plus, his bookshelf contains all the books I've read and am anxious to read: from Thomas Pynchon to Cormac McCarthy. I had no idea that his interests lied in such areas. Can't wait to chat with him more whence he returns. In reality I'm flattered that he and Mallory trusted me with their house and pooch, I do not know either of them that well but must've come across as reasonably competent and responsible.
Turf, little girl just sampled some carpet next to me whilst running to the bathrroom. Damn loose shoe laces, every time. Remind me sometime to tell you about my sister's mishap with the laces of her high-top sneaks. I had no more than five years at the time, but I remember the incident like it was yesterday.
I'm out. Extemporaneous wanderings, ramblings and ideas from a bald cyclist on his spring break from master's engineering college. Thanks.
