M and I headed off this afternoon to run errands, including picking up bar tape and cables so her bike can be built once the brakes are ordered and arrive (she has unnerving patience with these things). We were so blindingly efficient, and outright early, that we arrived at the gym over an hour before Spin class. What to do? Happy hour!

A glass of fine Belgian ale each and some fish and chips hit the spot, fine TransIowa training food. Then off for an hour of sweating like crazy in a small room with a bunch of old folks. Not really fun, but effective. I see more in my future, sad though that sounds. I just tune out the cellulite and Springsteen, visualize the shandies, and I’m off. It was a pretty intense effort for me, and my stomach was just dandy. M, on the other hand, has been gifted with the gastro-intestinal equivalent of a racing prius. It doesn’t need much, but any variant from the proscribed can have adverse consequences.

Arrive home to shower, munch a tomato and ricotta omelet, and finish the days business: order the “barfalicious” new front wheel from Mike, confirm weekend epic with Dave, try (and apparently fail) to arrange a ride with Eric.

Life is tough.