@postaday 112; #postaday2011
Today’s stats at Garmin.
Because I know I should, I eat my vegetables. I have learned to love vegetables. I jazz them up sometimes, grill asparagus, squirt lemon on broccoli, give carrots a Moroccan flair.
I’m trying to learn to love hills in much the same way. I do them not because I want to, but because it’s good for me.
At the top of my second hill today, Makapu’u, I was pretty shaky as I got off my bicycle. My routine is to take a picture, have some water, and get back on the bicycle. Today there was a woman who arrived just as I did but from the opposite direction. I say hello.
***crickets*** Granted, she was wrapping her mouth around a Williams banana. Not sure why someone with body fat in the teens and loads of testosterone needs to show off such a skill set. So I looked away and decided there wouldn’t be any talk of the weather for me. Then her friend showed up and the chest thumping began. For my benefit. OMG.
When I was in high school chest thumping for chicks was all about who had the biggest boobs. It was ridiculous. I never won. In fact, I really didn’t arrive in the boob department until recently. Yes, girls, girls come in all shapes and sizes and take all kinds of time to be their best. And when you become a mom and they have a job to do, your boobs kinda take on yet another dimension.
Today’s chest thumping by intimidating chicks on bikes sounded like this:
“I was going to swim from Makapu’u to Allen Davis. Tomorrow. You want to come?”
“No, I have to do a long run followed by some hot yoga.”
“I’m getting ready for the ‘Hotter than the Center of the Earth Ultimate Super Woman Triathlon.”
“Yeah, that’s a fun little event.”
Well, not exactly, but, it might as well have been. All the more reason I prefer to ride with John (whom I wish could have witnessed this today) or by myself. My thoughts alone are wildly entertaining. If I’m feeling the need to be competitive, I check my Garmin Edge and see if I’m slacking off. Or I pass some pansy ass on a bicycle. WAIT. Is that me chest thumping? Perish the thought!