To Hell and Back

We were supposed to do hill training but Bill Bailed. I just wanted to document that fact right off the bat. It’s like when a Drill Sergeant hits the snooze.

Yesterday was my first road ride of any significance this year. I rode to Hell, a small town about 20 miles from Brighton. The name is literally Hell; don’t ask me, I guess it was the best the city planners could come up with. I suppose all the good names were already taken and we don’t need another city called Springfield or Oakridge or whatever. There are only four businesses in Hell Michigan: the National Weather Bureau, a wedding chapel, a party store, and a biker bar called the Dam-Site Inn (located, cleverly enough, at a dam). The bar is a popular destination for biker gangs but there were no Harleys there yesterday; Hell was frozen over so they all drove their rusty Dodge pickups. On group rides we try to talk each other into prancing into the bar, in Lycia, and ordering an Evian bottled water. I was riding solo so I didn’t look twice; no sense in giving them a reason to kick my lily white ass.

Typical of my planning, I checked the wind direction, temperature, and when the sun would set. I left work right on time which is a dangerous thing to do when GM is about to lay off 27,000 employees, and I picked a route that, in theory, could get me home before dark. I didn’t bother to check for rain. A sprinkle turned into a gentle rain that turned into a down pour, complete with lighting, which turned into a hail storm. A good ride overall. I am optimistic about this season.