June hasn’t been off to a good start. Last week at work, while I got on my tiptoes trying to rehang the air blow gun on its hook and missed, the hose recoiled, pistol-whipping me in the forehead, leaving me with a zit-like welt. Worse yet, the joints in my right wrist and left index finger had randomly become inflamed, causing me to wince every time I used the spray bottle, like this:
Only 42 years old, and this is already my reality?
Outside of work, my fitness age, as determined by Garmin, continues to decrease. The expectations put forth by Garmin, however, remain lofty. After three months, my estimated VO2 Max has stabilized. Theoretically, at this point, the prescribed workouts should be hard as fuck, yet doable. This VO2 Max workout seemed to be pushing it, though:
While I did not complete five sets at the prescribed pace, I felt positive about the effort I put in. It was a much-needed ego boost after being confronted with difficulties with using a spray bottle.
What has kept me off the laptop more than my carpal frailty are those two:
For a week, while Mary and Logan are jibing in the Maritimes, I’m looking after Helen and Eggnog. Helen is the colour of a lightly toasted marshmallow, has a prominent ear tattoo, and a perpetually dilated left pupil. The gender-neutral named Eggnog has so much fluff that I was unable to tell whether Eggnog was male or female for three days, and the only reason I found out was that I asked Mary.
I’d planned to be in and out of their place after handling general cat-sitting responsibilities, opting to sleep in my own bed. But on the first night, my plan changed as soon as Helen jumped on my lap and started furiously making biscuits with her tiny paws. The following morning at 5:30, she woke me up not to be fed, but so that I’d move to the couch, which was apparently the optimal place for her to sleep. I have fallen under the spell of a five pound cat.
The frequent onset of feline paralysis limited my evening activities to reading, watching TV, or petting Helen. (Eggnog has only just started head-butting me, demanding pets.) I’d gotten rid of all my streaming subscriptions, but with Mary and Logan’s Disney+ account at my disposal, I finally got to watch the King of the Hill revival. In this revival, the characters have aged. Bobby now runs a restaurant that serves German-Japanese fusion food. If this interaction between a diner and Bobby doesn’t convince fans of the show to watch the revival, then I don’t know what will:
Diner: “Last time the Germans and Japanese teamed up, I wasn’t a fan. But this is delicious.”
Bobby: “I call it, the Axis of flavour.”
Incidentally, the book I am reading, All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr, is about the lives of two teenagers during WW2. I expect the two protagonists to meet at some point, and I seriously doubt the results will be hilarious.
Other than that, I’ve been trying to squeeze some more cycling into my week. Finding folks available for a ride continues to be a struggle. Thursdays have been my best bet, what with it being one of my days off, and the implication that Jen, Sarah, and Gabby are up for a ride during the day.
Unfortunately, last week, Sarah got peacock-blocked while trying to lap Beacon Hill Park and crashed out. Jen’s road bike was in the shop, and she had a midday appointment to attend. This left me with just Gabby, who had the week off work. I proposed riding to the end of Silver Spray Drive in East Sooke, and suggested throwing a Mt Matheson climb in the mix. For most people, this suggestion would be considered too ambitious. Even then, all three ladies race and sometimes insist on a Zone 2 ride to save their legs for race day.
Much to my delight, Gabby was ready to waste her legs chasing me to Sooke and back. She made the mistake in claiming that she would be “slower than [me]”. On the return to Victoria, she ripped down the winding descents of East Sooke Road, gapping me so hard that at one point I could not even see her anymore.
But her biggest mistake was relying on me for navigation. The fool! My sense of direction is backwards: I made the wrong turn on the Galloping Goose trail, where the distance is posted every kilometre. Even after noticing that the posted distance was increasing rather than decreasing as it does en route to Victoria, I just kept going and hoped for the best. Fortunately, the trial and the roads converge a few times in Metchosin and Langford. I was able to correct our direction as soon as we were spit out on Happy Valley Road.
Then, Gabby didn’t want to let me go home: “Do you want to meet my cats?”
“I would love to meet your cats.”
And I did. Here’s little Leo with his round belly, emulating Simba.
Look, Leo, everything the light touches is your kingdom!
The other cat, Luna, was equally small and rotund. I was also introduced to Gabby’s rental chickens, which she was less proud of. In fact, after I left that day, she decided to return all four chickens, their enclosure, and their feed.
Reason for return? Too loud!
Aside from dealing with the sheer volume of shit they apparently produce, I seem to be the ideal chicken renter: eggs are my favourite food, and I’m deaf! Alas, I also rent my home, and the landlord’s large dog would likely give the chickens heart attacks.
Unlike my ride to and from Gabriola Island a few weeks ago (also 113km), our East Sooke/Mt.Matheson ride didn’t end with me feeling like this:
My legs are primed for Slovenia!
