all sorts of sloth

Spent the past weekend in town with a stack of magazine proofs and my sinus demons, so it was good to keep things mellow. Saturday I did a very pleasant dirt ride that allows me to make the first installment in a series I will call either “Shit Jacob Says” or, more generally, “Fighting on Bikes with Boys.” Ready?

Later we set aside our differences in order to eat burritos on Memorial Glade, where a sunny day never fails to bring out some interesting characters.

"Oski's really let himself go,"

“Oski’s really let himself go.”

This encounter with my cycling spirit animal really set the tone for Sunday, much of which I spent sitting on my ass watching Real Athletes slaughter themselves at the Berkeley Streets Criterium. A spectating benefit of having very fast friends is that I have people to yell at, and to provide exclusive post-game analysis. “We tried a kamikaze attack for the yoga-mat prime,” Joanna said after her second race (having already won the first). “It didn’t work.”

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