the devil you know

Between the dark days of knee drama (here I’m crossing myself with one hand and knocking on wood with the other) and sheer laziness, it’s been a few years since I’ve ridden Mt. Diablo. But I’m pining for real mountains, so it seems a good time to take what I can get.

Top, the top; bottom, Team Retro/Squeaky Cannondale

Very few people have the patience for 50 miles at my pace, these days—I’m not even one of them—which made me appreciate Arielle’s company even more. She’s an internationally accredited master of the long haul, a lover of ludicrous Alpine death rides and the ultimate good sport. (Like Oliver Sacks and Primo Levi, she’s also a scientist who can put a sentence together: If you’re bored enough to be reading my blog you should definitely read hers.)

It’s a poor form of thanks to post this awkward selfie, I know, but like the inadvisable summit snacks themselves I can’t resist.

Left, Coke; right, Fudgsicle