The Dirt Field

The weekend started in a haze, with a recovery ride on Friday evening that came on the heels of an all-nighter at work. Riding on no sleep after 27 hours at the office and a hard set of intervals from the previous day (does it even count as a separate day if you haven’t gone to bed yet?) was like being high (not that I’ve had the experience of knowing what that’s like, of course, innocent flower that I am). Music sounded incredible, cars speeding by were surprising and terrifying even though I was riding on the road where cars are sort of the norm, and at one point I was pretty sure large animals were peering out at me from the bushes.

Then I stayed up late to watch Dance Academy, because I need Australian teenagers more than sleep.

Saturday was a blur of still being very tired. I remember riding and doing a lot of sweating and feeling droopy from exhaustion and the heat, and then I went to a beer tasting party where I did not taste beer. Instead, I chugged water and spent most of the time trying to rock a sticky, adorable toddler to sleep (he stayed wide awake and kept lifting up my skirt; I was the one passing out). Saturday also marked the end of the line for unwatched Dance Academy episodes; I sobbed over a tragic turn of events in the show and then over the fact that there was no more to watch.

Sunday was the scheduled big ride of the weekend. After accepting an invitation extended to people that did not include me, I joined Gus-Gus and Senor Velo Beats on a long ride. After 4 hours/72+ miles, Senor VB let me down with only 22 R-rated comments and a promise to dedicate his time to calling in faux doping accusations so I can be besties with USADA. I’ll pee in a cup any day – all that’s in there is glitter and sunshine.

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Later that evening, I took my car out for a joyride and was quickly shut down by the cops. Apparently when you turn onto a road that is closed (which I discovered only upon encountering the “Road Closed” sign a block later), this makes you a suspected felon. The officer asked where I was going (TO A DRUG DEAL, DUH) and then we had a ‘friendly’ exchange about how the road was closed. Surprisingly, he didn’t follow me as I left in a bitchy departure garnished with some tire-squealing, engine-revving antics, but instead sat back and waved goodbye to what promised to be a pile of moving violations.

Then a violent storm blew in alarmingly fast and I hid in a parking garage.

On Monday, I did nothing. The air conditioner in my condo is unimpressive, so I slumped around the house in increasingly less apparel, fanning my face and moaning about the temperature while drinking multiple hot lattes. Then it was time for dinner at my parents’ house, where I taught my dad how to give three middle fingers at once and witnessed him snap his fingers and say, “Bitch, please.” I feel honored to be a bloom on this family tree.

And now it’s back to work, my friends. Well, for you at least. I took the day off to fix my air conditioner, take a 2-hour shower, and eat lunch four times.