Allow me to channel my youth and open this post with the trite and decidedly diminutive dialectic talents displayed by substantially every college student attempting to compile a last minute essay:
Merriam-Webster’s simple definition of a sneaker is, “a shoe with a rubber sole that is designed for people to wear while running, playing sports, etc”.
Mmm. Piercing shifts in thought and paradigm.
Indeed, one could – as an extension of this framework – argue the strictures imposed on the humble sneaker by more conservative minds are grossly misplaced, a notion the drafter quickly acknowledges by concluding, quite simply, with “etc”. This terse truncation, after but two fumbled attempts at capturing the malleable majesty of this metatarsal marvel, unquestionably betrays the author’s sudden confrontation with the yawning abyss of sneaker possibilities-in-potentia, leading, we might surmise, to a shocking recoil and several subsequent decades as a broken, hollow man.
….No? No takers?
Alright, I forgot my fucking cycling shoes, okay? Assholes…
Equipped in 87% of my preferred gear (100% for Pops, because: Grown Up), the old man and I packed up and stepped out into the joyless chill of low 40s weather to cruise to the start line. There are people that would view this as a pronounced opportunity to inform quite literally anyone within rifle range that 40 degrees is not, in fact, cold, and that frigid temperatures are not defined so much by the ability to cease movement on an atomic level, but rather by the area code and decade in which that person was raised.
To these people, allow me to offer the following brief thoughts: No one forced to listen to your “back in my day, shower heads only fired hailstones and the snowflakes snowed smaller snowflakes” bullshit is impressed. We allllll get it. Yetis are afraid they’ll run into you in a big snowstorm. Congratulations. You’re the king or queen of wildly unverifiable human experiences in frosty, but survivable conditions.
With something of a loosely structured “staggered release” program comparable in size and predictability to, I imagine, an elderly man trying to urinate with an enlarged prostate, Dad and I set out for the quality roads of the Solvang environs. And by this, I mean they were technically roads, and they had qualities. While compiling a comprehensive list would be onerous, some of the more notable qualities were “pocked”, “chipped”, “fire bombed” and “not roads”.
Notwithstanding some ad hoc vertebral realignment, the weather and legs eventually warmed , and, provided a few hills and some aggressive pedaling, we were able to separate from most of the pack and enjoy some pleasant pastoral hillsides and another solid early season test. On review, I’d say we both managed quite well, sneakers, cramps and poorly maintained infrastructure be damned.
On return, we linked back up with Ma Ruegs, who had luxuriated in the star treatment at a local pancake house and, being the thoughtful person that she is, tracked down some slick new socks to up the cycling sock game. Yes. It’s a thing. After jamming some edibles and potables in the ol’ shitbox and making a pleasant stop at the tasting room of a local vintner, we packed it all back in and shot back up the California coast. It’s early yet, but I think the crew is feeling pretty good about how things are shaping up for the big trip.
Just remember to pack your goddamn shoes.