Hopping at the Hideout

Saturday, things got to hopping at the Hideout. Friday the man who did the slab came up with a price on the fence. I already had a price on the fence and told the guy to go ahead. That was three weeks ago. I have not hear a word from him. Simon wanted to start Saturday so I told him to go ahead. We both hauled supplies most of the morning. Homefront does not deliver on Saturday. The two of us hauled three truck loads each. We unloaded and stacked on the slab for Simon's convenience next week. Things are happening again, and I am happy.

Of course none of this bode well for my training. I took a ride with Brian in the late afternoon. We had planned to go twenty-five miles, but the wind was howling out of the south so we rode to Highway 8 and his wife, Tonya, picked us up. My watch was on Run Mode, but I did enough math in my head to figure we were, at one point, going twenty-two miles per hour. I know what you are thinking. If I can't take pen and paper and get closer than twenty pounds on the bar at Plate City, how could I possibly do enough math in my head to convert minutes per mile into miles per hour. Well, it doesn't take a socket rientist to realize that four minutes per mile is fifteen miles per hour. Three minutes per miles is twenty. So half way in 17.5. At one point we were going at a pace of 2:31 per mile. I call that twenty-two miles per hour. Prove me wrong. 

That was real. That was fun. That was real fun. It's always enjoyable to go fast on a bicycle.

I needed to lift but I was beat by the time I got home from the ride. I did a set of air squats before I took a bath. That was the best I could do. Still, it capped a big week. Thank you, Jesus.