Because I am crazy, I like to think the writing of my training log is actually real writing—you know, with a deadline, quality standards and examples that follow the "rule of three" whenever possible. See? I just totally did the rule of three! That’s how crazy I am.

But recently I have been busy and haven’t really had the time to explore my riding in the deep and reflective manner that people have come to expect from me. It’s been an off season so far. I haven’t made any references to Stalin at all, and I swore by Stalin’s mustache that I would include him as much as possible. (Yes, Stalin is probably not intrinsically funny—he killed millions of people—but he was really the Kim Jong il of his day, and I feel he needs to be mocked, just like that Pompadour-wearing dingleberry).

Lately, my mind has elsewhere. Work has been very busy, and my career as a part-time taxi driver for my children is really taking off, so that leaves less time for riding and even less time for writing pithy internet diatribes about how much I despise the term "epic". And I do dislike epic, I really hate it when people use that term to describe bikes. For me its use has been downgraded to "irony only" circumstances. You may enjoy some "epic" tater tots, but you may not enjoy an "epic" ride in the rain. These are my rules. Also, no henley shirts, because they’re stupid.

My entire week’s train can be described in the following haiku:

Rode indoors so much
went out in the fallen trees
nothing’s been improved

I’m also hovering near the outside of my acceptable "Val Kilmer" weight range. If I gain any more weight, I will need to create a new info-graphic. Luckily there’s plenty of girth-y photos of Val on the beach.

In reading over these preceding paragraphs it may seem like this whole bike thing is a real struggle, but I assure you; bikes are neither "real" nor a "struggle". Everyone has emotional ups and downs riding bikes, and I choose to share mine here because I am no different than you, except that you may feel differently about henley shirts, and I can assure you that the way you feel about henleys is wrong.

In lieu of an obsessive, daily Strava postings, here’s a recap of my week’s activities—there were no achievements.

Tuesday, November 1

Today I was in a foul mood due to no specific cause or event. I was just feeling down. Perhaps it was due to the fact that I’ve been enclosed in my basement for my recent athletic activities—I been riding downstairs since Saturday. I was almost tempted to ride outdoors yesterday, but the prospect of being found dead in rainbow tights after being electrocuted by a downed power line was simply too embarrassing. Plus, it would make for a lousy obituary, in my ideal world, my dream obituary will begin with the sentence "In the end, it required four tigers to finally tear Mr Schmalz away from his bicycle." That is a solid obituary.

Morbid literary fantasies aside, today seemed safe enough for a ride into the world outside my home. I left hoping that I would be able to concoct the magical bodily chemical reaction that a good ride creates to dissolve my disagreeable mood. I was also hoping to surreptitiously surveil the local tree-based carnage, (there’s no better way to gawk than by bicycle—ask any peeping tom—they’ll tell you), and I was in the mood to pedal and gloat over still having power at my house. I pointed my bike towards my beloved Saddle River Bike Path and shoved off.

But the path had seen better days. Branches, limbs, even trees littered the thin asphalt strip, allowing no egress. I was forced off my bike and had to tote it over the toppled trees. I found myself inadvertently "cyclo-crossing" over obstacles, and I must admit I found the experience quite irritating. I left the Bike Path behind and made my way to the open roads. Since I was feeling down, I decided against any structured interval work of any kind. I meandered. I moseyed. I crossed hills I’ve never taken notice of before, and by the time I returned home, my mood had crossed from foul to favorable. That is all I ask of bikes.