Five Pounds and Crusty.

I got back from the other day's ride beat down. Hurricane Matthew-influenced winds were channeled down the open roads into demoralizing headwinds. I downed bottle out of bottle to refill the liquid streaming from my body as I fought to maintain some sort of forward progress. By the time I reached some semblance of shelter from the onslaught on the tree-lined side roads, I had pretty much emptied the tank.
The ride became less fun and shifted to an obligation as the strength left my legs.
I held my breath each time I rode past roadkill slowly cooking in the sun. Sometimes I wouldn't see it in time, instead trapping the taste of carrion in my nose and mouth, which enhanced the whole experience.
I turned down roads I'd never explored before. Some led where I thought they should, and others didn't. Without mountains to navigate by and the sun directly overhead, I only had a vague idea of which direction I was headed, not that I had any particular place to be or any real schedule. The ride went where the ride went and ended whenever it ended.
Eventually my fun meter pegged and I was on familiar roads. I headed home after stopping at a gas station for more water and a Coke, which have become an integral part of my longer rides lately. My legs ached.
A few miles from home I noticed my mesh backs of my gloves had a white border of salt around the sweat soaked material that slowly grew. The rest of my kit was similarly crusty.
I'd weighed myself before I left for the ride. Three and a half hours later I weighed myself again. Despite doing my best to counteract dehydration, obviously I failed. I weighed over five pounds less.
Three and a half hours equals five pounds today. 
I only wish actual weight loss was that quick.


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