Flying.

As you read this, I am happily crammed into a metal tube, winging my way back to my beloved Alaska. My knees are locking up, my neck is cramped, and my back is aching. However, I'm moving in a positive direction. I'm going north.
  
My bike is somewhere below me, sitting mangled in its plastic case after TSA performed their ritual precision misalignments. I'm not worried about that, because my trusty titanium ride will have a well-deserved break and rebuild before it sees pavement in the spring.
  
I'm ready to be home. I miss my wife and children. I miss my dog. I want to be surrounded by the chaos that characterizes what I consider normal. I want to see snow. I want to see mountains. I want to be back where I belong.
  
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't going to miss the free time to do whatever I want like the bachelor I once was. That part was pretty cool. Getting to ride as much or as little as I want with little restriction on either option was something I haven't experienced in quite some time. I got my lady parts squished by some really nice guys, and did some squishing of my own. I got to play at being serious about cycling. Few of us get that chance.
  
However, I prefer my real life, with all of its constraints and limitations, because its just that much better. Doing 15-20 hours a week on the bike sounds great and all, but I'm never going to be a pro cyclist (or even a good one). However, I can be a husband. A dad. A pillow for my lab. Unlike being a professional athlete, I can do those things for life.
  
I'm headed back to normal, and I couldn't be happier.
 

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