Those three words you never want to hear your riding buddy say. The dreaded siren's call, going back to foot travel, it's like seeing a toe tag on his cold, stiff corpse.
Still, time together in the woods is better than not, and the basic sense I get from exercise scientists with something to lose from being wrong about running is this: it'll keep your old man bones from going brittle and breaking under your own corpulence.
So once/week or so, I've been running.
The blue ridge school MTB race is Saturday morning. As a $25 entry to a burly, muddy, rock-infested trail race with no prizes (all cash goes to World Bike Relief), one might summarize it as cheap, dirty, and purely for the glory.
Like your mom.
Bike form not withstanding, I'm hoping
In short, I'm labeling myself here as the odds-on favorite not to break my arm on Saturday, and I recommend you to place your bets accordingly.
Gonna be a big one.
Up, up, up.