In solidarity with the locked out postal workers, my legs and Misty's legs decided to protest for a day of rest after six straight days of cycling. We pulled into Miranda at 12:30 pm since even pedaling on an apparently flat road felt like going uphill. We checked into a cottage, unloaded and walked around, talked photography, ate, hand-washed laundry, visited Kolbys woodworks next door, ate again, read novels, ate again and drank beer while watching CSI Las Vegas.
Tomorrow, we hit the hills because we have to. Misty describes the feeling she had about the challenge ahead as that exam you've heard about and dread, except that this is worse because it's a self-inflicted tribulation and there's nothing much you can do to prepare. While she explains this, I am eating the hottest plate of wings I have ever had to endure. I bring to her attention that if I can finish these painfully hot wings, I can ride up those hills tomorrow, and for the next three days after that. I also mention that the fire poo I will have will also be pretty painful. Through the tears in my eyes, I see her almost choking on her mouthful of water from laughing.
BTW, during dinner I overheard from the adjacent table a young American guy describing in great detail and bravado his army recruit physical exam. He got really lively when he got to the part where he was playing around with something that looked like a cross between a duck bill and a pistol. I stopped chewing so I could hear this story about his first meeting with a speculum, then quickly resumed chewing when he went on to talk about his rectal exam.
Janius Tsang
