Slug

I heard of a study the other day setting out the inverse relationship between temperature and productivity. Supposedly for every degree higher in average temperature, a geographical area will have 3.5% less in economic output. By this measure, Houston should be draining the nation's economy rather than powering it, for we have had the most brutal summer since I moved here 15 years ago.

Every morning when we awake, it is 80 degrees or very nearly. There is dew on the grass because the humidity is even higher than the temperature. The Garmin 305 finally and completely gave up the ghost, and so all the training feels artificial, i.e., with no numbers to upload, the training really never happened--notwithstanding the persistent fatigue and dehydration of just existing in the Bayou City. With no race in the immediate future, few if any friends really stoked about getting out in this weather, and no numbers to motivate me, this past two weeks has been very unmotivated. Times and distances have been completed, but it is all very pedestrian.

Usually, I will have had my sojourn to the mountains by this time of the summer, the better to cool my freakishly large brain and find again some reason to continue on commuting to my air conditioned box in the sky where I organize electrons into words and sentences and paragraphs designed to demonstrate the truth and justice of a client's position. This year, however, I have been delayed. The month of July has been a doldrums just waiting for that day to arrive.

Mrs. Greyhound left for the mountains in early July, and so add the training doldrums and the heat and the job to an empty house. I now know why unmarried men die sooner than married men. With no one here to motivate my better nature, all I want to do is eat bad food and drink alcohol while the clutter mounts up on every side. Again, it is a real challenge just to "get up and do what needs to be done."

And then, of course, the blogging. No blogging to speak of because who wants to hear "woe is me" from me? Not me. Not you either, I suspect.

But at least there is the tour. Although this year's route left a lot to be desired through the first two weeks, Phil and Paul are my soundtrack to July. I am even writing this in a posh, British accent whilst I dream of climbing my own alp. I arrive 9000 feet above sea level on Wednesday and Delilah, my road bike, arrives Thursday. I want to be dancing on the pedals not long after that.

And I want to be cold again. I want to sit outside in the evening with a hot drink or perhaps a good whiskey as the setting sun paints blue shadows across Peak 9. Maybe it will even rain. And as the light grows short and the shadows long, the air will chill. You can see your breath and know for certain that you're alive.

Wish you were here.