I wake up in my own bed. Everything is familiar. But at the same time, strange. And you may ask yourself, “how did I get here?” I need food. Suddenly, I’m feeling the wind in my face as I’m moving along at 12 mph… in a 1997 Jeep Wrangler. This 10 miles per gallon carbon footprint is really setting me up for another bike tour, I guess. Cars behind me beep and yell at me. Fuck you in your fucking asshole, asshole. Maybe tomorrow I’ll just keep riding and go to Toronto. I haven’t pulled my remaining days off the work schedule, yet. Yeah… umm… maybe not, other various appointments are already piling up into the week. Hashtag fivejobproblems. I don’t want to stop riding. Or writing. But the two go hand in hand. And I have siding to tear off and then re-side. And a roof to fabricate. And I crawlspace to insulate. And…

Butt.

I’m certainly not going to wait another 9 years for a fresh 1,000-3,000 mile tour through the USA experience. Western Express? Lake Ontario? Pacific Coast? I might just ride the Natchez Trace again this fall – passport stamps be damned.

Butt.

My body is ready to go back to bed and it’s only noon. I’m currently stuck in line waiting to buy all these groceries. The lady ahead of me has been arguing for over 10 minutes about something that ends up saving her $3. Fuck. I think I left my spare time machine at the shop or something; space and time have once again got their fuzzy cuffs on me, so I can’t tell what’s what. I can deduce that regular non bike tour world kinda sucks ass if I’m being honest. Albert King’s Born Under A Bad Sign reverberates through my feeble cranium. At least it’s finally summer time in Western New York. Maybe some of the friends of just made the last few weeks will come up and visit. Maybe I can live vicariously through cyclists riding through Buffalo. I’m gonna need to start planning the next ride soon, though. Suggestions welcome.