Turkeys, but not the kind you eat

God, remember the ’70s? When calling someone “turkey” was a common epithet? How bizarre.

Nice bike rides this weekend. Did you know that there are still some places, and apparently Poestenkill is one, where the highway department’s idea of “repaving” involves laying down a boatload of hot tar and then throwing gravel down on top. Let cool, scrape off the loose gravel and move on down the road (there’s about a 90% reuse rate, there). Hadn’t seen this since I lived in Scotia, but there it was, on what was until now my favorite ride of the summer. Acres and acres of loose gravel, and I could even deal with that, but it’s on a wicked hill, and the descent would just be deadly. So I went as far as reason would allow and turned back. What brought us to the title was that I thought, “I’d like to offer a big turkey dinner to every single person who slowed down as they passed me on this road, so as not to spray me with gravel.” Number of turkeys I need: zero. In fact, an even half of the drivers sped the f up, just to kick up even more gravel at me. Turkeys.

Conditions were favorable, if a bit cold yesterday. It’s August, and the high got up around 65. Pull the sleeves up, pull the sleeves down – one of those rides. But hardly any cars, and with a good tailwind on a long clear downhill, I got up to a record speed of 74 km/h. Let’s see, in old money (as Phil Liggett says), that’s . . . carry the 1, um . . . well, better not say, my spouse might not approve. Oh, okay: 46 mph. I was bookin’, baby! New headset means I don’t have to worry the front end is going to come apart. Today, a windier ride off in the other direction, a few kilometers less available in my legs, but a nice ride nonetheless.

Otherwise, today was spent getting last weekend off the tent and the shelter. Clay everywhere, baby. Used up all the last of the Tekwash, but I got it all mostly clean. The footprint (ground cloth) will never be the same, but that’s what it’s for.