Obsession

You would think that by now I would be able to recognize the warning signs of a creeping obsession before it’s too late — I’ve been through enough of them in my life — but man, when you’re in the grip of an obsession, there’s just no getting out of it. And so it is with reluctance that I admit that last night, having done my stretching and situps and so on, I sat on the couch watching the tale end of the Giro (a tough mountain stage, but nothing like today’s will be) and reached down to the magazine pile for something to peruse while the race went on. I started out looking at a Victoria’s Secret catalog, something I haven’t even cracked open in a very very long time, and after 4 or 5 flips through, I put it down and picked up the Performance bike parts catalog. It was more exciting and interesting to me. Either this signals a new level of maturity or a pathetic cry for help. You decide. But I’ve got a terrific jones for some cone wrenches and a deep desire to rebuild my hubs this weekend.