The "half century ride,"(aka, or "The Mother of Good Intention")

Two weeks back I spent the weekend in a small town called, "Solvang." It's this amazing Dutch hamlet on the central coast, near Buellton (of Andersen's Split Pea Soup fame). My friend joked that you needed a passport to gain entry, and I think he was only half-kidding. They actually sell wooden shoes there. And not like smooth, Dr. Scholl style shoes-- I mean actual rough-hewn, splintery wooden shoes that need a good sanding. The Dutch are a tough people. Don't be fooled by their flaky pasteries. Those shoes will kill you.

Registered as I was for the Solvang Half Century, I knew I was in for a pretty great ride and a blistered arse in the end. Fifty miles is a long haul and would be my longest ever (I'd done 46 the weekend before), but my saddle issues hadn't changed and I was pretty much dreading the chaffage.

The weather was also a factor. It was freakishly cold out that weekend with storm clouds drifting threateningly overhead. As I lay down that night, images of blisters in delicate places dancing in my head, I secretly hoped for rain.

I awoke to sunshine. Blue skies, some clouds, and still the freakish cold. I mentally bid adieu to my privates, and headed out to face my destiny.

The second I stepped out from the building's overhang, it began to hail. And not just regular hail, but like, small animal-sized hail. It was charming at first, but then, after some 15 minutes, I realized I wasn't headed out on my bike anytime soon.

The fact is, I intended to ride. I intended to get out there, do my best. I intended to perform like no other... so I went wine tasting instead. I mean come on, hail, fear of blisters--whaddaya gunna do?

Proof of the hail, which was later followed by rain. Lots of rain.