Consensual torture.

Tonight I dug through the trunk of my car to pull out my bike helmet. It's yellow, I like it. Somewhere under another box and in between a pair of shoes, I found my under-the-saddle pack, where I keep my tire repair kit and gloves.

Tomorrow, I'm taking my road bike out for a spin. Which is funny. Funny like I say "spin," but I mean "35-mile ride."

THIRTY-FIVE MILES.

There is a good chance I'm a moron. Especially after the complete and total horrendous run I had tonight. I intended to run six miles. Fortunately, I did actually travel six miles, but only ran five of them. And barely.

I felt like crap.

So what better way to make up for it? I KNOW. Ride 35 miles on my bike.

I'm joining Erin, Chief of Stuff and the rest of her Ironman gang for a morning ride. "Oh, just a nice and easy 35 miles," they say.

Oh? Is that right? Whimper.

I'll admit I'm a bit excited, though. I haven't been on my bike since fall, and man, I loved those days.

So we'll see how it goes. Here's to hoping I don't pop a tire. Or, you know, break a sweat.