Part of the weekend was spent with Tony while he gave my bike a tune-up. I then spent a fair chunk of change buying the accessories necessary to turn it into a commuter bicycle. Tomorrow morning, I will ride it to the Max, take the train to work, loiter for 9 or so hours and then cycle home. The quick route involves taking Sandy Boulevard back to my apartment. Were I to do that, the world's population would briefly drop by one and the Earth would cease to revolve (actually, I'm not sure the Earth will cease to revolve, but I won't be in a position to hear you yell "I told you so").
As I am looking forward to more drinking, debauchery, and conversations with various handwriting experts and/or cryptographers regarding the meaning of the scrawls on the aforementioned piece of paper, I've decided that I will be taking the Marine Drive trail from an undisclosed location near the airport, down to 33rd. From there it's pretty much a straight shot to my apartment. I measured the distance on the map, checked the legend, did the math and realized that it wasn't as far of a drive as I thought. Then I realized I did the math wrong and knitted my brow while redoing the figures. 13 miles. Not as bad as it could be, though. I used to ride 25 miles a day. Of course, I used to be about 50 pounds lighter, too.
After a while of doing riding back from work, I would like to take my bike both ways. I'm told there's a shower at work, but I can't see me pulling a wrinkled dress shirt and slacks out of my backpack. Not very professional. I wonder how others pull it off.