Well, the snow is finally melting and the roads are more or less clear. Whitey the Snow Spaniel has faded and run off down the gutter, though as I write, it's Sunday afternoon and our 40% chance of showers is pouring from the sky in the form of chicken feather snow flakes. Fortunately for the alert road rider, both Saturday and Sunday offered decent windows of opportunity to get in a ride. I joined friends to ride some hilly miles out west on Saturday and found myself to be in embarrassingly poor shape, stark proof that I really needed to be riding more! It was not a "wake-to-music" kind of alarm, but a harsh buzzer of the most offensive motel alarm clock variety. I did some quick calculations as I rode alone back to my car, having dropped off of the group and cut short my ride (they offered to slow the pace, but I have a hard time accepting those offers. No legs, but a small bit of pride!), and determined that I've gone though more cookies than road miles in the last couple of weeks. The feeling is somewhat like the feeling of remorse that can follow a few too many beers, except that it takes longer to work through. I've been told that I'd feel better about myself if I rode with a crowd other than a bunch of full-time-training 10-to-20-year-younger some-kind-of-racing marathon-running athlete types, but I like them in spite of their aforementioned flaws.