quiet along the shore of Puddingstone this evening
tall trees and long shadows
I did not discover that mythic Escher downhill - perpetual, not to mention never-ending. The local supplier failed me this month, so no extra energy was to be summoned from my legs. Wait, what? [throat clearing sound] Moving on; I just was not quite up to drafting that bus along Bonita. My wind-chapped face and red wind-blown eyes suggest that the wind was, most certainly, not at my back. Yet there it was - the little screen telling me I had picked up an extra two and a half miles per hour at the end of the evening ride.
I may find my way back to racing, yet.
I shaved off my mustache. Yes, no longer mustachioed.
Could it be, I wondered?
And so I conducted a highly scientific experiment, comparing stats from two comparatively similar rides, each ridden weeks apart, one with mustache, and one without. The stats don't lie; other things might, but not the stats. Two and half miles per hour.
someone left this nice directional arrow; it came in handy pointing to where the mustache was.