The Lure

 I didn't notice any of those birds that lure you away from their nest by running along the ground ten to fifteen feet ahead of you. They'll run a bit, stop and turn to make sure you're still following, run a bit again, stop and repeat. They follow the pattern just long enough, until they are satisfied that you are no longer a threat to their hidden nest. Then and only then do they fly away. They're lures.

I didn't need any kind of a lure to get out and ride today. Yesterday's easy road bike spin to the coast demanded a follow-up, and that is kind of what watching Kristin Faulkner win the Olympic road race was, a lure, cast out, and moving me forward towards it. I watched the thermometer reading fluctuate between 96, 97, 98, saw a bunch of crows sitting around with their beaks agape, and thought, yeah, alright, when I see 99 that will be the signal to start the downward run for home. Unfortunately [?] a nice shady stretch around the pits sent the temperature plummeting back to 96 and I had to start all over again. Finally I noticed the 99, a reading that was followed a few minutes later by 101. Well, what do you expect? It is August, the dogs-laying-around-on-the-woodlike-flooring days. Because it is too hot for them to do much else.