Dear Diary,
Today I rode my brother-in-law's ancient, unforgivably red Bianchi eighteen-speed racing bike which he loaned me in anticipation of a triathlon and which I used previously in a sprint triathlon. (I scored 270 out of 650. I accepted masochism unconditionally -- that day.)
By the by, I acquired a swanky, oddly-comported "trainer" apparatus enabling the bike's conversion into a cumbersome, unquiet, indoor torture device. Aside from the bent derailer's perpetual clicking noises (nice echoes in a one-bedroom apartment with hardwood floors -- no area rug -- twelve-foot ceilings, etc.) and the boredom, this reconfiguration brings me unlimited amounts of physical pain, the focus of which I notice channeling through my coccyx. My coccyx. I am not an idiot. I wear marginally-fashionable, expensive, well-padded biking shorts with a brand name and a less-fashionable, brand-named, specialized biking undergarment. That said, after six dutiful rides, I'm no less crippled. I sit a lot. I enjoy sitting (a lot). John Cleese reportedly listed his hobbies once as "gluttony, sloth." I am not John Cleese, but apparently I'm tangentially related at least insofar as our hobbies go. This "trainer" hindrance is intolerable. As a former, sadistic colleague of mine once slowly said through his wry smile, after hearing I needed a molar pulled, "you'll get used to it."
If these are my problems, things could probably be worse.
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