I’m bitter. So, so bitter.
So as we all know by now, the thing I hate more than
ANYTHING – well, in addition to those stupidly invasive morning glories and
Japanese knotweed and thorny blackberries and FINE THERE ARE A LOT OF THINGS I
HATE – but at least on my bike rides, wind is enemy #1. Taking top place
in Miss Tasha’s Hierarchy of Cycling Suckiness, far and away the worst. The worst.
Because it’s unrelenting and sneaky and shifting and diabolical. Unlike, say, a
hill. Where you see it coming, you know it’ll suck and it might go on forever,
but eventually it’ll end. Wind has no such decency. It just gets worse
and worse until you’re being blown in to traffic or off the road or crawling
along at a snail’s pace until you’re screaming FUCK YOU into the ether and no
one hears it because your words are snatched away by that damn wind.
Anyway, where was I?
Before I set out on yesterday morning’s ride, I meticulously
and diligently and fanatically and obsessively checked the weather.com
forecast, paying attention only to the wind. Temps, ech, whatever. But WIND.
Speed and direction, of paramount importance! Weather.com claims (CLAIMS) that
there’ll be mild wind from the east and north in the morning, which means
headwind then tailwind, and then when I’m headed back, the wind will shift so
that it’s from the south, and I get a tailwind on the way back.
I’m skeptical.
As it turns out, I’m skeptical for good fucking reason,
because needless to say, this does not happen. Coming back I get a massive headwind from
the north and west, and the westerly portion is so bad that I look slightly
drunk, being blown hither and yon on the road. Cue aforementioned screaming.
Cue rage. Cue bitterness. Of course when I get back I note that I wasn’t
imagining the 20 mph winds, as there’s a “weather warning” for Burns, with
“forest fire warnings due to dry conditions and gusty winds.” Fuck. It. All.
Oh, what’s that? You thought my bitterness would be directed
at the Hot Cowboy fail? Fact is, I knew that was a long shot. I long ago
accepted that things just….don’t work out for me. That if there are 2 ways
things can go and one of them is the bad way, the bad way is always the one
that will happen. Nope, not even garden-variety good luck for me. Then you have
the other shitshows, from cancer to brain injury to stupid pointless IVF that
did nothing more than suck away all my savings and of course it didn’t work
because why the fuck would it? So yeah, a Hot Cowboy meetcute? Nah.
I consider myself a reasonably attractive person, with a
Apparently so.
Last night I decided to head to a local bar, Sketchy Pastimes
or something like that, which is shocking in and of itself because other than
during RAGBRAI, I can’t recall the last time I went to a bar. But when in Rome
and all that – and Snacktivist friend Emily had told me this place is
practically an institution and that I should check it out. So, off I went. All that stuff people say about not wanting
to go places by themselves? Yeah, I don’t give a fuck.
Now, as my luck would have it, this place is empty on a
Saturday night. Apparently there’s a wedding or golf convention or whatever
going on and that’s where everyone in town is. #becauseofocourse Now, the two people who ARE there do
appreciate my pictures of rage cows, and the bartenders are lovely and they
carry Angry Orchard which is a fine cider if I do say so myself. But still, in
what world do you go to a bar on a Saturday night in a small town and there is NO ONE there?
Welcome to TashaWorld.
I apparently watched Urban Cowboy a few too many times as an impressionable youth, as in that movie there are Hot Cowboys raining down like confetti in every scene. LIES. ALL LIES. Clearly what I need are some wingwomen, to which I say,
RAGBRAI Morgan, where are you??
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