God my ass hurts: Brooks Day 3, 70 miles down

You know you've made a mess for yourself when you're in so much pain that you feel utterly nauseous and have to slow down to keep from hurling, but in slowing down you only prolong the pain. The familiar ugly waves travel up from your gut to your chest, shoulders and brain and you want to stop, keel over and give up, but the tough guy in you wants to make it home first. A little game you play. Yes, that was the last 5 miles of my ride home tonight. I'll try and blame the nausea it on work, germs, too much exertion recently, but all I know is that my bottom half is making me double over.

Yesterday things seemed to be splended. I put the saddle on Rosemary and we galloped away. (Granted the saddle isn't her type, she'll get the white Selle Italia back soon.) Today, however, my junk seeks revenge. On the ride in I stopped to raise the seat thinking I was putting to much weight back. On the way home I got off to adjust the saddle and point the nose down more since that's what guys do and they know all about painful junk. No help. I get off the bike in my parking lot and would sit on an ice pack if I could bring myself to do it. Maybe I'll take tomorrow off from riding. Maybe I will find an ice pack.