A glance past sliding glass doors finds a shadow stretching across the rooftop of the laundry facility. Its 9:05 and the sun is setting. I could be on my bike right now, threading my way through sagebrush on my way back to town, having completed an hour long post-work ride. Its no wonder I hate winter and its bitter short days. Perhaps if I never knew how great things got in summer...

I woke up this morning to a soft roar outside my window. By the time it repeated itself, I knew hot air balloons were congregating above the city. With new reason to jump out of bed, I walked outside and watched the Energizer Bunny float over my apartment. I wondered whether it was difficult to pilot a balloon shaped like a rabbit playing the drums. It did seem to drop and lurch rather quickly, yet it maintained its leisurely pace in a northward trajectory.

Later in the day, a coworker would question whether or not a b.b. gun would give a hot air balloon pilot any trouble. The question became an opportunity for others to share their expertise regarding hot air balloons; in particular, how the balloons were equipped with vents which could be modulated to produce holes much larger than any hole produced by a b.b. gun. Apparantly, dealing with large releases and influxes of hot air is just a normal part of operating a hot air balloon. This fact did not satisfy the coworker who originally asked the question about the b.b. gun. What about a shotgun, he challenged. This particular coworker-someone who uses the word "like" as, like, every other word-is working on his doctorate.

As fascinated by giant inflatables as I am, I must ask whether anyone else has heard that dogs tend to be deathly afraid of hot air balloons. Upon seeing one, my boss's dog bolted out of the back yard and dissapeared for most of the day; only to be found miles from home, cowering in some bushes nursing his bloody paws (from running around for hours in a panic). This news reminded me that, yes, there is something that will make every living being completely loose it; no matter what species the being is, and no matter how in control that being thinks he/she/it is. Like, I once awoke in some abandoned mine on the other side of Lucky Peak days after having viewed a Fox News segment featuring Ann Coulter.

I'd like to keep typing, but I'm distracted by my own thoughts regarding where I'm going to ride my bike today. With my apartment fairly clean, and most other errands taken care of, I have several hours which could be dedicated to an epic ride of some sort. I keep thinking about the TFR, or "Tough Fucking Ride". The TFR consists of Rocky Canyon Road up and over Aldape Summit, down to Robbie Creek, to Highway 21, up over hilltop, down past the dam, and back home on the greenbelt. Its not really that tough, and I don't know if it really justifies the use of the expletive "fucking". The trip takes no more than 3 hours at the most. Still it is exciting and "epic" in the sense that you essentially circumnavigate a small mountain and travel over a couple tiny summits. Later, when Fern gets off work, I'd be able to go for another ride. I've been off the bike so much the last few weeks, that doubling down today sounds really great. Anyway, I'm sure my readers would rather listen to their own thoughts instead of mine, so I'll end this and start my day's adventure.