Ow. My aching asshole.
Which, as opening lines go, occupies the same dubious realm as clickbait. However, my discomfort does not stem from any Leviticus censored activity, but rather from something more mundane. And self inflicted.
I uncoupled my mountain bike from its wall mount, scrubbed it down (it was still dirty and muddy from the last time I’d used it) [BAD MOUNTAIN BIKE OWNER] and then took it for a short 10mi* sojourn along the river to the farmers market and back.
*For some reason my apple watch measures my runs in km, but my bike rides in miles. A problem likely solvable through Google. But it doesn’t worry me, I am multi-mensurational. (Which I initially wrote as menstruation…al which is a entirely different form of cycle) Joey takes a moment to laugh at his own joke
At 6pm last night I took my bike out on the road. But came back after a brief and harrowing 5mi. Motor vehicle traffic was heavy and I wasn’t having a good time dodging cars and trying not to die. I’ve always been in awe of NYC bike commuters and couriers who manage to circumnavigate their way through traffic without injury or fatality. That sort of effortless motion is NOT me. In fact after my display (or rather lack thereof) of technical proficiency I’ve decided that perhaps I should rather stick to lonely, off-road trails where the chances of impacting a BMW at speed are less likely.
Today, I’m a bit saddle sore. I haven’t used my bike in about a year. Work, child rearing… insert other vaguely lame excuses here.
This sudden burst of activity all started last week… Wednesday (I think). When my Fitbit Surge decided to go spastic. I tried hard rebooting it (several times) but it just wouldn’t unfuck itself. I’ve been a long and loyal Fitbitter… since way back, when the only feature on an otherwise black piece of malleable plastic was five tiny blue lights. Unfortunately Fitbits super unhelpful technical support riled me up to such a degree that I tramped off to the istore in a huff to go buy an Apple watch in protest of their indifference.
My wife convinced me to try her Apple watch for a week first, before committing myself to an Apple. Which is probably a good thing since initially I hated it. The app was stupid and felt super basic somehow when compared to Fitbits really stellar and much prettier app. And the battery life on the Apple was rubbish. And because it had to charge it didn’t measure my sleep patterns… and… it had an activity ring for standing up (really?)… and… it wanted me to take time out to breathe deeply…
Generally I was just immensely hostile to the whole process. But now I hated Fitbit… so I was stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard-place. For about a half a day I went on this ‘I-don’t-need-to-empirically-track-all-the-things-I-do’ crusade. But it turns out I do. I REALLY do. In fact I started to feel anxious when staring down the barrel of a data-less, unmeasured future.
So I gritted my teeth and struggled through my first world problem. And then, weirdly, the Apple watch started growing on me. Am I really so shallow that I can be so easily swayed and entertained by completing little activity circles and getting little green activity dots?
Turns out… I am.
Also the achievements on the Apple watch are lame. And fugly. (Can’t remember if I mentioned that in my previous tirade of anti) But… as it turns out I am super susceptible to incredibly stupid achievement trophies. If you’re ever wondering what sort of moron would be motivated by these stupid awards… the answer, is me.
You mean I get a play-play, pretend, little colored token for completing an eight day moving streak? I am there… like a bear. In fact, I am almost embarrassed by this sort of behaviour…. if it weren’t for my 200% calorie badge which I can now laude over people. I’m not entirely sure WHICH people exactly, but that seems like a problem for another blog post.
And so, because my Apple watch would give me a trophy for going on a bike ride… I went on a bike ride. And that is the long winded, round about story on why my ass is sore. Fucken Steve Jobs.
I also blame boy-scouts. And playstation. So Baden Powell and Ken Kutaragi. Since we’re blaming founders. Fuck you guys.