Although yesterday was technically my first day here, a harrowing drive through the steady rain and fog during the earliest of hours, compounded with little sleep over the last twenty-four, saw my Saturday spent napping, eating, and mingling. And so I woke this morning right around sunrise, ate breakfast with my fellow cyclists, and embarked on the Junaluska ride.

It certainly could have been worse; and in retrospect, the toughest mountain to climb my own trepidation regarding riding up mountain and down: a four-month break from the bike does nothing to instill self-confidence.

But ride I did. We began in the drizzle, and set about navigating the now-familiar eight-mile stretch of rolling hills which lead to numerous routes commonly took by the club. Upon reaching the gas station, I felt as though my legs were jelly and my lungs iron. Unable to procure a passable excuse for turning around, I continued onward.

Amazingly, the ensuing descent bolstered my confidence, and steadied my legs, and I was able to navigate to the base of Junaluska, and stick more or less with the pack for all but the two large climbs, which exposed my lack of fitness all too well. And when the day was done, we returned wet and tired, took hot showers, and ate greasy food at a café down the road, while we checked our emails, and worked on our homework.

I plan to retire for the evening soon, but I was able to start Hard-Boiled Wonderland And The End Of The World—which, despite possessing an odd plot, has thus far entertained me—and had some nice conversations with a handful of people regarding math, post-modern literature and art, sculpting, and cycling—to name but a few topics.

Written on the fifteenth of March.