I suddenly remember the utility of training for Spring Break, by way of my tender underside. Too graphic, perhaps, for the casual reader, but it is a remark that must be made.

I am sitting in my bedroom right now, listening to the rowdiest of our three cabins prematurely celebrating St. Patrick's Day—one consequence of an inescapably large climb on Wednesday. My legs are tired, more so than yesterday, after our ride today proved to be an exercise in false hopes and poorly-given directions.

We set out to undertake a moderate climb to the entrance to an old fire road, named "711" (seven-eleven), which we would ascend, briefly descend, and then descend down a better-paved road winding down the mountain. Unfortunately, the directions we followed failed to mention one crucial turn, which led us to first climb the mountain, then climb the other side of 711, and finally descend down a twisting, largely unpaved stretch which we had intended to climb from the outset.

Rain fell occasionally during the ride, but hardest during our final stretch down Highway 19 on the way back to the cabin. Nevertheless, and despite leg fatigue much greater than anticipated, we adopted a strong pace through the pelting rain and made it back in a timely fashion to shower and devour a late lunch.

Tomorrow will be a relaxed ride: the original Jolly Trolley, which will make its merry way along fifty miles of rolling hills and only a couple of short climbs; and will see our group singing songs and enjoying the forecasted 68°F sunny weather. I hear that the weather in Wisconsin has trumped our dismal days here—but it would appear the tables have turned.

* Written on the sixteenth of March.