I don't know how this happens, but I find myself registered for races that can best be described as "masochistic." I don't sign myself up. C will call me, typically in the middle of the day, while he's Internet searching "the world's most masochistic races" and "ways to permanently alter your endocrine system" during his video conferences, and in a chipper voice, announce, "Guess what race I just registered us for!"I think this caused me to genuinely hate him when we were in our trail running race phase, but now that we're back to a domain I enjoy much more, cycling, he doesn't suck quite as bad. But he definitely doesn't occupy my top spot after these phone calls.
Tonight, we're driving to South Carolina for a 100k mt. bike race. FTW? That's what I said. 100k is a supercrazylongtime to be perched atop a heavy bike with suspension.
I think maybe this is a tactic to get me to stay a few more weeks: He figures if I permanently disfigure my ass and ability to sit comfortably, I won't be as inclined to jump in my car and drive across the country next week.
He doesn't know me very well.