heartbroken...
It has been a while, dear reader, since I have updated this - your grimy window into my modest microcosm. I must assure you, I have not been avoiding your prying eyes. My shades have been drawn tight during my period of mourning.
My heart, you see, is broken. There is no more anger; there is no more denial; there are no more black clouds loaded with tension, ready to burst forth with tears. There is just sad, silent acceptance.
My Garmin has been murdered. After a short, but exceedingly rich life, my Edge 305 has been laid to rest; its beauty in display and simplicity in interface slaughtered by wanton carelessness. Reduced to a plastic and PCB brick from a shining beacon of information-overload in a dark, dismal world of unknown gradients and cryptic coordinates.
Not only is the backlight dead, Garmin's blood has run all through her screen.
No longer will I be able to dork out after a ride; learning, as my legs still twitch in a bath of lactic acid, that my heartrate ebbs and flows in concert with the undulating terrain of the Mid-Atlantic. No longer will I be able discern the exact duration of a zone 4 interval. No... no, dear reader, those days have passed. And now I enter an age of murkiness, an anti-renaissance, where I must rely on my body's internal alarms and warnings to ascertain the difficulty of a just-consummated group ride.
Sparing you the details of her grisly demise, I will tell you this. No GPS device, no matter how tough the exoskeleton, can bear the overwhelming force delivered by the closing of a Mazda3 hatchback door. My complete disregard for her safety in such a situation has left me ridden with guilt, bereft of hope, and disillusioned with myself. I only hope that time will heal the wound.
Garmin: as she would have wanted to be remembered.
Thank you for your ears and tender understanding in this, my darkest hour.
My heart, you see, is broken. There is no more anger; there is no more denial; there are no more black clouds loaded with tension, ready to burst forth with tears. There is just sad, silent acceptance.
My Garmin has been murdered. After a short, but exceedingly rich life, my Edge 305 has been laid to rest; its beauty in display and simplicity in interface slaughtered by wanton carelessness. Reduced to a plastic and PCB brick from a shining beacon of information-overload in a dark, dismal world of unknown gradients and cryptic coordinates.
Not only is the backlight dead, Garmin's blood has run all through her screen.No longer will I be able to dork out after a ride; learning, as my legs still twitch in a bath of lactic acid, that my heartrate ebbs and flows in concert with the undulating terrain of the Mid-Atlantic. No longer will I be able discern the exact duration of a zone 4 interval. No... no, dear reader, those days have passed. And now I enter an age of murkiness, an anti-renaissance, where I must rely on my body's internal alarms and warnings to ascertain the difficulty of a just-consummated group ride.
Sparing you the details of her grisly demise, I will tell you this. No GPS device, no matter how tough the exoskeleton, can bear the overwhelming force delivered by the closing of a Mazda3 hatchback door. My complete disregard for her safety in such a situation has left me ridden with guilt, bereft of hope, and disillusioned with myself. I only hope that time will heal the wound.
Garmin: as she would have wanted to be remembered.Labels: call the WAH-mbulance, dorks
posted by robert @ 6:50 AM
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