A few of us from the club drove about an hour and a half to the nearby Pawpaw Festival which presents a 55-mile ride every year. I hadn't done this one before, and from the location I was expecting killer hills. For some bizarre reason I still felt it necessary to run intervals on Friday and then drink two glasses of red wine with dinner Friday night.

As it turned out, the ride was scenic, there were a handful of real hills, but most of it stuck to flatter roads and shallower grades. Which was good, because if it'd been brutal, the way my legs felt I'd have been crying. I've been riding close to home all summer long, so a change of scenery was nice.

DH, who doesn't ride, drove down to take in the festival for the afternoon. In the discombobulation transferring my stuff from my friends' car to ours, I lost my heart rate strap, and even though we retraced our steps several times, I couldn't find it. I gave up and started drinking the pawpaw beer and eating pawpaw pastries. Before too long I had a call that someone had turned my strap in to lost and found, so it's all good.