I'm especially wary about commutes the day after I fix a flat tire. This relates to my long history, which hopefully is now ancient, of not being especially good at fixing flats and doing a half-ass job of it. You know, not doing the basics, like fully diagnosing the reason behind the flat and taking steps to address it. I fully believe that many flats are simply ordained by the Universe and there's nothing you can do to stop them, but repeat-flats, those are made by man and often made from a combination of laziness and ineptitude. And repeat-flats tend not to take too long to appear.
Thankfully one didn't. The morning ride was flat-free, as was the one home. The bike rode well and without wobble. I didn't feel spry, but that's ok- it's just a commute and I'll get another one tomorrow. Two if I don't get a flat on the first one.
I love the little inclines. Everyone knows about the hills. Hills are blunt and you know about them right away, but the little inclines you might find (there's one on the east side of the Ellington Bridge before the stop light at Adams Mill, for example) are subtle and charming and you have to coax them out of their shells a little before you can really get to know them and meet them. You learn about the little inclines a little more reach day and they reveal themselves slowly over time and you eventually come to think of them as flat, but you know, lurking underneath, that they've been little inclines the entire time.
On the way home, I cut down Biltmore and then 19th, which if not for the crossing at Columbia, would be a better way to get home than 18th, but I wasn't going home. I turned right on Florida and then crossed the street and rode down the sidewalk to Glen's, where I folded the bike, left it outside, and went inside and ordered a beer. The beer was cold. The weather was hot. The picnic table was wood. The description of it all was terse. And declarative.
After that, it was a couple blocks down S and I was home. I forgot to go to the store.