I am going to stop following my lovely bride as she moves her bicycle about town. She wants to do challenging things like “Hills.”

So we did an hour of that this afternoon. Take two of the biggest hills in town — “Big” being relative, of course, we live at the place where geographers would say the upland begins to give way to the coastal plain. So the hills are small, but we are in the sweet spot: be on the beach in a few hours, be far enough away from the water to be safe … from the water — and ride them. Get to the top, turn around and drift down. Turn around and ride up them.

Did this for an hour, uttering things in different languages that I didn’t realize I could say. Several more weeks of this and I might be able to do something better than just drag myself over a hill.

Drag is a great word for riding a bicycle. Sometimes the bike drags you along. Sometimes you’re doing everything you can to get from here to there, or emptying your mind so that nothing in it prohibits you from getting from here to there. Drag is a great word. But it wasn’t the proper word to describe my third trip up the second hill. It really needs a full phrase rather than a simple word.

“Avoiding falling over from the combined effects of gravity, friction and inertial mass” would have been more appropriate.

But a lovely, sunny, slightly coolish day to ride for an hour. Sadly the total elevation gained was nothing to brag about, and I’ve already spent four paragraphs on this.

Did work. I wrote things. Emailed people, solved problems, caused other ones. I fleshed out lesson plans, assignments and a few readings. I have some more of those to do.

I did research. I held the cat.

I wrote a letter of recommendation. I like these; the students that ask for them manage to be great students and I’m happy to say “He is a young man of fine character” or “I give her my full recommendation.” Great students deserve the kudos.

Also wrote a letter, an honest to goodness piece of correspondence. I typed it, because I like the recipient and I wouldn’t wish my handwriting upon her. She is an elderly lady that my mother semi-adopted, one of those sweet grandmotherly types you’d like to hug up and squeeze and she wouldn’t complain about the pressure because, you know, hugs. Figured I’d send her a little note, realized I don’t have much to say — but you knew that already, right? — made a resolution to do interesting things and then just summed up January. Play with the font and size for longer than necessary — as is my right — printed it and folded it up in an envelope.

Now, stamps. They still make those, right? He said in that coy way that suggests his habits and patterns have yielded to an ignorance which surpasses the need for understanding an ancient device thereby rendering it culturally irrelevant. There are stamps around here somewhere. At least you don’t have to lick them anymore, and for that I say the USPS should get whatever subsidy they want. The downside is that you can’t buy stamps at many post offices anymore, we get ours at the grocery store of all places, so I say we take away every subsidy the USPS has ever been granted.

I think I’ve just taken a step toward solving the nation’s financial problems.

I dropped off a prescription in the drop off line at the pharmacy. They have two lanes for cars. “Full service” and “Drop off only.” There was one car in the drop off lane and three on the full service side. No brainer. Four cars passed through the full service line while I waited for the one to finish in the drop off only lane.

But there was a nice lady on the other end of the magical speaker when I finally made it there. Put your date of birth and phone number on the script. Drop it in the magical drug provider tube, press send. (Note to self, the pharmacy tube system does not have the plastic container like banks use. Also, they do not hand out suckers.) The pleasant voice said she had the doctor’s note.

Would you like to wait?

No.

Would you like me to text you at this number when your prescription is filled?

Yes, that would be great.

OK, will do and thanks.

Ninety minutes later my phone buzzed. Someone in a pharmacy 1.5 miles away had counted out pills and put them in a plastic bottle and placed that in a paper bag and stapled on a little page of information and directions and it was all ready for me to pick up any time. And I haven’t seen anyone.

What a world we live in.

Visited the grocery store for potato salad purposes. We made ribs tonight, had a guest and I had to pick up a side item. I wandered around looking at cans of things, bags of things and boxes of things.

For no reason other than that I was standing there, here is a picture of the tea section:

On the top left there is a Candy Cane Lane tea, which sounds far better than the green tea it actually is. There’s Black Cherry Berry and Country Peach Passion (The neighbors WILL talk about that one.) There are samplers and the regional and national brands. They show off the tea, delicious and mouth-watering in those carefully focus grouped and air brushed photos of tea pitchers.

Some of those generics are steeping in pots, so you can’t see their shame.

I love tea. We have a cabinet full of the stuff. We just accumulate it somehow. Really, the store should visit us to keep their tea aisle stocked. I even used it once in a science experiment in high school, dropping an egg from great height. Tea leaves, if you didn’t know, are a great insulator. Arthur C. Clarke taught me that in Ghost from the Grand Banks, a story which should have culminated in 2012. (We’re now out-pacing near-future science fiction, think about that.) My egg survived the drop, by the way. Seems tea leaves can do other things, too. Tea leaves, they are multipurpose.

Anyway. Potato salad, babyback ribs for dinner, company for the evening, seconds because of the hills. Had a great time just sitting around the dining room table telling stories. Lovely way to end a day. Helped rest the legs, too.

There’s a new picture on the Tumblr today, and more on Twitter. Do check them out, if you like. Now, to go read.