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.
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.