Two days ago, I got back from my tour of a route like no other route I've seen in the annals of bike touring journalism, but that's not to say it was a spectacular international route or anything like that, yet I still managed to have fun like no other bike tourist has had fun before, while trying to write better words, sentences and paragraphs than I have in the past, while at the same time going back to my previous practice of taking fewer pictures because, really, who even cares about my pictures, or if they do, remembers them more than a minute after seeing them, and furthermore, considering how it might take from a couple of seconds to a couple minutes to upload a picture from my phone to the journal--depending on the strength of the wifi or data signal--I could have written anywhere from 10 to 100 words, which are more fun for me anyway, especially when the words give me more opportunities to brag about what I see, what I'm doing, how I'm doing it, how I worship at the Church of the Great Outdoors, how I worship at the altar of paper maps and minimal technology--within reason--and a host of other things I constantly brag about in my journals and, of course, there is my constant effort to go to extremes in order to set up a stupid joke and to think up freaky ways to challenge my aging mind and to defy my aging body in order to fulfill my goal of making this "a bike tour like no bike tour in bike touring history" without coming off as being the pretentious jackass everybody, including me, knows I am, and I don't deny it, even if it means all of the discerning readers who dislike pretentious jackassery decide to tune out and find a better journal to read, which I wouldn't blame them for because I, too, am critical of pretentiousness as it seems so fake and unbecoming of a guy like me who claims to be a serious, Pulitzer Prize worthy bike touring journalist, yet stoops to write such stream-of-consciousness drivel regarding this minor adventure with Son of Bing Bong and G-2.

WHEW!