No two ways about it: I’m slow.
I’m slow to rise and slow to read. Slow to write, slow to edit, and even slower to delete what doesn’t fit. I’m slow over coffee, and slow in conversation. I’m slow to adapt and slow to adopt.
My favorite bit of musical notation is the fermata, the bird’s eye peeking over the top of the staff that signals me to take my time with a note or, even better, a rest.
Slow? I’ve taken decades to reach six feet tall, and I’m not there yet.
Decades.
I’d like to write I’m slow to anger, but I’m not that slow. I wish I was—idiots don’t tend to adopt my hasty instructions. It’s pretty obvious I need to slow down and enunciate.
Then there’s my cadence. It’s been faster, that’s for sure. When I get back from a ride, the GPS usually reports my pedals traveled an average of 72 to 75 rpms.
Unless I’m riding my fixed-gear bike like I am today.
Three-quarters of a mile from home, I descend a hill that requires a decision. I can’t coast, so am I going to push back at the pedals to keep my cadence manageable, or let my feet spin as fast as the drivetrain is inclined to take them?
Remember, on a geared bike my average cadence is 75, tops.
I decide to let gravity take the lead, and I hit 135 rpm (26 mph) at the bottom of the hill. Twenty seconds later, my cadence drops to 35 rpm (8 mph) as I climb the rise over the BSNF tracks.
I lose 100 rpm, and I’m still pedaling.
Pedaling slowly, but pedaling.
April 29, 12.6 miles plus 1.
16incheswestofpeoria 
Fermataboutit