I was taking the salmon skin out to the trash—you don't ever want to leave that stuff in the wastebasket inside. The night was blustery and a little damp but the temperature was edging into the mid-50s. After all the snow and ice, it felt almost tropical. I'd done my 90 minutes of high-quality riding in the basement, and that was good. But the air, the barely visible clouds racing across the night sky, the sound of the wind through the trees I couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like heading up to the top of Tabor on a forested path with only a small headlamp to help show the way. Man. I almost laced 'em up right then and there. But instead I came inside and assessed the Achilles. I squeezed the tendon gently: slight pain still there. No run. Not yet. Damn.