(whatever it is)

Not everything needs to be explained.
Not everything can be.
It is (whatever it is) easier when you accept this.

Timing. Really it was everything. He couldn't begin to count the number of times that his was off, or someone interrupted, or something, some stupid little thing, like a mosquito, or a phone call, or some damned radio announcer would puncture his consciousness and he'd have to turn it off, pick it up, swat it, or something. And by then he'd lost his place. He began to track how bad his timing really was. On a calendar he'd received as a gift from friends, which featured scenes in Tuscany, he would make tick marks, five at a time, in each day's block, of interruptions that had fully derailed him in his work. The month of San Gimignano averaged eleven a day. Which might not seem like much to some, but when he looked at the array of blocks littered with cross-hatches beneath the green and blue and stone of this medieval haven, he knew something had to be done. A change of venue, a retreat, a habit broken, or reformed, but something needed to change. And soon.

The ride in:           6'C Wind W 15 ks
The ride home:   14'C Wind NE 15 ks