Asthe sky is also continuing to intermittently pour out buckets of water in sudden torrential bursts, even though no work was completed, the day gets a "W" because of weather.

The massage I went for after dinner—despite costing more than I felt it should and despite a masseuse who kept accidentally-on-purpose rubbing herself against me in ways that had me half caught between asking "is this a lesbian come-on?" and "does she do this with every customer?"—had left my thumb (and all the associated knots running up my arm) feeling much better so, in addition to a bike shop visit, I put getting a massage somewhere else on my day's itinerary.

Although I don't particularly enjoy the steeply downhill ride to where the bike shop is located inside the city proper instead of on the outskirts near the bypass road, I am comforted that an inspection of my ham-handed attempt to tweak my brakes indicates that the lack of stopping power is actually a total lack of remaining brake shoe compound and not actually my incompetence.

Given a pair of new brake pads for free on account of how touring cyclists encourage people to take up cycling as a hobby, I will waste this bit of kismet by losing my room key somewhere between the bike shop and the return to the hotel at a replacement cost identical to what the brake pads would have been if I had been charged.

This day's massage, although it includes taking my shirt off and getting the oil rub that, until recently, was usually a code word for happy endings¹, did not include anyone's hand somehow cupping anyone else's breast². It also cost less and was in a nicer looking location.

Then a random dinner that I remember nothing about beyond their incredulousness that I Didn't Want Rice and back to the hotel.

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¹ The worst part of unintentionally finding this out from a masseur that I used to regularly go to is that he was orders of magnitude better at regular massage.

² My hand, not my breast