Urggh, OR why Sunday, though not a day of rest, is not a day of work (#SFWApro)

Sundays, TYG and I like to go bicycling.
We’ve done this off and on for several years, courtesy of the American Tobacco Trail. Back in our old house, we’d drive to one end or other of the trail and set out. By the time we moved, I think we’d gotten up to 16 miles (the full round trip plus one side spur).
Earlier this year, they opened a bridge across I-40 connecting “our” stretch of trail with the stretch the other side of the highway. Irresistibly, we have bicycled off into what’s for us a new and unknown region, and we love it. It’s so out in the boonies you can go several minutes without hearing a car.
And with more distance to travel, we’ve gone further and further. Last month, we made it up to 25 miles, which is a record. Today I decided we’d do a “bicycle marathon” so we shot for 26 miles, misjudged and wound up with 28.
That’s a lot. And while I enjoy it, it does eat up a lot of Sunday. The ride itself is about three hours, and afterwards I don’t usually feel like doing much.
No regrets. It’s a beautiful ride and lots of fun. But I really need to adjust my schedule so that I’m not trying to get anything done on Sunday other than, say, cooking dinner. Because the odds are I won’t.
Today’s high-point, or at least most notable point: We stopped in a stretch of rural Wake County to use the restroom at a small park. And it turns out there’s no plumbing. Not as in the plumbing doesn’t work, “no plumbing” as in an absence of plumbing. The toilet seat is on top of a hole down to a cesspit about 20 feet below (I’ve no idea how they clean it out). But I’m not complaining—it was there when we needed it, and it doesn’t smell half as bad as a Port-a-Pottie.