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I’m not a religious person, and I try to be a spiritual person, but I’m definitely a soulful person. And by that, I mean I’m kind of well rounded with a pit in the middle for filling with all sorts of satisfying things.

That is to say, I know exactly how it feels to be Chicago deep dish pizza or a Boston cream doughnut. Or a Two Men Bagel House bagel sandwich. Man, I hit them up after long rides, long runs, long hikes, and for long conversations. But even by myself, how would I ever feel lonely when there’s so much bagel sandwich to smash? This requires the full concentration of a Rodin sculpture.

I’m usually at the Novena smokehouse because it’s close to the finish line of a big cycle or MacRitchie Reservoir trail run, and even though I know the menu by heart, I still stand there wondering, pondering: the Chingon (pulled lamb shoulder, salsa, labneh, cheddar) or Shiggin’ (smoked brisket, mustard, cheddar, soy-pickled japaleños)? There’s a cycling friend who’ll go half-and-half with me on those, I had the Sunday Best (fennel sausage, fried eggs, cheddar, hash, onion marmalade, smoked garlic aioli) for my birthday breakfast, but left to my own devices I always end up with the Pork-Gasm (house-smoked bacon, eggs, avocado, tomatoes, mesclun, said smoked garlic aioli), which is BLT on ‘roids the size of Texas. Solo, I choose the garlic bagel with no one I need to please with fresh breath. There are wisps of crispy greens to keep me honest, and schmears of avo to keep me on trend. Enough aioli to drip onto my lap. Baby got bacon fatback. And I’m too obliged for eggs always done extra extra extra (extra extra extra) hard because I fear runny yolks.

So, that’s my last meal out before sliding back into Circuit Breaker 1.575. Something holesome to fill the void in my middle, a holey communion for life affirmation.