More of the Thos. Harper. God, I'm glad to be riding this bike again. It feels good.








Wifey and I celebrated our five year wedding anniversary on friday. My 'rents drove 650 miles (each way) to watch the Lads so we could have a bit of fun. We started with a nice little dinner at the Farm Cafe, followed up by a trip to Union Jacks for a bit of the old nekkid girl/brass pole interface. We came home drunk and smoky and slept on the porch.


Saturday night, she rode her bike up to the Bye and Bye to meet me as I got off of work. We ate chili and drank tequila and rode around in the dark. Then we went home and slept on the porch.

Not a bad weekend, over all.

It's OK to Cry.

So this is pretty rad.

Remember way last winter when I was whining about the hard-as-fuck stairway that was keeping me up nights?

No? Well, trust me, it was no fun.

Anyway, there I was standing in line at Freddy's with my mongoose ipa and my oranges and my baby wipes and wondering to myself if Stedman will EVER ask Oprah to finally make it official, when a new cover of Portland Spaces caught my eye.

Nice full spread of the house and a shit-ton of photos of the work I did.

It's a proud day for dad, bitches.


Also, that fat guy who kind of looks like me. Not me.

Some sweet carnage out at Alpenrose on Saturday.





Did someone say "Tracklocross?"

No?

I must be hearing shit...

I got a package yesterday. Actually, it was addressed to my sons. The return address was a "JC" in Laramie, Wyoming.

First of all, I'll be fucked if I know anyone in Laramie. But this person obviously knows me, and knows where I used to live (there were 3 forward labels on the box), and knows my kids names.

The strange part is that the box contained one 15 tooth Dura-Ace track cog wrapped in brown paper. And nothing else.

Can one of you lowlifes shine some light on this for me?