Being sick stinks. I had to take the day off today because my skin hurts. And my hair hurts. Theraflu isn't even scraping the paint off of this one.
USGP is this weekend and I promised myself I'd race. But since it's already thursday night, I feel like hammered shit, and my bike is still encrusted in mud and horseshit from last Sunday's "festivities" (not to mention all of my muddy clothes are still wadded up in a plastic bag in the back of my car), it's not looking good for dude. Which is kind of a blessing I guess, considering it's going to be 34 degrees and raining (er, snowing) on Saturday, and I just don't think I have the huevos for it.
Sure, I should have spent all week running up and down the stairs at Mt. Tabor park with a bicycle on my back. But I didn't. I sat on my ass, pulling on a beer and looking out at the rain. I should have glued up some tubulars and figured out the optimal pressure for the slop-fest that will be PIR on Sunday (unless of course the mud is frozen, which it might well be at 8:30 in the morning. Did I mention that the C's race at 8:30 am? Fucking brutal). I should have at least tried to get the mud and afore-mentioned horseshit out of my derraileurs so that they might work again. Not on my "to-do" list, I guess...
There will be other options for those of us on the sidelines. Lots of booths, lots of beer, and some hairy cross racing to watch. Sounds okay to me.
My race was traumatic. I've never felt so beat up. The fucking course was eight kinds of slimy shit and a cornfield. Between the cowbells and the honking of the migrating geese I could barely hear myself retch. I started in the back of my field, got dropped immediately and ended up mixing it up with clydesdales (fat fuckers) and juniors (kids). I racked my nuts so hard remounting in the oak trees that I saw Krishna. Then, halfway thru the last lap I overcooked a transition from concrete to slop, and found myself ass-over-teakettle in a blackberry bramble behind a chicken coop. No brakes, no shifting, 28 pounds of mud and steel and carbon fiber, and I'm still pulling thorns out of my ass.
I'm stoked for next sunday.
(reprinted from an email to 43. Hang with me, the movie will be finished soon)
I got up at 5:30 this morning. I opened my eyes, looked at the clock, and realized that there was no way I was gonna be able to go back to sleep. So I fixed some bottles for the boys (pre-emptive strike), and went ahead and got dressed. I used to do this all the time when I was a kid, sans the baby formula. There was a time when I really liked to kill things. Especially things that fly, or things that swim. So I'd get up before dawn, slug some Folgers, load long guns and dogs into a rusty pickup truck, and go off hunting. I don't do that so much anymore. Fatherhood and the passing of time have dulled my bloodlust. Shit, I haven't even handed out a really good ass-kicking in a couple of years now. As much as I used to dig chucking em around, loaded, feeling nothing but a dull pulse behind my eyes-- That all seems to have left me.
This morning my purpose was utterly benign. Take my new bike out and get it muddy. The Portland that everybody speaks of has descended upon us now. Dark, and fucking wet. No worries of course. If I was comfortable enough in Idaho doing my morning loop with a frozen water bottle, I can handle a little rain, non?
Yeah, It sucks. I have gear, but it still isn't a whole lot of fun. It's not like I'm commuting in the shit every day, so it shouldn't bum me out too bad. I have no idea what I'm going to obsess about once cross season ends and spring is still a good 4 months off, but I'm sure I'll figure something out.
Anyway, my new bike is pretty fucking nice. It feels, I'm not sure how to put it--Taut and plastic. Like a new car. Solid, smells like chemicals. Reliable and fast. Good enough for the likes of me, I guess. A couple of muddy laps in the grass at Laurelhurst park had me convinced anyway. Convinced that riding a bicycle around in the muck at 6:15 in the morning is a fucking stupid endeavour .
Overall, I felt pretty good. I ended up doing what I like to call "The Paycheck Loop" . 8 miles round trip to pick up my check and get it in the bank. It's sort of become a saturday morning ritual. Just bust out 8 little miles as fast as possible and then home for a shower and a nice cuppa with the wife. Harder this wet morning than most, but I gotta tell you, I was feeling kinda kick ass.--
Though I was probably looking alittle more like this.
The other day I was trying to bypass an accident at my turnoff, and ended up going a few blocks out of my way into a neighborhood I hadn't been thru before. Voila! Little Hanoi. I have no idea if it's called that, since it's only about three blocks of Sandy Blvd. with some Vietnamese markets and video stores, but I immediately went vigilant, for often it is in these neighborhoods that lurks something I prize. That's right. Good-ass heroin. Not that crappy California black-tar shit, but real, honest to god, get high or die trying China White.
Actually I just really like French-Vietnamese sandwiches. I found 'em. Yet another piece of the Good Life puzzle clicks into place.
Don't buy into all the hype, and the shit poets, the hangers on, the addiction, death and tragedy. Just listen to the voice and think about last time you drove somewhere far away.
(This gets good around two minutes in)
So, I didn't make it to Estacada last weekend for the SS Worlds, and I'm kicking myself. Word on the street is that it was by far the sloppiest, drunkest, and sexiest race ever held. Added points during Saturday's qualifying for bunnyhopping barriers while carrying a 6-pack, steep descents with aero-bars and a 3-second beer chug. Sunday's race started with the lineup having to turn around and head the other direction at the pistol. i.e. fast fuckers in the back, costumed drunkards in the front.
Then there was Her.
Next year. As we Giants fans say, there's always next year...
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Saturday, November 10, 2007
Today has been really good. My Mom's is here visiting and we spent the morning tripping around Portland. The sun is out, 60 degrees, and I think I'm gonna get to go to Estacada tomorrow to catch a couple of hours of the Single-Speed World Championships. I hope it rains like a bitch.
Everybody's taking a nap right now, and I'm sucking on a beer and looking out the window. My new bike will be here next week, my old bike(s) are going to their new homes, and pretty much everything is right with the world.
"And someday son, if you work hard and stay focused, you might turn pro. Then you can wear gay-ass jelly bean kit and drive an '89 Diplomat with a drivers' door that won't close."
No sir, I believe my boys will be playing baseball.
I'm going to see them on the 20th. It's not big, or loud, or especially flashy, but it is really good rock and roll.
Wifey brought me home a case of Bridgeport IPA the other day. It's alright. The hops taste kind of flat-- Not like the floral, huge hoppiness of say, Terminal Gravity (a recent favorite), or the Ft. George which is insanely good, but involves a 100 mile drive to Astoria to get. I haven't had a can of Tecate in about two weeks, which is some kind of crazy fuckin record. I do love those little red pills, but with fall being in full, beautiful, leaf-blown swing, I'm digging me some flavor.
I've been trying as many Oregon beers as I feel like I can, but it seems an insurmountable task in so many ways. There was a thing on OPB the other night about Oregon brewing, and apparently there are now more breweries in Portland than in any other city in the world. It sounds crazy, but there's more local beer here than there is in Munich, or Flanders, or Prague. I guess all those Euros are sucking on bottles of Stella. Bah.
I am a bad person. I'm sure gonna miss all the bikes I have to sell to pay for this one. I hate myself.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Thursday, November 1, 2007
It's a story of left hand, right hand It's a story of love and hate It's a story of left hand, right hand It's a story of love and hate
Well he's a cool one ben harper Hangin' from a dead mans rope And here's the story The story two men wrote Two men wrote Two men wrote
It's a world of night for pearl and john It's a world of night when your daddy's gone When everyone around you were so weak You had to be so strong
In the night In the night of the hunter In the night In the night of the hunter
Little good you are to your family Hangin' from a dead man's rope Now here's the story The story two children wrote Two children Two children Two children
In the night In the night of the hunter In the night In the night of the hunter In the night In the night of the hunter In the night In the night of the hunter
Stronger than your Uncle Burny Stronger than Willa ever was Strong as the shadows are long Strong as the shadows are long
