It is dark now, and our little mob crashes through the brush towards the limestone drop “Triple Dipper” to cheer our boy on when he rides through. It’s Bushy out there this time, and we’ve missed him every other lap, what with the golfing, the refills, the wandering around, and this time we are determined to raise the roof when he rolls by.
The problem is, it’s dark out there, really dark. At one point as we cross the racetrack, someone bellows “rider up!” and Hambone flings himself into the darkness in a panic to get out of the way. “I’m OK, I’m OK!” he is hollering- even as he continues crashing and tumbling down the bank. Riders are flashing by, headlights blazing, and hitting the drop with varying speed and confidence. Margo is on watch a couple dozen yards up as a spotter, but it’s going to be hard to tell who’s who out here.
Pretty soon, we are screaming Bushy’s name for every rider. “BUSHY’S NAME!” we yell. “BUUUSSSHHY’S NAAAMMME!” and it really catches on with the crowd. The crowd has galvanized around this. We have solved the confusing dilemma of what to yell when riders pass. Occasionally we yell, “TINA!” though I couldn’t, and still can’t, tell you why.
By the time Bushy arrives we have a well-practiced crowd of 40 people screaming his name. Margo makes the positive ID and we announce to the crowd that this indeed is the authentic article coming around the corner. They go crazy. Girls are throwing their bras, guys are lighting torches, and everyone is screaming, “BUUUUUUSSSSHY’s NAAAAAAME!” and it hits him like a bolt of lightning. It was like the volume blew him up the trail, or plugged into him like a Tesla coil. KaZAM! He was out of there.
We struggled and tripped through the smilac to the next waypoint.
And so it goes.
As if it’s not insane enough at high noon, the crazies have to run it in the dark. Why not just run the bikes through a meat spray and turn starved pit bulls out on the course?
For more poetic fantasies, I like the sounds of a “bolt of lightening”.
Dude, it’s spelled “lightning”.
Jeez, you embarass me sometimes.
We interrupt this episode of “Bosom Buddies” for a quick question.
Why do cyclists wear tights? Is it for the warmth, does it prevent cramping, is it to show off the musculature of the leg, or is the thinking more sinister and kinkier than I can imagine? Mrs. H. got me a pair for our anniversary, I tried ’em on, and, holy shit, they’re uncomfortable. I recently picked up a pair of knee warmers that should work fine for our North Florida winters. Unless someone convinces me I also need the fancy pantyhose, I’m gonna trade ’em back in to Joe’s for a jersey or some socks or something.
Now, we return you to your normal diet of Sasquatch-baiting.
nice editing, you sinister bitch.
It’s warmth with minimal wind resistance. Leg warmers fall down.
maybe off your dainty legs.
It’s a bit unsettling to consider the unwitting purchaser of the traded-in tights post nut-funk, but if the bike shop’s cool with it…
And as for the previous spelling correction, good on ya’ for the attention to detail. Your large friend can handle the dressing down.
No nut-funk around here. I was wearing a clean pair of tighty-whities for the audition.
This is pretty anal, but embarrass has two “r”s. Too often, them that can write can’t spell.
I formally challenge you to a spelling bee. I am a fifth grade champion. I was blogging pre-coffee, all out of dedication to my slightly complacent, lackadaisical readers.
The things I do for you people.
Maybe a biathlon, alternating 20 minutes on the bike with 10 words apiece? Or spelling WHILE riding? Let’s get Sasquatch involved. I think he won a bee himself, back in the day.
For those still reading this ridiculous thread, Juancho used the phrase “a bolt of lightening” in his original post. Knowing him to be a deep and multi-layered writer, and imagining how leaden Bushy must have felt with all that Razorback climbing and scrambling , I ACTUALLY assumed Juancho was taking poetic license. But see, I expect the best from my friends.
Juancho, on the other hand, read my comment, assumed spelling snobbery, and hustled over to edit before the rest of you slackers even cracked the blog. Then, because he’s feral and vindictive, he turned the tables. A sad, but instructive tale.