The contact, the thumps, the bumps. Pedaling faster. Smash! Bring the pain.
Keeps me focused, self-flagellation- when my mind is working double shifts at the anger factory.
Every log jump, tight corner, and rooty mess is a chance to give myself the beating I’m looking for on this ride. Come on, let’s do this, let’s hit something hard. Right now having the wind knocked out of me sounds real good, like a deep massage.
Instead, I flash it all. No bobbles, no hits, just a flying ace in his his Sopwith Camel, dodging enemy fire. All the way home I strafe and run, strafe and run, until my guns go click, click, click.
Riding for blood but settling, in the end, for good honest purifying sweat.
I can’t tell if I’m scorpion or monkey.
Scorpion. Definitely scorpion.
you monkey, grasshopper!
some might say a cheeky monkey, but then maybe that would be an Eddie-Izzard-ism to far?
I love that guy.
The cheeky monkey, Eddie Izzard or me? 😉
I’m glad someone’s found their rhythm. The reason for your lack of bobbles, is that I personally have used them all up. While you’re dodging and weaving in your Sopwith Camel, I’m dragging and wheezing, like some soggy camel. If any one finds a local trail to be littered with random pieces of skill and/or technique, I’d appreciate it you’d return it to me. It seems I left my seatbag open and all of mine fell out!
Monkey biting scorpion biting monkey
ARGGGG, I chew yee down ya scarthy scrap of grizzle. try me, TRY ME!
Yo Ample, I’ll whoop you in the Blounstown Harvey’s PL ANY DAY!
My money is on Ample’s moxie. Moxie like that shows up twenty minutes before its host and carries a serious can of ass whoop.