Eat, Drink, Smash

It is Tuesday, or as I like to call it when I am not travelling, fourth Saturday.

My legs have that pressed in the vise feeling, and despite 8 hours of sleep I feel a little sluggish. I am thinking that means I am dehydrated, like a piece of jerky. My hat is off to Mystery the Untame-able Stallion for pushing the limits yesterday. I want more of that; handfuls of barbed wire and gallons of turpentine.

I might be a little dehydrated, or I might be one of those bike bloggers who writes about riding and training and what color their bowel movement was or wasn’t (green and yellow like everybody else’s thank you for asking.)

So whatever, yeah- I ride. What of it? You want to go right now? I do.

Sasquatch is taking his pie-hole north to the mountains tomorrow and HiTops gets the 6th man award for offering to loan out his Jamis Dakar for S’quatch to ride at Tsali since the Fisher is sheared in two and not yet replaced. Obviously HiTops truly hates his mountain bike, and wishes it ill.

I suspected it all along.


9 Responses to Eat, Drink, Smash

  1. Not just you, everybody. I am a conspiracy of one. Besides, we all know the surge is scheduled to continue indefinitely.

  2. Several years ago while sitting out a thunderstorm at Blue Hole on the Wacissa with Sas and his family, I realized I have twined my fate with that of the beast. Hence the offer of the Dakar, brother to brother. Anyhow, it is a heavy, sturdy (not to say swinish) bike, better able to withstand the heft than his dainty Fisher 29er. And if he accepts, I won’t be bereft. Of course I have the road bike (and what better time to ride it during the Tour?) but also Sas’ old rigid frame Cannondale to throw around Munson and Twilight.

    7:47 PM

  3. HiTops, your generosity is touching, as doing without your mountain bike that long truly would be a sacrifice for you. I know you like those summer soul miles in the forest.

    But really, who needs a bike? Bike, Schmike. F a bike. This vacation, all I need is the air that I breathe and some Dairy Queen.

    I’ll still smoke you suckers when I return, and you’ll be all the more embarrassed to be dropped by an old, fat man in a pair of cut-offs and an “I (heart) N.C.” t-shirt.