The taste of blood

All good gunfighter stories end the same. The shooting artist, weary and misunderstood, has to draw down on some hapless tinhorn looking to make a name for himself. The kid must die, but the gunfighter finds no joy in ushering men to their graves. Always alone, in mind if not in vicinity, the gunman holsters his Navy Colt and turns to the horizon.

I had the best post going about S’quatch last night. I was going to call it “Pooh Bear” and then as meticulously as building a ship in a bottle I intended to describe to you the raspberry lemon cream slushy from Sonic and the immediate nap that followed when he came over to watch the Tour last night. It was to be the story of a man weeks off the bike in the grip of vacation lethargy and schedule-less torpor. Asides would have been pursued concerning showdowns with the Bryson City, NC law, then I would have set my feet and teed off on the tie-dye.

I wish I had stayed up and gotten that issue to print last night. The guy got his bike back this afternoon and showed up no questions asked for a last of daylight in the rain last tracks run at Munson tonight, and it was incredible out there.

Tinhorn don’t know how lucky he is.

-Juancho

7 Responses to The taste of blood

  1. I pretty much followed it, being that my mind is pretty much in an experimental state right now. Nevertheless, I would’ve loved to have read the story not written! 🙂

  2. My new machine is awesome, with the brand new bright red ’07 Paragon frame and the old metallic blue fork, it’s a like a brendle colored junkyard dog. Juancho, uber-talented with the transforming frames, calls it the Captain America, and I ignore the sarcasm, like, “Yeah! Captain America!!”

    No joy, whatsoever, in ushering men to their graves? Maybe just a little joy.

  3. Why won’t anyone tell me where there are trails to ride in Manatee Co.? Is OLD too old to start trail riding? You guys are having all the fun!

  4. Therein lies the problem with Manatee Co. Plenty of beach and tourists, but no where to run, nowhere to hide.