After San Felasco life came with the crossover dribble and left me flat-footed- guarding an empty backcourt while the play moved downcourt.
You have to make the pivot.
I didn’t just go to the bench, I left the stadium. I didn’t just leave the stadium, I took a bus downtown and got a job as a hot dog vendor. I failed to make the pivot. When all of the priorities I had kept at bay came with the full court press I should have faked downcourt to the power forward, pulled up, and called a timeout.
Instead, I got stripped.
The convenient frame says, “Well, I accomplished a goal and it is only natural to take some time off and deal with life’s business.” Fug dat. I am much happier when I postpone, delay, and ignore those so-called important issues like career and family in favor of a maniacal obsession with the bike. The issues benefit as well.
I prefer the perspective of the warrior class. All things will be settled- as soon as I am back from the battlefield.
I have been running like- on my feet- in the absence of my bike the last two weeks. Feet are easier to pack. Near as I can tell 15 minutes of running equals 50 miles of vigorously steep singletrack. Seriously, do the math for yourself:
At any rate, and to return to my original metaphor, I am now ready to make the pivot. Down by double digits, but plenty of time left on the clock.
Well, I hope you didn’t throw away any perfectly good hot dogs.
My wife hits me wit that…
” You know, they say running is 3 times the effort for every mile, compared to biking.”
Last sunday, she ran the local marathon, and I rode to sumatra N’back.
She was done by 10am.
I staggered in at 4:30pm.
And she thinks I only put out a tiny bit more effort. mmm-hmmm.
I always make it downcourt but then get the ball jammed into the space between the rim and the backboard.
Now you’ve done it. All this shit about pivots, pull-ups, timeouts, etc., merely as metaphor. You forgot to read the fine print on your poetic license, and I’m the law around these parts.
Optimist Park, 10 a.m., Saturday the 14th. In honor of V-Day, a box of chocolates if you can take me in 21, 1-on-1, anything but Horse. And every time I send your jump shot into the cheap seats: “Here’s your friggin’ metaphor, bikeboy.”
I will be in California where the real dogs ball, but just wait ’til I get back.