On the one hand I did buy a house. On the other hand I hang out with this crew.
“May you live in interesting times,” the Chinese curse at one another, and brothers and sisters I have had about all of the interesting I need for the month. At this point I think if I put salt on my food it might be enough to send me screaming for a private cell in Chatahoochee.
I watch the carefree state office workers strolling to their cars as early as 3:45 P:M, taking advantage of their “flex-time” no doubt. With a day’s work behind them they are free to go home to their families,their cats,their ships in bottles, Folfing rendevous, Mixed Martial Arts classes, Shipwreck margaritas at the Cabo’s bar, barbershop quartet, Reiki lessons, or tend to their fantasy football league.
I have only the list. The list that measures in exposed detail the rewards of achievement and the consequences of failure. I eat the list. I sleep the list. The list is a self-populating menace that rules my dreams and waking hours.
At the end of the list is that moment when I close the door, lock it, and sit hooded like the falcon in repose.
Yesterday was a big day. I did two things I have never done before (hold those comments Magnum!) I bought a house and helped to direct a music video. Both activities were painful and tedious. I wish I could have combined them. I only woke up in a cold sweat a couple of times last night wondering if the house was burning down while I lay resting in another man’s house. Time to get up out of here and bring to a final close the “Big Dick” tenant era. He is the finest slumlord a fellow could hope for, but everything comes to an end.
I’m too crazy tired to say much more than that.
Boy howdy we chopped some wood on Saturday. 4.5 hours in the saddle is a pretty good warm-up for the tour de fiasco. We saw those bikechain zombies too, but we steered clear of them. By the way, zombies are all the rage right now, even hotter than vampires, so try to work them into your conversation whenever you can, the hip kids will thank you for it.
I was surprised to find myself on my bike, feeling good, enjoying the day with friends. Once again, I credit this as a return to normalcy and a good omen.
I pick up the keys to my new crib tomorrow, which signals a brand new series of events that have to happen before I actually move. If me, the cat, and the 30% of my things I plan to keep make it in there be Thanksgiving I will be grateful, thankful even.
I’m looking forward to it though. I will run a positive campaign to become mayor of Hippie Killearn. I plan to promote toleration of the intolerants, 5 small meals a day based on grazing, and higher standards of construction for open-toed shoe-dals. I think this is a winning platform.
People keep asking about windows and paint, appliances and all of that. They don’t realize I will be happy just to close the door, lock it, and sit there quietly.
Step by step this house thing is winding down. At this point no request can phase me, no task can deter me. As I type this I am on hold with the mortgage company while some crisis or another is going on. Whatever. Figure it out. Put the bit in my teeth and yank. I’m ready. They pummeled my startle reflex to smithereens weeks ago. Now when the bombs fall I notice it less than the gentle flutter of a hummingbird’s wings.
Few of you realize the magnitude of this accomplishment. As a right-brained thinker the performance of this staggering series of tedious and byzantine tasks has challenged me beyond my previously known limits. It is like writing a novel with my right hand (I’m a lefty, like the president.) Once, at a particularly crippling point of the process, the realtor was unfolding page after page of nonsense-every word out of her mouth began to sound like “hot german potato salad” and as she talked at an earnest rate of 740 words per minute I pictured myself reaching over the table and taking the papers from her hand, cramming them into my mouth and chewing them slowly like a cow in the field. What would she think of that? I wondered.
Instead I just signed them and smiled pleasantly- a feat as impressive as landing a plane in the Hudson, or walking on a tightrope between the Twin Towers, or saving a child from a burning car- yet the only applause was my own.
Bike? Rode it yesterday out at Munson. It ain’t going anywhere.
There will be a great meteor shower tonight starting around 1:00 A:M so grab a blanket and head to the woods. Participating in things like that are a sure sign that you are comfortable and self-actualized, or strive to be.
The opposite of going to the woods to watch a meteor shower? I don’t know- maybe curling up around a bottle of wine on your bathroom floor?
It’s a toss up really, either event could be good or bad.
Not sure which way I’m going to go.
Tommy held San Felasco to my head like a revolver and we rode bikes for 2.5 hours in a glimmering and breezy October day in Tallahassee. It was a modest, but honest performance that exemplified the depth of the shit I am in at this stage of preparation. Oh well, pass the donuts.
Wrecking Ball passed us with his son in the car and bikes on the rack. I noticed a number plate on his handlebars, but I’m not sure what that is about- do bikes now require license plates?
I am coming to the end game on this house-buying activity. When I say “the end” I mean the beginning of a never-ending list of chores and responsibilities. There will be no more laughing as the roof caves in and then moving down the road to the next filthy hovel.
Those were good days. I love a filthy hovel.
I take today’s ride as a signal, a return to normalcy. A bike-centered life that leaves me too fatigued for foolishness and shenanigans, which I have plenty of energy for lately.
It looks like a nice morning for a ride- down I-75.
Who knows, maybe I will ride Santos this weekend. Stop laughing, anything can happen.
I am taking regressive refuge in writing 80’s style punk songs for my associates in local aging punk phenom band- Betty’s Beauty School. It is great therapy for all of my otherwise mature activity lately.
Good luck this week to the Chain gang at Tom Brown Park. Thank God I have a good excuse, not that I would ever race anyway. Too much yelling and plastic tape. It is all very confusing.
I’ll see you on the trails in 2010.
I’m thinking about getting a bike. I hear they are really great.
This muggy October is enabling me to continue my streak of sporadic riding. I won’t say non-riding, because I have managed a couple of roll-outs here and there, but seriously folks- I think we have all seen this before at the BRC.
I have long avoided purchasing a home and other grown-up endeavours out of a basic respect and fear of the avalanche of needling tasks I knew accompanied the process.
Two months ago I made the decision to go for it, pacing in the garage in the middle of the night. Three more weeks and it may all be done. I don’t know really.
I sit like the dog with a biscuit on his nose, waiting for the command to snap it up.
The road awaits me again this week. Ever hopeful, I’m packing the Racer-X.
I have a rental car on the launch pad- destination: Dyrtle Beach, SC.
I realize now that all of my hard work and discipline over the hottest summer in the history of summers and the history of heat was to prepare me for this busy and stressful fall. Training is not always for cycling. Sometimes training is for life.
I could go into the details, but I prefer to save my complaining for my bike rides.