A Friday post on Thursday? What is this? Bizzaroland?
Nope, and it's not even Australia. The reason I'm posting Friday's edition of The Bummer Life on Thursday is because I feel the need to shake things up a bit. Reconfigure my schedule, if you will.
I realize it's not much, but for me at least, it's a start, and as an introduction to today's festivities, here is a photo of the back of Pinto's leg;
Let's get down to business, shall we?
I saw this prime photobomb in the new issue of ROAD Magazine, and within an hour, no fewer than three people brought it to my attention as well;
For those of you smooshing your eyeballs out of your head while rubbing them in disbelief, here is a detail of the ad;
I'm curious where the photo editor for that particular advertising firm is working today.
As has been commented many times in the past, HTATBL tends to be a rapid fire bombardment of random links, thoughts and photos, but I usually am able to tie them all together with some amount of cohesiveness (cohesivtivity to those of you in Santa Cruz, cause supposebly if your not dumb, that is a word). Now, I don't quite know if it's because my ADD has gotten worse, or I've just ended up with considerably more fodder and no concise way to connect it, but much like watching a gorilla flinging his poo, you might want to duck and take cover cause stuff is gonna be going everywhere.
You all may have seen this around before, but if not, all I have to say is that some guys have all the luck.
I find myself particularly drawn to the video's commenter called Admiral Pooarms who simply stated "I saw Slayer the other night, and I yelled Slayer a looot."
I would consider myself a typical Slayer fan, and I can say with the utmost certainty that I've never "literally just out of nowhere" said that.
I'm not entirely sure how he did it, but Loudass has somehow cracked the super secret future Swobo t-shirt idea vault and forwarded on to me one of my favorite picks;
I would suspect that the following individual might be first in line when the production run becomes available;
That man is riding one of those new fangled fixed wheel bicycles, and while we're on the subject of such things, I came across this bit on the Mobius Cycles blog concerning The Urban Outfitters Fixie Death Machine, or from what this day forward will be known as T.U.O.F.D.M., which under normal circumstances I would buy in a heartbeat just based on the name alone, but considering exactly what it is they're referring to, I will have to rely on my Stevil Kinevil brand 10 Foot Pole® with which not to touch it.
As fate would have it, the very day I got my Stevil Kinevil brand 10 Foot Pole's® patent finalized, DPow! sent me this link for Men With Sticks.
Obviously those guys know how to have a good time.
Not alot unlike this shot that was sent to me from Joe"you-can-have-my-blow-
dryer-when-you-pry-it-from-my-cold-dead-fingers"Parkin of Fumy Beppu in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe proving once and for all why he was signed to the Skil team, and that maybe they should eventually change their name to Skillz;
Now, of course it probably says more about the general level of class, or perhaps the lack there of that exists among this community that we have here, that this link, as well as this link were both sent to me a slew of times in the last 72 hours.
I'm at such a loss, I can't even come up with something snarky to write in response.
That is right up there with getting your dog a set of prosthetic post-neutering nuts.
My god, human beings are a freakish sort...
Strangely, it only stands to reason that I should follow that up with this flyer sent to me from Robert;
There I was foolishly thinking I wasn't going to be able to tie all of this together.
On that note I offer you both a firm handshake AND a rigorous bout of intercourse as well as a hearty wish for a fantastic week's end.
Poaching this last clip from our friends at Urban Velo, I've found a brilliant candidate for today's Friday (on Thursday) Hero.
Matt Gilman is a badass.
In closing, like Jim "I've-got-hair-like-Joe-Parkin" Morrison once said- 'break on through to the other side', which in this instance I suppose might mean to keep your wits about you until the real honest to goodness weekend rolls around and it is then that you are free to go completely bananas..
In light of what an intellectual stronghold the town in which I currently reside turns out to be, I'm going to take the easy route and flood today's post with assorted bits and pieces from the mail bag.
Thank God for the mail bag, cause I'm like, really tired and stuff, you know?
From Mike we got some samples of his newest body of work, showing for a limited time only;
"My solo show opened last night on Vail Pass. I am showing 2 pieces: This Shit is Genius (Einstein on a Bike) and the Apocalypse Peloton. The show will be running indefinitely, stop by when you get a chance."
You know, and why the hell not? I've spoken with artists in Japan who have put up installations of work in stock rooms at convenience stores, and as a matter of fact, back when I was in school I had my senior show in a restroom. I even went so far as to clean the urinals and keep 40s on ice in them.
Necessity is the mother of invention, don't you know?
Would you like to see a shot of Joe 'I-have-the-hair-of-a-1970s-professional-skier' Parkin riding the infamous 'sh*t bike' at this year's Downieville Classic?
Of course you do.
The awesome thing is, he didn't even get last.
Then, from a different Michael, we get evidence that the bummer life doesn't have anything on the neighborhood high school dropouts;
"Nice tag on the asphalt at the end of my driveway on Shotwell st."
In other news, by now you all must be aware of how seriously they take cyclocross in Boulder.
If you don't, then by all mean I must re-redirect you here.
Then if you do, then I'll remind you that you have no idea, as proven by this link forwarded on to me from Ghostship Matt.
Obviously the first thing I did was to send this on to a few of the usual suspects, and what follows is what immediately found its way into my inbox from one who will remain unnamed;
“It’s the best bargain in Vegas,” explains Watts, “what else can you do in Las Vegas for eight bucks?”
Um, I'll bet I could scare up a BJ behind the Imperial palace for $8. Might not be from a woman, or even a human for that matter, but better than that bike race will be. Or I can sit on the curb with friends and drink beer from a can. That's what I can do for $8. Maybe we should (The Royale "we") start something in protest. How about we show up dressed like Jesus and his disciples carrying a giant cross. Then we all hop the fence at the same time as Cycling News and Velo News take photos. Then, when confronted, "Are you really going to throw out a bunch of Christians?" Or "Across Vegas" as in, "we'll be across town having fun some where's else while all you gut up close to 'the Desert Breeze Soccer Complex’s famed thick magic carpet' ".
I took it upon myself to include this in the comments section over at Cyclocross Magazine, but apparently the moderator didn't feel as though my contributed musings were worthy of the spotlight.
Truthfully though, eight bucks will most likely stem the tide of ner-do-wells. It certainly worked at the old UCI mountain bike events, but then again, it's alot harder to fence off and then patrol an entire mountain bike course.
If anything it only made us more determined, so maybe it actually didn't work at all..
But in all seriousness, I hope that the promoters of the Cross Vegas event get their every wish granted and it's a perfectly tame event without a bunched panty in sight.
That my friends, sounds like a true utopia.
And speaking of a world where everything goes right, CFO just came home from his trip back East and was thoughtful enough to include a condensed blow by blow for our edification;
"72 hour bender.
Spent a ton of time without any pants.
Insisted that I sleep with the bride and groom on their wedding night.
Looked at the mother of the bride during a rousing rendition of 'We don't Have To Take Our Clothes off to Have a Good Time' and said "not where I come From".
Wouldn't give up my seat on the bus for the groom's 90 year old grandfather.
Made out with the groom's 21 year old cousin on the dance floor....during the first dance.
Told anyone that would listen that my dad invented the chocolate chip.
Had all 200 attendees convinced that when in high school I had a summer internship with the Pope....Mowing the Vatican lawn and fetching Danishes.
I won the wedding.
There are pics....I didn't bring a camera, but I'll have some coming."
When you're CFO there isn't a damn thing wrong with your life.
Except everything.
I'm going to step away and leave you all with the following thought- I just got home from watching 'The Hangover' and aside from the individual I was on a date with, I was the only one in the theater laughing.
What the hell is wrong with those people? I'll bet they like "Everybody Loves Raymond".
Waste not, want not, faced not, and something that rhymes with 'want' not.
Try as I might, I can't help but to be a bit of a pack rat. Take for example, my desk;
The crummy part is that I just cleaned and organized this mess two weeks ago.
In my defense however, I do get an incredible amount of stuff sent to me, though that isn't to say that I get an incredible amount of incredible stuff sent to me.
It would appear, in my case anyway, that junk attracts junk, as every fifth package or so that comes through these parts with my name on it is jam packed with exploded inner tubes, dirty 'My Pretty Ponies', temporary tattoo books, fake dog poo, chipped porcelain statues, and so on. It's enough to make Fred Sanford nearly green with envy, and with every package that comes through I fully intend to return the favor and regift it in outgoing Swobo love.
My problem is, much like Sisyphus, as soon as I'm nearly to the top of that hill (or in this case, to the bottom of the pile), the flood gates open and an onslaught of shiny new garbage comes pouring back into my life.
Now with all of this being said, I happen to also be an individual who finds myself wracked with guilt when I throw anything away, as I'm haunted with the vision of it rotting away in a landfill somewhere, thereby dooming the happy future of the children I hope to never have.
I understand that this neurosis is a cross that I alone have to bear, so it is what it is, but sometimes I have an object which otherwise should be considered junk, that I just cant let go of, in case I can eventually fix it, and grant it a whole new life.
Like Walt Disney's corpse, for example.
Or, if you will, my very favorite backpacks, which I've highlighted here before, but because I can't remember where, I'll give you a brief breakdown of it's history.
Many years ago I was a huge fan of the Mountainsmith World Cup backpack, which was a cycling specific bag with shoe holders, a helmet strap, and internal bladder sleeve. My only gripe was that it was too small. Eventually Pearl Izumi began making a similar style that was much larger, but for my lowly bicycle mechanic's wage, prohibitively expensive, so I continued to make do with my Mountainsmith bag until one day in the infancy of our relationship Monika, also known as Demonika, but who now sometimes goes by Veronika came home with the first version of Trek bag on her back, which gave me instant bag-wood. It was perfect in every way and I absoluetly had to have one. After years of carrying it the straps began to become frayed at their insertion point (due to what Bobo the clown stated was the 18 pack weight limit being broken too many times). I couldn't throw it away in the event that at some point I might be able to fix it, and in the meantime Trek had revamped the design, so I bought a new one. Eventually this second bag became victim to the same fate. Again I ordered a new one, but to my dismay I found that this jewel had been discontinued so I did what any irrational bag whore would do, and purchased five.
Still, damaged bag number two got thrown on the pile of 'maybe some day I can fix it' and I went on about my day to day. Then Patrick came into my life. He works for a local sail maker, and is a wiz with an industrial sewing machine.
For the price of about 45 pounds of Mexican beer, he not only salvaged these bags that otherwise would have been thrown to the tire fire by a rational individual, but he even went so far as to retrofit my beloved beernet helmet so that the coozies can be detached in case I find myself in the throws of a competition in which beer cans strapped on the side of my head could be a disqualifiable offense.
Though you and I both know any competition that would do such a thing is not a competition either of us would ordinarily want anything to do with.
Anyway, I suppose the moral of all of this is that sometimes it's a good thing to keep ahold of all your crap, cause you never know when you might come across your own Patrick who can turn it back into gold.
So let's continue talking about one man's trash being another man's treasure with an excellent case in point that was sent to me from Mr. Blacksocks. On the chance that the link won't eventually be working any longer, I have taken the opportunity to snap a screen shot of it as well;
Attached with the link was this simple and obvious observation;
"That would be the way to roll into a cross race…"
Like any good bummer life avoider, Blacksocks is always using his noodle.
I spent a fair share of time on my speed cycle, whist wearing my stretchy pants and tap shoes this weekend, as I embarked on an adventure to go meet my better half on the far other side of the hill. The thing was, I didn't really know my new route all that well, and because of this, as it turns, out I granted myself about 12 miles extra climbing. At one point I was going uphill and backwards at such speed, I caught this little guy;
And yes, I realize my bike is a dirty, and shameful mess, but after 100 miles, how clean is your bike?
Anyhow- I wash it twice a year, whether it needs it or not..
But back to the journey- Had I looked around at my surroundings, I would have seen some of this;
However, mostly I just saw alot of this;
Though I was able to stop to take a photo which appropriately poses a bit of a philosophical query. When is a name also a funny sound?
Perhaps that is the sound of one hand clapping..
It is with that, that I will leave you with three things. One being the following from Russell;
"there is totally no sign saying which way to cross these damn things. Be careful out there... or don't.
Ride fastly-
Russell"
That's good advise.
Two, fellow dirtbag, and regular on The Bummer Life, Miss Complayna just celebrated the 20th anniversary of her 20th birthday, so I can't pull the plug on today's installment without wishing her a very happy one, and offer thanks to her for being such a good friend for all of these many years.
Seriously, she doesn't look a day over like, 38 at least.
And thought number three actually comes in the form of a pretty bitchen photo bomb from S.K.B.
More correspondences from a far away friend, and other matters of simi-importance.
The one known as Sucka Pants gave us a low down on whats been transpiring while he's been gone. If you've been following along on his blog, then skip to the next part, if not, then here you go...
"We hit some flat land, make some miles and a few friends along the way:
- Seeing Bin Laden's name painted on a rickshaw;
- Having a bus start to leave while I am still partially buried in the luggage compartment below fitting our bikes in.
- Barbed wire used as a clothes line.
- Roosters battling on the side of the road.
- Passing through dark countryside at night punctuated by bare florescent tubes and scattered trash fires.
- Wiping my face after a day of riding and it comes away coated in sand/dust/grit.
- Meeting Tomas, another bike traveler randomly at a quickie mart while we are riding. He's from Poland and he is doing a three year tour covering the whole world. He already had ridden all of North and South America, Australia, and some other places in Oceania. Needless to say, he had a bit more gear than we did.
- Watching a garbage fire get out of control and spread to the surrounding trees/bushes.
- The crazy frogger-style way of getting on and off buses (local and long distance), only slowing down enough for people to run out into the street (through traffic usually) and jump on/off.
- A lot of the buses have huge airbrushed themed murals on them, ranging from barnyard animals to the NYC skyline to Batman.
- Having my first equipment failure of the trip: one of the p-clamps that attaches my cargo rack to the frame breaks. Luckily I brought spares, but they turn out to be a smaller size. I readjust and hope for the best.
- While Chloe is waiting along the side of the road for some of the crew to catch up one night, a policeman shows up and warns her that it is not safe to be there. He gestures that someone might come along, kill her, and throw her in over the bridge she was waiting at. He hangs out for a while and keeps an eye on things. We're not sure exactly what he was warning her about, maybe people with an issue with a female out alone at night?
- The next day Chloe has a guy riding in an ice cream delivery truck pull alongside and expose himself to her.
- The day after that, a guy directing traffic with a flag on a wooden pole gives Chloe a hard smack across her ass as she rides by. His laughing turns to surprise as Greg rides up following Chloe and kicks the guy in the chest from his tall bike.
- CDs as mud flap reflectors.
- A concrete deer lawn ornament, with a muzzle on it for some reason.
- We'd been lucky with the mosquitoes while traveling, going from a dense urban center to the cooler mountains. But in the north coast they caught up with us. . . bad.
- Meeting a friendly couple who follow us for a bit on their scooter. They invite us back to their home to stay for the night and then show us around town the next day.
- Afterward we go to the "beach" in town, which turns out to be a weird concrete pier thing you have to pay to go on. the surrounding coast is covered in trash and weird big black bugs. When we leave we are ambushed by a video camera crew from the pier who want to interview us about our visit. "We love garbage beach!"
- A friendly guy on a scooter dropping his wife off to drive around and help us find a place to stay for the night. He didn't want anything in return, just to help.
- Our last stretch of the north coast gets a bit hilly, but every up had a down before it to gain momentum on.
- Equipment failure #2: Some genius thought it would be a good idea to put a set of six large speed bumps right in the middle of a very long and steep road coming out the hills. When I hit them (going pretty fast) it instantly turned my bike into a bucking bronco. I came within an inch of losing control and landing on my face. With my brakes squealing my water bottle launched out of it's cage and off into the oblivion.
- Greg almost getting left by the bus while he was in the W.C. We couldn't stop the driver from leaving, even though I was hanging on the outside of the back entrance yelling at him to stop.
- Pigeon is frequently featured among the animals painted on signs for roadside food stands, along with chicken, fish and duck.
- Favorite dish in Indonesia so far: Gado gado.
- New fruit discovery: Snake fruit.
- This month (Indonesia): Can a man survive on nothing but fried rice for a month?
- Next month (Japan): Can a man survive on nothing but rice balls for a month?
Hell, I just may let go of the reins on this blog and let The Sucka do his thing.
Aside from all of the copying and pasting of the HTML code, throwing up emails like those makes my job alot easier.
Now on to another email of equal importance, just far fewer words, ironically from Loudass;
As I replied to him, I can only hope that the perpetrator of this chalk piece was referring to the Paul Di'Anno era of Iron Maiden, and not that of Bruce Dickinson.
It's always been dumbfounding to me that the simple exchange of a single individual in a band's line up can take them from complete awesomnimity to total douchebaggery in one fell swoop.
Even the most armchair of Iron Maiden fans know what I'm talking about.
Anyway, the loud one (who also goes by the moniker Fat Tony) also recently sent on an image of the aftermath of what was his arm after he possibly mistook it for a sandwich;
However for my own personal enjoyment, as well as an attempt to capture what was actually transpiring, I made a slight adjustment;
In closing, it recently has come to my attention that at this most recent Downieville Classic event, Swobo had the good fortune to set up our tent and wares at the the town's hallowed site of Clamper commemoration. Now in the days of old Swobo, this most certainly would have been a conscious decision, but according to reports, El Corpo was unaware of what the Clamper organization was, and proceeded to hang a Swobo banner over the plaque.
For those of you outside of Northern California, the grossness of this affront might be insignificant, and would even get a pass, but for those of us in the region, or for even that matter who actually areClampers (I know of at least five regular Bummer Life audience members who are in the ranks), a most definite and swift hand slap is in order.
If this was in fact the case, then on behalf of our organization, I would like to extend an apology, and to let you all know that the unsnuffable fires of the ECV will forever burn in my heart.
Here is to you all having good weekends no matter if you happen to be chained to the ball that is the J.O.B or not.. For my part, I'll try to make up for those who are.
And always remember that when the going gets tough, the tough simply walk on sunshine.
While The Tour continues to wind and grind, its apparent epicness is only equaled by my apathy, which is to say my head is still stuffed proudly and firmly in the sand about the matter. Sure, I pick up bits and pieces of information on the interwebs as well as from my compatriots who continue to wave the flag proudly, but for my part, I'm too busy being immersed in Daisy of Love, who it should be noted looks a little bit like Jar Jar Binks with a bad case of pinkeye;
Anyway, aside from that, what makes the greatest impression on my sorely addled mind is the antics of the one who will only be known as Josh looking fetching in his homage to Joe Dirt at last weekend's Watsonville crit.
See, it's real easy to show up to the party with your stretchy pants and tap shoes, aiming to battle with some of the region's finest cyclists, but it takes real bawlz (not balls, mind you, as everyone knows bawlz are much larger) to show up ready to rumble in your Sunday-on-the-broken-front-porch's finest.
Sadly I wasn't present to see this first hand, as if I had been, I would still be dancing around in circles giggling like a little girl, which during the work week is actually illegal within city limits.
As I've expressed before, I tend not to be the armchair quarterback type. Instead of watching people on television do the things I like to do, I instead would prefer to actually do them.
Perhaps much like Josh, in doing so, could get the chance to take a pot-shot at those around me by dressing to the nines in some cutoffs, that if not measured carefully might accidentally display the aforementioned bawlz.
I've never been afraid to show the people what I'm working with.
But I digress. Some cyclists have the freak flag waving for all to see, while others have the subtle accoutrements that are only picked up by the trained eye. Case in point, this image and accompanying email from none other than Mr. Blacksocks himself;
"Why I like Dave Zabriskie..
Tall, black wool socks in July…"
This type of display tells nearly as much about the man as Josh's, in that we all know Dave to be a company man, and as such has to wear the suit of his sponsor. Tall, black (or rather dark grey, but who's counting?) and woolen socks in the summer time on a professional cyclist is something akin to the business man you see walking down the street with an Angelic Upstarts pin stuck neatly through his lapel. It's a subtle middle finger pointed towards convention, and honestly, who doesn't need a little bit of that in their lives?
I for one do, and dip my toes into it as much as possible, (though my subtle middle finger is sometimes not so subtle) and if I'm not personally engaging in some light hearted rabble rousing (Golf Clap- I'm looking at you), my heart swells to see other people doing it whenever and however they can.
It is at this juncture in today's post that I would like to point out the fact that I have stayed on a single topic almost all the way through, and it is very nearly killing me. I suppose some folks might prefer the singular topic format, while others might prefer it when I jump around all over the place.
I feel like jumping around all over the place, so it's time to break free.
With that being said, let's get into an email from CFO that naturally has nothing to do with anything;
"Well I am off to the East Coast (where I don't have a huge following) for my buddy's "Old Fashioned New England Wedding." I am not entirely sure why he asked me to be in it, but I assure you he will be very sorry that he did......As we all know I have nothing to offer.
I have a t-shirt, a hoody, my Swobo Pony Shorts and a hat....I wanted to take one of those hobo stick/handkerchief deals as my "luggage", but apparently Homeland Security don't dig on that shit....I look and smell enough like a bum as it is.
Here Come the Dry Humps,
CFO"
Once a long time ago when CFO and I first began writing to one another, he said he was off to attend a different wedding and was curious if two twelvers could be counted as his carry on luggage.
I assured him that it would be.
It might be no small coincidence that CFO's cosmic doppleganger George would write in at the same time;
"dude,
"Let us be lazy in everything, except in loving and drinking, except in being lazy.” - Gotthold Ephraim
sorry for the lack of correspondence, but please rest assured the goodtimes haven't stopped. lately, the crew of us Colorado wood butchers have transplanted to "Mancamp" at a location that puts us within a mile or so of epic trails littered with rocks, trees, twisty awesomeness that makes every ride seem like some old dude waxing poetic in dirtrag.
the purpose of this move is to build a new family cabin and shred trail. I also was fortunate to have had one of the worst wrecks of my riding career. I clipped a tree with the right side of the bars in a right turn, over corrected narrowly missed a tree on the left and then finally hit a tree on the outside left of the turn with my stem/bars, chest and shoulder.
I got up off the ground to find bark in my chest rug, a wheel twisted in the dropouts, rocks and dirt in the tire bead and the 2 dudes I was riding with looking at me like they should be carrying me out of the woods. this shit scared the hell out of me for about 4-5 rides until we went on a full on out and back deathmarch into no mans land. we climbed and climbed, I saw a unicorn which turned out to be a tall stump bleached white by the sun (but I wasn't the only one that saw it), West Nile messengers of the devil attacked ferociously and somewhere along the way amongst the mayhem and anaerobic hell something happened and clicked.
the trail started to go down a bit and in the max heart rate post work 2 beer deep zone the trail gnomes and ewoks came out of the woodwork and showed me the light again. the bike was alive and it didn't care about square edged rocks, off camber roots, blind corners or downed trees and neither did I. this was one of the more magical feelings I've ever experienced with the fun of 2 wheels between my legs, because I had been in a riding scared funk for several rides and I seriously thought that I'd never get out of it, but dudes have to get through things with perseverance and stupidity.
oh yeah, on the way to this magical ride a beer bursted in the truck and I had to do the only admirable thing to do in this situation. We immediately pulled over and I shotgunned that beautiful beer. so if you're riding like shit, maybe just drink a bit more than usual!
until me meet again,
george"
And finally, an email from who some say is a snobbish bicycle rider from New York City;
"No mention of the eponymous steamer, though."
So there you have it. A nearly consistent post, some rainbows, some man ass, and a general sense of light hearted glee. We did it again, you and I have.
What I'd like for you to do now is to promise that you'll give yourself a little high five at some point during the day.
And of course by ''high five' I mean wear your favorite tiny shorts, and book a flight to Cleveland.
Those around you will most assuredly appreciate it if you did.
Not alot going around these parts this weekend, aside from eating some food with my plastic fork.
Actually, quite alot.
That just seems to be good business.
Images taken from here.
I won't rest until my collection is complete.
Image taken from here.
I was surprised to find out that midgets (or for the PC among us, 'little people') in fact, do not have night vision.
Which actually brings me to a HTATBL challenge. On Friday afternoon 6'7" asked me why there were no midget mountain bikers, or midget cyclists in general. I related to him that during my first gig as a bike messenger for Studebaker's Smog Free Delivery, I used to see an Ethiopian L.P. zipping around downtown Oakland on his tiny bike on the regular, always intent on his journey, but never so focused that he couldn't take the time to offer up a friendly wave in passing. Anyhow, aside from this observation being ironic coming from one of the tallest people I know, I was taken to find that there was seemingly no footage, or for that matter, any information at all that we could find of a little person riding bikes. If you, dear reader can offer up some sort of insight as to why this might be the case, or better yet, documentation, there will be a snappy set of Swobo socks in it for you.
So there is your challenge. Get cracking.
Here is a sweet shot that I've seen bouncing around for years of a certain Latoya Zampa following another certain Ben Jacques-Maynes around 1995, back before Ben was a full time glitzy-glammy stretchy pants and tap shoe wearing über pro;
Underneath that polished exterior will always beat the black heart of a single speeder.
Latoya on the other hand was born with a black heart, so he's no good example.
Generous people that they are, the Hunters had Demonika and me over for dinner on Friday, which was precluded with a lovely road/off road ride with M.A. and a short stop over at the Hunter bicycle fabrication world headquarters to behold Rick's size 14 shoes;
After dinner I promptly fell asleep on their sofa with an open can of PBR in my hand.
That's why folks call me 'the dream guest'.
Now an email from Gary;
"Stevil,
Although I have not met you in person I do follow your musings and feel a certain kinship with your innane ramblings.
I may be presumptuous here but I get the impression that you are of the baggy short variety. This may change your mind.
Who wouldn't want a rainbow barfing unicorn in conjunction with nut huggers that sport a purple starry pattern?
I hope I don't cross your trail guarding friend wearing this getup. I could end up on the wrong side of a shovel.
-G"
While I hold no false notions about how ridiculous traditional bicycle clothing looks, and have long gotten grief from my non-bicycling friends about this fact, I am one who regularly holds true to the old adage 'function before fashion' and because of this fact will generally willingly don a pair of stretchy pants at the drop of a hat not because I think they look good, but rather because they feel good.
And if the absurdity of the look were to equal that of the comfort, then about right now Gary is gently floating on a cloud of golden dipped baby hands.
Well played brave soldier. Well played.
If any of you all reading this here whatnot find yourselves in or around the Outdoor Retailer show this week in the city by the salt lake, you should go by to give El Corpo what for and take a ride on one of the fleet of tricked out Novaks we've got on hand as well;
Though we don't have any sizes for little people, we have one of each size outfitted with racks and baskets, so depending on actually how little the little person in question is, maybe you could give them a lift.
Before we get into anything, we need to deal with a matter of grand importance.
I found this shot taken of Billy by Cap'n Surly, and I would bet that if I didn't spread it's good word, we might very well be in danger of the world ending.
I mean, how sweet is that? In my time I've seen alot of people do alot of things over alot of fires, but none have ever been documented so brilliantly.
Well this week I've been pretty slammed at work which means I've had not much time to do anything except eat dinner, watch cartoons for 30 minutes and go to bed.
This might also explain why these two last two posts possibly seemed a little half-baked, and maybe why the following quote feels particularly appropriate to me right now;
"There comes a time when every man feels the urge to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and start slitting throats."
-H. L. Mencken
Anyway, with that being said, how about a bright spot amongst the doldrums?
Over the course of my existence I've known some folks who I'd like to take delivery of that particular gift.
As a matter of fact, before this next week is out, some of them just might.
Hey, here is a thing about some stuff you might be interested in getting in on;
To continue throwing a bone towards our friends in the state's south, I got an email from Brett in which he too professed his love for the swim-hole. Something else he has a soft spot for is speed metal, and other various incarnations of the ilk, so why not combine the two in a blog?
I don't care to get too Californiacentric here, but I have another email from the West Coaster who does not care to coast, James Newman;
"Hey Stevil, was wondering if you could post up a blurb about the BFF OAKLAND on yer blog, it's gonna be sick. we showing Vernor's film at 5, best of shorts at 7, and RAD at 9pm. RAD. believe it.
It's this Sunday, the 19th. theater's on alameda, east bay, ca. scraper bike ride from oakland at 4pm to the theater... lots of things happnin...
Thanks man!
James"
At first glance I was all, "James is inviting me to the best friends forever party in Oakland?!" and then I realized what he was talking about.
Though it won't be as sweet as a best friends forever party, it's still gonna be pretty cool, and for the RAD screening, you maybe will want to swing by and pick up something from here.
So I've got two from the Southland and to make it even I'll add one more from the Northland as Loudass just moments ago sent this jewell on to me;
""Travel video to Oakland for SF Hipsters, fairly entertaining. Especially for those who have dared to go to the 510."
Man, I lived in Oakland for nearly 20 years. I had a centrally located store front that I'd gutted and turned into a studio, tons of bikes, probably at least one pair of skinny jeans, a degree from art school and the place was a ghost town. Literally the day I moved away, bikes shops, art galleries, cafes and record stores sprung up in my wake.
There is no justice.
At this point in today's post, I'll present you with a bit of goodness straight from the desktop of Tim the Masi Guy.
I always had my suspicions about that Archie.
Here is a clip that was sent in from Noah, that is truly the epitome of product placement;
We take what we can, when we can, and to that accidental model of our wares, I offer my most humble thanks and wishes for a speedy recovery.
Long time reader of The Bummer Life, as well as actual bummer life avoider, Samh gave me a shout a couple of weeks ago regarding pulling up the stakes and relocating with a little help from his friend;
"Stevil,
In an attempt to avoid the bummer life I moved my apartment via bicycle and trailer this past weekend. I'm sharing my blog post about it in an attempt to, oh, I don't know, raise bicycle awareness and avoid greenhouse gas and be environmental, and stuff.
If you want to use it to make a point of some sort on your ruling blog feel free to use the link, photos, text, etc.
- samh"
Good looking out man. That's really impressive, though I would be lying if I said when helping you, I would have been the one laying on the bed as we rolled down the road.
So if you happen to be in Bellingham Washington, and you're not my parents, you might be interested to know that these guys are playing tonight;
My neck still hurts from the last time I saw them.
Alrighty then. That just about does it for me. As always, here is to all of you having a slam dancing good weekend. For my part I will be hiding out and dodging that which can be dodged.
I'm getting better at it every day.
And always remember, no matter what, that you're not these guys;
Unless of course you are, in which case, it was nice seeing you two last Sunday.
'Matching wits with hillbillies', or if you prefer the more politically correct term, 'mountain williams'.
It wasn't the above individuals that we had an encounter with this past weekend in the wilds of California's gold country, but if I were a betting man, I'd say that they are at least close relatives.
You see, JMac has for the better part of 15 years been making his way to a well off the beaten path camp spot complete with some of the most world class swimming holes that the state has to offer, but as we began the 40 minute hike, completely loaded down with coolers, backpacks and so fourth, we came face to face with a seriously intimidating individual sitting in a chair behind rolls of razor wire, just staring at us.
We had a momentary stand off when we realized that there was no way we were gonna make it to our secret spot this way.
We clamored back up the hill, disheartened, but undeterred. Not sure how we would make the campsite by night fall, we settled for a spot in a group site that apparently had discounts for people with mullets and speed boats.
With an unquenchable desire to dunk our weary souls, we trekked through the bushes until we would find ourselves at the reservoir's edge;
Fortunately for us, we were well stocked with all of the necessary supplies to contend with our unwitting immersion in boat culture;
Eventually we ended up drinking ourselves to a slumber, which as near as I can tell is the only way to go in a crowded public site. Luckily for us our neighbors had their fingers on their air horns at the ass crack of the following morning, so we would be sure and not sleep through their departure to what I can only hope was a painful death by drowning. Anyway, as we began wandering around the camp site like hungover zombies, JMac got cracking on breakfast with my newest and most favorite invention- spray batter;
I tried to do a whip-it, but I just ended up getting a mouth full of dough.
Learn from my mistakes, people.
So today was the day in which we were going to snub the creepy mountain william, and in doing so would test the very limits of our physical strength, and emotional fortitude.
The short version is that instead of taking the 40 or so minute hike down the now very closed trail, we would instead walk up the river, fully loaded down with packs and cooler, taking over two hours, and probably years off of our lives.
I'd like it to be known that I'm no greenhorn when it comes to physical challenges, and this was by far one of the most physically taxing endeavors of my life. If you think it sounds easy, throw on a 50 pound pack, try it yourself, and let me know how it goes.
Just as nearly all hope was lost, we finally arrived at the spot and immediately set up camp so we could get on to more important matters;
As I realized at one point, I think it's a safe estimate that JMac and I, combined, have fallen somewhere in the neighborhood of 40,000 feet from atop rocks and into various rivers together.
There isn't a lot that I can truly say I'm good at.
However jumping off of rocks into swimming holes, and floating in pools while drinking beer, are two things I can say without hesitation that I have a knack for.
Anyhow, we were, as a group, committed to not having to engage in the trail of tears that most certainly would have been the two plus hour hike back up river, so after wringing out the last bit of life that the swimming holes had to offer, we broke camp and decided to take the short, albeit possibly very dangerous trail back through the creepy fellow's property. There was no two ways about it- that man had no interest in having people cross the 30 yard length of path that passed through his land, and had even gone so far as to tie Poison Oak across the trail in several different spots, as well as burying what bits of trail wasn't booby trapped under tangled piles of manzanita branches.
I had an extraordinarily bad feeling about the whole thing, and was keeping my head tucked, as I know all too well the misery of getting shot with rock salt. After a profoundly stressful five minute hike we finally emerged from the other side without incident and hauled ass to the road to make our quick getaway.
I knew positively that this man wasn't one to be crossed, and I still shudder at the thought of having come face to face with him. I can only hope that the forest service will somehow reclaim that little bit of trail so that folks can continue to enjoy this amazing stretch of river.
As usual, any time I leave town, I get boatloads of event flyers and various communiques from folks that you can't live without, such as this one from these folks;
Or this one from Mr. Gill;
We will get into more of that stuff on Friday, so for now here is to hoping that you all had nice weekends as well, all the while keeping mind to watch your step and steer a wide berth around the sounds of any distant banjos.
Shuffling around the house on Tuesday morning, I inexplicably began to reflect on a series of conversations I had with a group of friends on several different occasions while I was in college. (That's me standing behind and above Lamar.)
One night a smallish clump of us were sitting on an Oakland rooftop and began discussing some good memories, and/or initial impressions that we all had of one another, which is kind of nice because it gives you the opportunity to reflect on specifically just what it is you like about your friends, but eventually the conversation steered towards what each of our most embarrassing moments were, and one that stuck in my brain was from the individual who will just be known at 'Q'.
The short version is that she was in her room getting it on with her boyfriend when her mom came home from work. 'Q' went out to say hello and lie, explaining that she and her boyfriend were doing homework. Just then as she turned around to leave the kitchen, her panties fell out of her pant leg.
Sweet.
If I ever have a daughter, I'm locking her in her room forever.
Anyway, as I get ready to go to work in the mornings, that's what kind of stuff travels through my brain.
Now that I re-read it, it's truly the creme of the banal.
Whatever.. It's typed. There's no going back now.
In other news, do you have nine minuets and twenty five seconds to hear how absolutely screwed we are?
I just totally wrapped my head in aluminum foil.
On Wednesday afternoon while sitting on the street, spare changing, a fellow pushing his bike walked past me and said 'Stevil?' Befuddled, I simply stammered 'hi?' as I was racking my brain in an attempt at putting a name with his face. We stared at one another for a brief moment, when he then said 'I recognize you from the blog'... At that point I realized I was wearing my black bar of anonymity® sunglasses, which was probably how he knew who I was. Anyhow, to that fellow, I apologize for not having my wits about me, and I appreciate you offering a greeting.
However, should there be a next time we cross paths, I'd appreciate it if you would take care to no get tangled up in my cat's leash while stepping over my Frisbees, bongo drums and didgeridoo.
True, while that video is pretty sick and whatnot, I was most impressed with how at 15 seconds, Joe suddenly donned a helmet. Well played young man. Well played.
The toilet paper was a nice touch too.
And speaking of toilet paper, he's an item from Hurl that is sure to add a touch of class to any home;
And speaking of Terry again, besides going well out of his way to keep us all keyed up on the spazz juice, he also sent on this pretty cool clip of how they do what they do;
I'd like to do a film of the Swobo warehouse, but fast motion, slow motion, artistically, or with or without a sweet soundtrack, watching people nap pretty much always looks the same.
JOOP (that's Joe 'I've got nice hair' Parkin to the rest of you) shot one once, but I'll be damned if I can find it. When he comes back from Bigfoot hunting, I'll see if I can can't wrangle it from him, just so you know how work gets done around here.
As long as we're keeping the good times rolling with video clip after video clip, here is another one straight from DPow!;
Way to put the 'hessian' in 'profhessianal'.
You wanna know something that totally kicks ass? Having a bike lane wherever you go.
You know what's even better? Carrying around empty bottles and throwing them in your own path.
I think I'd rather just do beer bongs at 80 miles an hour.
Finally, I totally forgot to blow the Austin event up, but our friends from The Urban Assault Ride not only have a new flyer, but an event coming up next week in Ft. Collins Colorado;
Plus if you were to partake, you could win one of these beauts;
And even though I find it to be especially blasphemous to drink anything other Budwesier in Ft. Collins (or really anywhere, for that matter), there will be gallons and gobs of fat tires and Fat Tire.
If you find yourself for a hankering of dirt this weekend, the world famous Downieville Classic is upon us, where you will be able to find more than your fair share of this. I most definately will not be there however, because if there is one thing I don't like mixing with my nature, it's crowds, but El Corpo will be there and he's got a boat load of Swobo goodness with him that he'll be selling for super duper cheap. If you happen to be in the area, swing by and slap some skins.
Here is one I've had up before, but I'll post it again just for the sake of this particular clip's goodness. Kris Holm doing what Kris Holm does best;
Then again, maybe he makes really incredible pasta, or can play the hell out of a pan flute.. I don't know. Perhaps he does those things better, but what I know for certain is that he rides on one wheel better than just about anybody.
I think that's it. Won't you please be good to yourselves this weekend?
As for myself, I have some stuff happening, and may not get around to a regular post before Tuesday/Wednesdayish.
Suffice it to say, my absence maybe will have something to do with falling down in a river.
From ace homie, and epic adventurer, The Sucka Pants, we get the first email correspondence about what life is like when one grabs it by the pair, and goes for it;
So I made it, the guys and I have been in Jakarta for the past few days zipping around on tall bikes (except me, I'm on the Novak);
It is intense here, to say the least, and the traffic is a whole new level, mainly due to the abundance and agility of all the swarming mopeds;
Very few bicycles in Jakarta, but we hear that it changes drastically when you leave the city. We are hoping to head out tomorrow for some volcano-action, it should take a couple days to get there. This is dependent on our fifth member getting a bike here, since the exorbitant fee charged by Japan Airways forced her to leave her tall bike at home (see first bullet point in the post below). But so far so good I have to say. I'll be funneling more your way when time and internet permit. Hope you like it!
I'll be sending the photos separately because the upload speed here is atrocious. If not you can always find everything on my Flickr (although the ones I'm sending you are un-watermarked).
JOGGING ON THE BED
- If you are ever flying with a boxed bicycle, avoid Japan Airways at all costs. They neglect to mention the $300+ charge to check a bike box (each way) on their website, even though they do go in to detail about surf boards and golf clubs. And they are not flexible about it either;
- The smell of raw sewage in Jakarta never really goes away, it just grows and diminishes in strength depending on where you're standing;
- Having all the neighborhood kids hanging out and playing with our tools/bikes while we are assembling them in an alley, until Ira puts zip-ties on one little kid's wrists. The boy tightens them too much so the family tries to cut them off with a kitchen knife. Ira notices and intercedes with leatherman scissors and they come off... but the kids aren't allowed to play with us anymore;
- Greg and Conrad climbing up onto a rooftop to sneak across to the hotel we had to stay in our first night in town. We got in at night and all the hostels were full, we could only find one 2-person hotel room, and they wouldn't let us pay extra to have people sleep on the floor;
- Riding bicycles in rush hour in Jakarta is... um, intense. Tall bikes tend to give you an advantage because people notice you and steer a bit more clear than they might otherwise;
- Giant rats to rival anything NYC is purported to have. The local short-tailed cats only have about a 15% advantage size-wise.
- New euphamism for sex: "Jogging on the bed."
- "Wow. How to get instant asthma." (Greg after spending the afternoon riding in cluster-f*ck Jakarta traffic.);
I highly recommend you keep an eye on his blog, (which I've linked above, but if you don't want to make your lazy eye go all the way back up there, here you go.) It's an incredible adventure, and I feel very fortunate to have an inside line on the goings on.
On to some more bike nerdery, I'll go ahead and repost a bit that El Pirate Grande posted over on the company's blog;
"This is my friend Tobias. He's German. He and I worked together at Salsa for about 2 weeks back in 1994. He decided he would rather become an engineer than toil away making bikes. For 15 years he's worked at various big companies designing and making all sorts of complicated and cool stuff. Here he is with his new Holy Roller. At 6'7", he makes a 29r look like a kid's bike;
But he still has a boner for bike stuff, and he came up with a really cool way to turn your geared bike into a singlespeed. It's called the Excentriker, and it's an eccentric BB that fits in a standard bottom bracket shell. The part on the right threads into the frame, and the cup on the left allows the BB spindle to move eccentrically to tighten the chain. It obviously doesn't have as much "throw" as a larger EBB, but with a half-link you can cover any gear combo. It's fucking rad;
The drive side cup below...
Non drive side here...
It works with 24mm spindle cranks only."
Looking at that thing with my own two eyes was not alot unlike staring into the sun. I fancy myself a fairly sharp individual, though for whatever reason I could barely wrap my mind around how exactly this thing works, but after taking a spin with The German on Saturday and witnessing just what levels of torque this beast was capable of withstanding, I was duly impressed. If you find a burning desire to obtain one of these yourself, I'm sure contacting the good folks at Soulcraft could get you pointed in the right direction.
On Thursday I received another peach of a postcard from the Kotters;
I love anything that I can pull out of a mail box that makes me laugh...
A happy laugh..
Not like the kind of laugh I emit when I pull out, say, a credit card bill, which is like the kind of strained laugh one might experience being held up at knife point by a PCP addled midget wearing rollerskates.
It's funny, but it's scary.
But it's funny.
As long as we're on the topic of pulling something happy from your post box, with the help of The Skipper, I just completed my first foray into the world of photoshop with the completion of a new bit of propaganda for our friends at Hunter Cycles;
I think I've found my calling.
And by 'calling', I mean 'my slippery slope to eventually living in a refrigerator box'.
I don't know who I feel worse for.. The man who got his ass whooped, or the kids.
I see 20/20 specials and whatnot all the time about 'the apathy of society', that shine a spotlight on how when faced with someone in perel, folks might sometimes just turn a blind eye, and what a shame it is that people don't step in when they see (or hear) someone in trouble.
This is exactly why people might mind their own business.
The kids thought the mom's verbalization was an indication that she was being hurt, they stepped in, and now they're in trouble.
Maybe next time the mom oughta mask herself with a pillow.
Have you ever fancied yourself as a bit of a philanthropist or perhaps a supporter of the arts, but then realized that you were poor?
Well now even the most lowbrow of our ilk can help the struggling creative minds in our midst by going right here.
Finally, as a conclusion to the rapid fire bursts of information and stimulation, I've got an email from Jon that you all might be interested in;
"Stevil,
I'm guessing you'll agree, the linked picture sounds like a good lunch option when avoiding that which is bummer."
I love soup.
In fact, I think I'm gonna go drink a bowl right now.
At 36 seconds on, is CD embracing Jeremy out of affection, or simply in an attempt to hold himself upright?
I opt for the latter.
Then from Robert an email that simply states "Rodney Mullen owns everyone.."
It could be and has been argued that due to the likes of Mr. Mullen and the sometimes nefarious character known as Steve Rocco, the face of skateboarding was changed forever, and for some, that isn't necessarily the best thing, but despite your opinion (or perhaps lack there of) on the matter, it's impossible to deny the absolute grace and finesse that Mullen has always, almost effortlessly possessed.
Then from one of my absolute favorite Mid-Westerners, Chewey, I get this-
"A mom and her deeply disturbed son at Back to the 50's in MPLS.
Yeah, even though we live on our bikes we still have a few 4 wheeled toys.
Chewey"
What I will say about Chewey is that at my first ever Homie Fall Fest after Hurl loaned me a death trap of a Kona, Chewey thoughtfully handed over his brand new Salsa 29er for me to ride (and ultimately bleed all over) while he took over a Surly Cross-Check, which was not necessarily the steed of choice for the day.
Plus he's got a super sweet moustache.
The depicted Tanner on the other hand is just a pain in the ass, but you could have guessed that by looking at him.
Then from Jeremy I got this;
"Stevil,
After reading HTATBL for sometime now, I feel like I know you (in a get off my couch, its been a year kind of way). Even though this may/may not be the case, I find it strange that stumbling across a craft knitting site could spawn my first email to you.
Sometimes I feel alone on this great blue marble, but other times when I get an email like that one from Jeremy, I realize I'm in good company.
I feel as though I should end this particular commentary with the simple statement of 'I feel pretty.'
Then from Nick, this rolls in;
"I read you were out of town. However this photo must not be delayed. In Arizona..."
That would imply that Jesus has a bit of a voyeuristic streak in him. I knew I liked the guy for some reason.
Then from Uma, who from this point forward I will affectionately refer to as 'Ms. Sassy Pants' (though that title could just as easily be applied to long time Swobo model, and all around trouble maker Aden as well), we get this;
"Whose bright idea this was, I may never know. I got it from Tony Pereira and god only knows where he got it.
The fact that I find things like this funny as hell does not win me any brownie points in the yoga world.
Who cares?
I think when people give up 'animal products' they often give up their sense of humor as well.
Tell me this shit isn't funny... I'd believe you,
Uma"
Nope, it's funny. But then again that might just be me.
I realize that unlike every other blog, blurg, website, magazine or varying media outlet on the planet, I've made nary a mention of the passing of Farrah Fawcett or Michael Jackson, so to remedy this I will include a joke from Snakebite;
"Thanks for the shout on HTATBL. Here's a joke for your efforts:
Farrah Fawcett died and went to heaven. When she got there she met god and he gave her one (1) wish. She asked that all the children of the world be safe. So god killed Michael Jackson.
~Snakebite~"
So there you go- once again proving that the color of our particular sense of humor is blacker than Danzig's Jag.
Just to add the icing to the cake, I offer this;
Now here are a couple for the ladies. The Skipper and Jeff T, mind melding from different parts of the coast;
I do believe I hear the pheromones emitting from here.
Miss Malora Ann recently turned me onto the Rapha survey in which How To Avoid The Bummer Life was listed as one of an esteemed selection of bike blogs one could choose from, if one were to choose any at all.
I have to say, even though our name is presented incorrectly, I'm still touched and honored to be included along side such notable websites and logs, though it might be said that my personal preference tends to stray a bit from the norm;
Different strokes for different folks, as they say.
At this juncture, I'm sure that your attention span is waning so I'll pinch this installment off. I've got heaps and piles more, but I'll save that for another day.
July fourth has come and gone, and as always it wouldn't have mattered if I'd blown all but my two index fingers off this weekend cause that's all I type with anyway.
Please allow me to shake some words out of my head and into yours. As you all may or may not recall, I recently returned to my childhood home of Evergreen Colorado to attend what I was presuming to be a train wreck of a twentieth high school reunion, and just before I left I got some words of wisdom from this fellow;
Well, rather the fellow depicted via his translator Gabe;
"Stevil - for what it's worth, I wanted to pass along a tip I received from my good friend Pinch regarding your high school reunion. You might remember Pinch from this old post. See the attached photographic updates of Pinch in various stages of avoidance. Several years back, I queried Pinch about how his reunion went, he placed his hand on my shoulder, stared off into the distance and said "Trust me, don't take acid at your high school reunion." Just wanted to give you a heads up.
Best Regards,
Gabe"
That was good advise, because as I stood with clammy palms at the entrance of the first of many parties to celebrate the reunion weekend, I would have put John Belushi to shame with the amount of controlled substances I was prepared to ingest just to make it through the door, as it had been a long time since my last visit, let alone any time spent with these ghosts from what all intent and purposes might as well have been another lifetime for me. As it turns out, it wasn't so bad after all, but before I get to the meat of the matter, I'll give you a brief breakdown of what went down and when, and to make it even easier for you, I'll align my time away with what you might have been doing at the same moment.
When you were at work sharpening pencils on Wednesday, I was here with this guy;
Then, when you were at work throwing your sharpened pencils at the ceiling on Thursday, I did this stuff with this guy;
On Friday, probably as you were brushing your teeth, and praying to win the lottery, (which is a standard Friday morning ritual for me) I was here;
If you pan just right of the rocky mound in the middle of the above shot, you can see the ridge where my childhood home sits. Not too shabby a spot to be raised if you ask me.
Of course anyone who's ever ridden in the rocks knows that from time to time the rocks can bite back, which I have, I do, and they did;
Then came the reunion/party segment of the trip. Highlights for me included being voted for in an informal poll by the women folk of my class the second best looking fellow in attendance, which doesn't say much for the other men in the room, but I was happy to have inspired my old chum Jennifer's new on-line conception 'www.ishouldhavefuckedyouwhenihadthechance.com'.
Unfortunately all of the photos I took were shot with a disposable camera with the exception of Jennifer's nametag and Allison's feet;
Waking up with bleary eyes on Sunday, I then met up with this guy and rode here;
Which ultimately led to this;
and then this;
Finally, in the afternoon, my better half and I made our way through Golden and did more of this;
I sense a reoccurring theme here.
As the sun set and we landed at our new resting spot in Denver, our hosts threw a barbeque to which I was allowed to call in a few friends for some bread breaking;
and to also teach the newest addition to the clan a few tricks;
Waking up the following morning, I opted to take Demonika to my childhood fantasy land that is Casa Bonita;
There we met up once again with none other than 685, and partook in the crappiest Mexican food this side of Denmark, but as anyone who has ever been there knows, it's not the food that brings people in, but rather the ambience;
Their motto is 'taste the magic of Mexico' and if by that they mean to say that magic tastes like ass, then they are absolutely correct.
Anyway, after running around there for a while, and taking note of all of the blocked off secret passages that I used to crawl around in, we departed and met up once again with Mitch to ride what used to be a really fun urban trail, or as 685 put it, 'a 12 mile long BMX track', but what is now a neglected sand pit strewn with goat heads. Finally upon coming to the end of the trail, we got back in the water to clense the defeat from our skin;
Upon emerging from the water, I found that I had gotten a flat for my efforts, so after dealing with that, I rode the bike path back downtown, and met up once again with Wake and his seed for supper;
Falling out of the restaurant and into bed, our plan for the following day was to get wet one more time, so while Tuesday morning found you shuffling around your office, looking for your stapler, Demonika and I were zipping around a million miles an hour and ogling a million miles of tanned flesh at Water World;
Fortunately for me, I'm now back in the salt mines, partially recharged and filled with hope that one day, sooner than later, I will be doing it all over again.
As always, thanks for sitting tight, and here is to hoping that you might have received some enjoyment from my saga. Worse comes to worse, you can just cut the chord and do it all for yourself.
You know, for what it's worth, even I would appreciate it if you did.
As for the weekend, keep it safe and sane and I hope to see you all back here next week, digits intact.
