Here we are once again in the throes of Monday- Certainly the most wretched of all the week days, and one that has no qualms of kicking us once we’re already beat.
Though it’s no where nearly as cute as a baby goat beating up a toddler.
With the summer days being of a hot sort, over the weekend here in the Oakland portion of the Bay Area I split time between napping, and sweating and sweating while I was napping. It turns out that not only am I pretty good at all three, but I quite enjoyed engaging in my newfound calling.
But while I was busily immersed in said activities, Joe got around to sending me unequivocal proof that while ‘arybody got they own kind of coffee‘ holds many truths, unfortunately it isn’t at all a qualified defense;
Phillip at least gets a half a point for trying.
In other news of the whirld, a bus won the first stage of the 100th running of the Tour Day France;
It was later heard defiantly saying while confined in doping control “I will prove that it’s possible to win without doping.”
This year, I think we all know it’s the bus who will emerge the hero.
Previous to any of this, I had my money on Cavendish, but after this dark horse came from out of the woodwork, I realize I’ve made a sucker’s bet.
In other news of bikering, I had clear plans this past Saturday to take a defiant step in my many years of guerilla trail maintenance and saddle up in lock step with some folks who do real live trail work- The kind I.M.B.A. smiles upon with a re-routing of a particular stretch of trail that has for years choked a small water way with its run off. I was excited as I scampered out of my house en route to what would assuredly be a day of power tools, manual labor and poison oak. Finally arriving on site I began surverying the efforts that had already been made;
This clearly is but a tiny segment of what’s already been accomplished, and walking the stretch I was befuddled to find that no other personnel was present. Curious, I began contacting other folks in hopes of an answer to where they might be when it finally dawned on me that I was a week early.
While I may be fiercely devoted to the health and welfare of my local trail systems, the same cannot be said about my ability to read my own calendar.
In light of my error, I spent the morning walking the surrounding network on which I’ve spent so many years while aboard a bike, and despite my initial reservations, quite enjoyed the process, and look forward to finally meeting up with my dirt digging compatriots in a week’s time.
Assuming I don’t screw up my arrival again.
While nature hikes are all well and good, what I found to be quite necessary to settle my mind was ultimately a sojourn back into the woods the following morning aboard a speed cycle along side of my delightful life partner;
One half dirt, one half paved and nearly 85% free of the sounds of my complaining or singing Gordon Lightfoot aloud.
It was nearly a perfect day.
In news absolutely not relating to bike, rides, brides or shovels, a couple of weeks ago I came across this installment from ‘Jeff Grosso’s Love Letters’ series which touches on a topic as near and dear to my heart as fuzzy animals or The Fall Guy, being that of ‘doing the dance’;
To date I probably have more hours logged while spewing sparks from atop a curb than I do doing anything else aside from drinking water or mourning my lost youth.
To me it’s always been, hands down, the most brilliant expression in skateboarding especially because the medium for the act is as common place and overlooked as air.
How many people look at a curb and think of hours worth of fun?
“I mean you get a party ball, five dudes, and a killer curb, and it’s on! For hours!“
I’ll even go on record and say for those who care, the last trick I learned, which isn’t even that long ago, was a backside slappy 5-0 to 180 revert.
It was about then that I simi-ofically retired, because if memory serves, after that session, I was crippled for a week.