As I listened to the namesake of today’s post title, I wondered to myself rhetorically, if you ever occasionally wonder what in the hell you’re doing?
Me too, but like, all the time.
The other morning I woke up and realized as of the 31st of this past May, I’ve been writing three posts a week for ten years.
How did that even happen? Where did my life go? Granted, next month will mark this here site’s eight year anniversary, which by itself is kind of a totally weird miracle.
We’ve covered neurosis, catharses, and everything in-between. I’ve made public pleas to the world’s population or really, just anyone who would listen to start being kinder to one another, I’ve described in embarrassing detail my own flirtations with becoming completely unhinged, and we certainly have covered nearly all manner of wheeled toys, libations, and the beautiful and enduring friendship that exists between the two. We’ve welcomed people into the world, and bid farewell to people leaving it. We’ve had adventures, and parties, and joked about creating regrets. We’ve watched relationships develop, dissolve, and endure, and in some cases all three. We’ve watched people almost die, and come out of the other side in one piece, for none of us grew up wanting to be stuntmen and women. Our chest hair made the decision for us.
I’ve had the opportunity to transition away from this format and put my stink in print. Copywriting for various brands, random pieces and regular features for Bike Magazine, Paved, and now for almost the last two years, Dirt Rag.
Why, at one point I even got the opportunity to write a complete Tour recap after having not watched a single stage of the race.
Anyway- to quote that one group of hippies- “what a long, strange trip it’s been“.
In short- From this electronic pulpit I’ve had the extremely good fortune to see, experience and process a great deal, and along with this rotating discombobulated cavalcade of humanity that makes up the readership, have had countless genuinely life-affirming exchanges, and through them built some pretty amazing relationships.
It might seem like a hollow gesture being broadcast here all black and white and electronic and such, but it’s from the bottom of my heart and with every fiber of my being that I humbly offer my most sincere thanks both the readership as well as the advertisers for the continued support.
It means more to me than I can possibly describe.
Having said all of that, I realize in amongst all of the topics we’ve broached over the years, one that I don’t believe we have is regarding Chris Froome socking a wigged and costumed spectator in the jaw;
Judging on the idea that Froome’s arms, (as well as most professional cyclists of his caliber) might be about this big around;
-and that at this point he’d ridden somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen billion kilometers, I can’t imagine that much juice was packed into his punch (or as I called it, ‘the boop heard ’round the world‘).
From my perspective, a swat to a child’s bottom is the same as a swat to a man-child’s face. They’re misbehaving, and all Froome did was give him a little attention getter, though I much prefer runners getting swatted by fate and their own stupidity;
And I’d be lying if I said that this still doesn’t make me chuckle;
The long and the short of it is summed up by the declaration of the spectator heard in the video’s background.
“Well, don’t run with the riders, you twat.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Moving on- Here’s a somewhat important matter that I really need to address. The short version of what brought us here to this subject is that I’ve been tapped to curate a show of Pabst Blue Ribbon related artwork, like this piece done last year by the very talented Steven Bossler;
(A print of which can be purchased here).
I’ve come to learn that there are three categories, each being up for the $10,000 prize. Can art, 3D, and 2D. As I mentioned on the Instagrams, any medium can be submitted, so if you’re a Bay Area/NorCal artist, or know one who would be interested, please reach out to me ASAP. We’re fixing to have the show open the last week of September, so the sooner I know who’s showing, and what mediums we’re dealing with, the easier my job will be.
And I’m nothing if not a sucker for easy jobs.
Finally, we’re gonna cap today’s effort off with a correspondence/cautionary tale from Gypsy The Punk that reads a bit something like this;
I just read your post about camping in your truck and enjoying the trees, water, cute little bugs and “germaids,” so I figured I’d share a recent ride of mine with you.
I’m cooking it on a new section of trail, enjoying a super grippy new front tire, when all of a sudden I whip around a corner and am confronted by a cholla tree that has fallen across the trail. I somehow manage to get both wheels up in the air and over the trunk…
…but not over the debris on the other side of the tree.
…and manage to impale my fingers with each and every one. I take another picture;
-and turn around and start riding back to the office. It is 8:30am, and 98 degrees outside. I come up to one of my favorite sections of the trail. It’s swoopy in just the right way. There is is a hard left turn with a little berm on the outside of the curve, which is immediately followed up by a hard right with a bigger berm on the outside of it. That new front tire is pretty amazing, so I do my best Valentino Rossi imitation, and lean waaaaaaaaay into it. The front tire bites deep, I grin a big grin, and start setting up for the right hand turn ahead.
That’s when I see him. Grandpa rattle snake. He’s huge, and on my left. He lights up and buzzes like a chain saw. Keep in mind, I am turning left, and leaning left. Waaaaaaaaaay left. Remember? Grandpa rattle snake is like 3 feet from my face.
Anyway, I let out a yelp and nearly lose it. Just what I need, to fall over and land on Grandpa rattle snake… He wouldn’t mind. Would he?
I somehow don’t fall, and make it through the turn.
I wasn’t watching where I was going anymore, and I over shoot the right hand turn. That new front tire of mine didn’t bite this time, and slides up and over the edge of that berm, and I eat it and slide to a stop on my right side. Remember the berm that I just crashed on? Yeah. It’s sloped down and to the right, and because of the way I am tangled up with the bike, every time I try to get free I slide back down…
…back towards the left hand curve where Grandpa rattle snake is still coiled up and buzzing.
This is when I start screaming like a little girl.
My left quad cramped so bad I couldn’t unclip. I cussed (a lot). I took my shoe off, and crawled over my bike and up and over the other side of the berm… AWAY from Grandpa rattlesnake.
Everything in the desert is actively trying to kill you all of the time.
I did not take a picture of Grandpa rattlesnake.
I did get the hell out of there.
Punk rock is as punk rock does,
I appreciate Gypsy taking the soul-crushing temperatures and the Jumanji-esque danger that the desert provides, mostly just so that I don’t have to, and can live vicariously through him.
So here we are at the end of the couple thousandth post. Where do we go from here, and what exactly is next? I don’t rightly know.
We’ll most likely continue stumbling down the road of art, bikes, boards, booze, social and poitical jibberjabber, music, and the general celebration of the absurd. I may not know what the hell I’m doing, but at least I’m sure of it, and I suppose that’s better than nothing.