Sick in the Head

One week till the Jeff Cup Road Race and I wake up with infected snot draining from my sinuses. Contrary to what Phillips believes, it was not from watching Two Girls, One Cup, (which I have never, nor will ever, view) but from the changing weather. Every spring & fall when the weather changes from warm to cold, I seem to get a little sinus infection. I lucked out & did not get sick this fall or winter, but hell, today the 1st day of spring, I wake up congested.

In an attempt to blow out the congestion, I went on the usual Saturday ride, the plan was to do about 90 miles. I made it about 25 miles before deciding I would be better served to rest & recover than to force onward. It turned out to be the right decision. As a mountain biker more than a roadie, I pride myself on my bike handling as a way of intimidating the regular roadies. Little did I know that all the pressure would force me to use all my skills just to make it home. As I struggled up Gap mountain at a blistering 6mph, closing my eyes would make the pain go away but also make me zone out & swerve like I was zooted off my ass back in "High" School.

It's funny what the mind will imagine when the body is pushed to hard, the glucose in your body at dangerously low levels. As I forced the cranks over, the song kept repeating in my mind.


Here's hoping there is no permanent brain damage done.

"Sorry Sir, Doing My Best"

Today shall be remembered, a day of epiphany. The vision: I am a dyslexic heart asshole when it comes to picking up women. Case in point, my often aggressive, self-assertive style of never being wrong (but usually in hindsight, find I am way wrong on some deeper level.) So long story short. I go downtown to get a haircut at the usual barber shop only to find it closed. Fuck. I really need a haircut, the hair on the side of my head is long enough to make my head look 2 sizes too large for my body. Remembering that a Great Clips just opened down the road, I stroll in for a quick haircut.

I'm not one to be picky about my haircut, just buzz the shit off & make my head look proportionate to my body. I realize the canvas that is my face does not give much to work with, so just make me look slightly better than a baboon's ass & I'm happy. The canvas that is my face is more in line with a Picasso, only beautiful to those who can see through the jumble of shit that composes it.

So I am greeted by a cute girl, hair stylist. For some reason, hair stylist have this extraordinary cuteness, driven by their own uniquely styled hair & fashion-mod sense. Or maybe they are cute cause I know they'll be rubbing my head in a few minutes. Regardless, this girl was exceptionally "cute" and super friendly.

And here is where it all goes downhill. She simply asks for my name and phone number to put in the computer and I resist like a P.O.W. with jumper cables clamped to his testicles. I only give out name, rank, & serial number, I know this shit, I've been trained to kill. Really, whoever is the marketing douche who thought of this years ago, I say "Fuck you" I hate getting spammed either by email, phone, or shitty mail flyers that just end up contributing to the trash heap that is pushy marketing. But the cute girl plays it off like its not spam, just a way to know something, like your haircut or god knows what. So they crank the power up & the battery cables sizzle my nuts, but I resist & say "John Doe", sounds good.

Having obviously made more of a production out of this than is necessary, I get my haircut, & in the process talk with this lovely girl who is new to the area (hint #1), talks about dating (hint #2), asks me if I'm married with kids (umm, no) (hint #3), etc. She spends way more time than is necessary to make me look pretty, a losing battle really, & I feel so douchenozzlish, that I give her my name, phone, blood type, & all the secret plans for invasion I had so direly resisted initially. Feeling like a huge dick, I give her a $5 tip for a $10 haircut, take my shrivelled & dejected balls out the door, & that's when I have my epiphany.

That girl was making nice, almost too nice, & I was a total dickbag. God I'm an asshole when it comes to picking up the signs. I walk over to the grocery store & can't stop thinking, "what an asshole", "what an asshole". If I had just given her my fucking name, I could have then hinted at asking her out, but no, Mr. Anti-Marketing, Anti-Man, you fucking blew it! What an asshole. Have fun jerking off tonight instead of taking cute hair stylist girl on a date. "What an asshole".

"How many assholes we got on this ship anyhow?"

Push play & hammer

After a long weekend in NoVa visiting the family, the Capt seems to be on the biking downswing. I only managed 1 ride in NoVa, a nice 64 mile solo ride to visit my sister & mom's work place & meet some of the fine ladies at their office (if you're reading this Kelly, you should next be emailing me). My Rogues Racing picture is displayed in the office & I have found out it has been affectionately (or perversely) dubbed the "package picture." Funny cause I'm not holding any boxed goods, hmm.

After riding Wednesday, trying out a new Prologo saddle, the old back pain flared up & the demotivation kicked in. After reassessing the saddle fit, I determined it was 6mm to rearward. 6mm too long, the story of my life. After moving the saddle forward, I still didn't have the inclination to get on the bike & fear the back pain I have come to dread.

Luckily my crazy sister called saying she wants to buy a bike. After a 20 minute talk about bikes, caloric burn rate, & heart rate monitors, I felt I should man up & get on the bike & see how it goes. Knowing I still needed a little push to get out the door into the warm weather, I stuck the I-Brick mp3 player in my pocket, loaded up some old Metallica (when they were good), and blasted down the road, instantly realizing my saddle was where it belonged, cradling the "package." For 2 hours, double kick drums & tight guitars blasted through the ear buds, oh yeah, the legs are coming back, the brain is thinking positively.

So little kiddies, when you are feeling low, load up on coffee, eat some potatoes, grab the bike & blast Blackened. This shit will having you pedaling like a coke head on a stolen bike.