Cold beer after a long ride
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Stuck between a Redneck and Goomba…
Quite a tight situation to be in for sure. It seems in my journey down the single-track of life that compromise must be the most efficient gear. There is no Zen trail through life. Every direction I turn is a constant 11% grade switchback, turning left constantly up the side up an immeasurable climb. With every pedal stroke that is the morning alarm of repetitiveness, the top of the climb is further and further.
So I find myself stuck between a Redneck and a Goomba. I left the “How you doin’?” scene of NJ and rolled on down to the sunny South. I traded colloquialisms for “howdy y’all”. It seems a damn Yankee just can’t catch a break. I mean cows are beautiful but you can only converse with them for so long before you begin questioning you sanity. If it wasn’t a Bergen County soccer mom in her Mercedes SUV talking on her cell phone running me off the road, it’s southern Jim Joe Bob in his 4 ton pick-um up truck complete with his “Heritage, not Hate” confederate flag bumper sticker. Heritage not hate, yeah I’m buying that bubba.
I miss the simple times of a good ride with better beer, yum Hit By a Mac Truck Ale, and best friends. Loud obnoxious NJ people, they are “F’n funny yo”. I feel the bible belt tightening around me and I need some Dirty Jerzey heathenism to make me appreciate being a sinner. Tell me a story about Donkey Punchin’ or Rusty Trombones. Something cause I’ve grown to accept that Jesus don’t love me, I’m from the North. So when do we crest the climb and begin the long downhill and sweeping, high banked turns? My brain suspension is bottoming out, and my lycra is full of Goo.
So I find myself stuck between a Redneck and a Goomba. I left the “How you doin’?” scene of NJ and rolled on down to the sunny South. I traded colloquialisms for “howdy y’all”. It seems a damn Yankee just can’t catch a break. I mean cows are beautiful but you can only converse with them for so long before you begin questioning you sanity. If it wasn’t a Bergen County soccer mom in her Mercedes SUV talking on her cell phone running me off the road, it’s southern Jim Joe Bob in his 4 ton pick-um up truck complete with his “Heritage, not Hate” confederate flag bumper sticker. Heritage not hate, yeah I’m buying that bubba.
I miss the simple times of a good ride with better beer, yum Hit By a Mac Truck Ale, and best friends. Loud obnoxious NJ people, they are “F’n funny yo”. I feel the bible belt tightening around me and I need some Dirty Jerzey heathenism to make me appreciate being a sinner. Tell me a story about Donkey Punchin’ or Rusty Trombones. Something cause I’ve grown to accept that Jesus don’t love me, I’m from the North. So when do we crest the climb and begin the long downhill and sweeping, high banked turns? My brain suspension is bottoming out, and my lycra is full of Goo.
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