Well, Diary, the time has come again.
The time when darkness descends upon the land, and Holiday parties
are in abundance. It’s also when the shortened days expose the obsessed
and the realists.
Halloween. My super secret costume was a stunning hit, of course. I had
to play down its impact, however, so as not to crush the collective
confidences of the other guests. I just let the weaker ones jab on about
the "gay Martian" get-up. I must admit, the cackle that went up for, "Take
me to your sausage" was quite rousing.
Clysdale, in his eye-candy costume, stunned everyone by
braving arctic temps and debilitative shrinkage. I wonder if the real
Dr. J ever suffered from shrinkage?
Flo. Another cool nickname. A mountain
biker who showed up with a beehive hairdo. It immediately validated the
dueling images the moniker conjures. Flo.
I seem to have been caught out when it came to catchy call signs. Parsley,
Squish, O-Show, Sinister Bill, Super-T, Alex. All respectable.
My friend ‘Nomad’ a.k.a. Gene, tells a story of his 15th birthday present. A shabby airstrip,
a shabby plane, and an even shabbier pilot named Todd - a biplane ride.
The pilot dips and swings and banks the rattling aero to Gene’s indifference.
"Loops, I want loops!"
They loop. Faster they plummet, the prop rising to a screeching crescendo,
the ground becomes bigger.
Behind, the pilot struggles to level off. Trees sway from the draft as the plane
skims the leaves, the engine breathes a sigh, and the plane touches down.
"Whew, we almozed din mek et!", slurred the stinking pilot. Whereupon the
gruesome realization, Gene exclaims, "You’re drunk! You’re rotten, Todd!"
Hence, I’m now Rotten Todd.
Most complimentary.
Ah, yes, holiday party season. The premier of New World Disorder III at Salem’s
Holy House of Mead resembled something completely unlike that of Hollywood. For
that, it was, indeed, a complete success.
It’s amazing how popular you become when brandishing a camera at a party. Conversely,
it isn’t entirely all that amazing how stupid you become when brandishing a pint(s)
at a party. See photo.
Seaside Cycles and Salem Beer Works (or, "ZeezideZyclez ‘n Zalem’z Beer", after pint
3) did a bang-up job. For the throng that attended, props for the support. Now, go
buy that which you are complaining you did not win!
Is it just me, or do you also get a slight prickly feeling when someone announces that,
"We’re buying Vietnam!". The Republicans would kill for that sound-byte.
The end of the riding season always brings on a bit of a panic from the crew. The
parking lots are getting thin on ride nights. I must admit, my trusty tome, that
I too have bowed out. It’s hockey season. I am a realist.
There are the realists, like myself, who occasionally venture forth, spinning their
wheels during the double-digit months. Indeed, none can pass up the spoke therapy
afforded by Indian Summer.
For the most part, though, the silly season is the Methadone of mountain biking. It
curbs the addiction that warm weather cultivates. It suggests that it is OK to pursue
other passions, provided you have other passions. I fancy myself an aging grommet
on the snowboard.
My other passions include thinking about bikes, fixing bikes, building bikes,
shopping for bikes, and beer. Not necessarily in that order.
What makes me a realist and not one obsessed with riding my bike year round? I know
when to get in out of the cold.
Most enlightening.
