Unapologetic and Narcissistic Rage-The Sequel

I get ugly this time of year.

Ride your Madone like a pussy in the Kettles and I squash you like a bug when we hit the hills. The look of horror on a man's face when he sees 29 X 2.1's ride by him like he is standing still should be a MasterCard commercial. The only reason you caught me on the down slope is because I spun out at 32 X 11. Hell, anyone can descend.

Today was Heaven (or Hell in my case). The music was cranking in the ears, but I do not remember a note. The focus was on the race and it was playing over and over in this simple mind. What does this mean?

It's back for 2010: Unapologetic and Narcissistic Rage.

And Now for Something Completely Different

A chapter comes to a close, a season to an end, the end of the book. The 2010 bike karma was over, even before it got started.

So, boys and girls, Chequamegon is my swan song.

2011 will be something different:

• Duathlons? Maybe..but yet another bike?
• Triathlons? Fuck water.
• Marathon? Possibly. Shoes are cheap, but surgery has many more costs.

Besides, I have a kick ass fishing boat that has not seen water in 2.5 years and I am long overdue to my friends for weekends of nothing but fish guts, fermented/distilled beverages and Phipps's memories that can last a lifetime.

Conclusion: Time for new life challenges. It has been a great fucking ride.

Gallus Gallus Domesticus Do Do, Part II

One and done.

Half way through my Saturday AM death ride, the decision was made. It's the kiddy race. Gary got the email 15 minutes after I dismounted my bike.

Other life endeavours require more of my time and properly training for a 40 mile Bataan Death March no longer works into the schedule. The big boy's race demand a minimum of 12 bike hours a week and I have other murders to commit priorities.

Chicken Shit

Indecision. It defines me. It is a fault. It is who I am. It is my life.

I pounded out the hills today, all 1745ft of them, but it is becoming painfully clear that I am not ready for the Marathon. It might be time to go back to the Kiddy race and wreck it like I did two years ago. I am driven by the fact that a week ago, I ran a foot race FASTER than I did 2 years ago. One of the many voices in my head keep telling me at race time, at age 46 (yes...46!), I am top 20. Not a bad way to spend your birthday...

But the other side tells me that I have unfinished business in the big boy's race. Only 30 days to pull the trigger.

Then 18 days to mind-fuck myself into a competitive rage. This is easy for me.

Do I Still Have 'It'?

I may be 45, but I can still run with the best of them. 69th overall.

But the last mile was the slowest...something that I am not happy with. In my ENTIRE racing career, this has NEVER happened. What's even worse, I missed 1st in my age by five seconds.

I need to find that competitive mindset that I know has been missing for a long time. And find it soon, before it is lost forever.

Holiday in Heaven, Future in Hell.

I had to get away. It was not planned (not to my standards). Pack up the dog, the 29r, the jamba, and plenty of libations to pollute the rest of the cerebral matter that I have left. No work or TV. Just me and the only living animal on this planet that does not suck the bone marrow out of me on a daily basis.


Like father, like son. When I was young, I could never understand why my Dad loved the serenity of blissful peace of the Northern woods. But now I realize what makes me happy…what makes me not give a shit. Thanks Don.

Do I have a point? Not really. It is just good to realize that when I decide to make that 30mph right turn in a Northern Pine, Cerberus--a dog, will waiting for me at the entrance.

Heaven: Day #3 Yummy