Covid-19 has forced us to replace sports with documentaries about sports. Kills time, but fucks up the betting.
ESPN played “The Last Dance”, Michael Jordan’s ode to himself, and 30 for 30’s series on Lance Armstrong practically back-to-back.
Covid-19 Quarantine has sent many of us scurrying back to our bicycles.
Some for the first time since childhood. I see them on the bike paths, wearing a T-shirt and jeans shorts with no pads, gears squeaking from the spider webs they didn’t bother to wipe, and weaving all over the road like drunks.
Put tires on my road bike that are 3 millimeters wider (25 to 28 mm), so I could ride on a little dirt. What did I get? A berating from two “expert” trail users.
I don’t want to admit how many tens-of-thousands of dollars I have spent on road bikes in the past decade. But in this pandemic, worth every fucking penny.
I was struggling to get up Las Sendas when these four 70-something, fat ass, snowbirds from Michigan floated past me like they were riding on a cloud.
Fat Bikers are hell on wheels.
For years I wished the town of Gilbert would pave the canal path from Guadalupe to Warner Road. Sometimes it’s better for wishes not to come true.
Just because you are wrapped in two tons of steel and plastic doesn’t mean you get to run over anything that slightly annoys you — especially a fat biker just out for a ride.
It’s an instinct that probably goes back to our days chasing mammoths over a cliff. Cyclists see another rider ahead and do everything they can to pass that bastard.
How can you spot a happy bikers? Count the bugs in their teeth.
I know that’s an old terrible joke… but it sort of applies to bicycles too. I’ve swallowed my share of “free protein” — especially riding at night.
For more than half a century I took breathing for granted. Sure I would get out of breath on a mountain climb or a sprint, but then… hit 55 years old and dun, dun, dunnnn: exercise-induced asthma.
Ohh God it burns, when these little balls of salty sweat roll or drop right into the corner of your eyes.
It doesn’t happen every ride. Sometimes it happens when it hot, sometimes when it’s not.
I once went cycling up a giant mountain with a drug lord from South America.
Sure, sure Angry Ed denies he is, or has ever been, a drug lord. But if ever there was a witness protection name for a cartel double agent, it’s “Ed Vegas.”
Being a fat biker (pedaling not Harley) with no pigment leaves me little choice. I have to ride at night or risk Satan’s kisses (sunburn all over).
I’m a night person anyway. I put on two motorcycle power headlights, a flashing red tail light and head out once the sun turned off.
Most cyclists are your basic MAMIL’s (middle-aged men in lycra) — you know harmless, masochistic skinny fucks who enjoy burning muscle pain and oxygen deprivation.
But occasionally out of a pack of MAMIL’s, one douchebag will pop up like burnt toast. There’s a few different types of douches, but the worst is the wheel-sucker.
Neurodivergent Writer & Teacher / Powered by ADHD
Tripping over roots and rocks since 1996
Bad advice for a father trying to do good by his family.
When In Doubt, Go Big.
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An atheist blog that seeks to discredit the Bible by exposing its silliness.
Pieces of life and the love of family mixed with the passion to ride
Like Mother Teresa, only better.
Riding the South Coast of Massachusetts and Rhode Island
cycling less than i plan
"Nothing that happens to a writer -- however happy, however tragic -- is ever wasted." ~ P.D. James
playwright, screenwriter, and novelist
The Dude Abides. I'm A Dude AbiKes. I wonder as I wander around Austin on a bicycle.
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