So, I’m at Del Taco when a teenage girl of indeterminate sex and height approached the counter…
“I want a cheese quesadilla.”
“Do you want cheddar or spicy jack?”
“No. I want cheese.”
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Of course, there’s always Plan B…
Cycling is a tricky thing for me. As much as I like to do it, I always feel like an amateur. And when it comes to talking about it, I never feel as though I really know what I’m talking about. Typical for me, because I’m a guy, I am loath to ask anyone for advice about cycling: how to fix things, where to ride… heck, even “How do I ride this bike, anyway?” You’d never catch me asking that! I might end up looking foolish! (Because that comes pretty easy…)
Case in point, my hands. My darned hands. They always hurt when I ride. I always come home feeling like I’ve been riding ON my hands. What’s the deal, dammit?
Well, I tried reading up on the issue and discovered my seat might have been placed incorrectly. So, I adjusted my seat. I asked someone I know who rides who said it was my handlebars. So, I adjusted them. I heard you need to bend your arms and I did. I heard you should stretch so I have.
But my hands still hurt like a motherfucker!
Here’s the problem: When you ride, your weight gets distributed in a couple of different ways. It goes down into your seat and legs. It also rests forward on your handlebars and your hands. And this is what has caused me so much pain in the last few years. Basically, I’m a fat fuck who puts all his weight on his hands.
And I was pretty much doomed to that, too, because no advice I came across was helping. Then, a few weeks ago, I tried something that I found revolutionary. I tried using my stomach muscles to support some of my weight. IMAGINE! What happened? The weight moved off of my hands and, as an extra bonus, I found myself peddling better as well!
For the 40 seconds or so that this lasted, I was blown away! I had stumbled upon something amazing: posture! No wonder I hadn’t been able to find an answer. Nobody was going to say, “Well, you could try actually using that fat mid-section of yours.” Nobody.
With every ride, I tried it a bit more. The results were astonishing.
Today, I rode 51 miles up to Yorba Linda and down to Huntington Beach. I made it up to Yorba Linda and down to the beach, holding myself with my core muscles the whole way. I found I was using more than just my stomach muscles, but my laterals and my back and more besides. My hands were hanging in there like troopers. Things were great.
It was getting hot, though. Summer really has hit here in Southern California and I was guzzling water. By the way, you might not know this but a full bladder makes it very difficult to use any of your core muscles. Try it sometime. It just makes you want to pee. Dammit.
I headed back up the SART and was nearly at the 405 when two things happened simultaneously. First, my legs gave out due to the heat and bad planning. (I hadn’t brought something to eat.) Worse still, my core muscles sent a message to my arms that said, “You take this load from here. We’re done.” Right then, my core muscles went slack and all of my weight was put back on my hands.
I was about 12 miles from home and in pretty shitty shape.
Oh, I made it. And I’ll keep working those core muscles. It’s a lesson I wish I’d learned earlier and the more I do it the more stamina they’ll have. And I thought I’d toss this tip out there for anyone who is looking for a solution to the hand problem… or just a minute to laugh at a fat guy…
Case in point, my hands. My darned hands. They always hurt when I ride. I always come home feeling like I’ve been riding ON my hands. What’s the deal, dammit?
Well, I tried reading up on the issue and discovered my seat might have been placed incorrectly. So, I adjusted my seat. I asked someone I know who rides who said it was my handlebars. So, I adjusted them. I heard you need to bend your arms and I did. I heard you should stretch so I have.
But my hands still hurt like a motherfucker!
Here’s the problem: When you ride, your weight gets distributed in a couple of different ways. It goes down into your seat and legs. It also rests forward on your handlebars and your hands. And this is what has caused me so much pain in the last few years. Basically, I’m a fat fuck who puts all his weight on his hands.
And I was pretty much doomed to that, too, because no advice I came across was helping. Then, a few weeks ago, I tried something that I found revolutionary. I tried using my stomach muscles to support some of my weight. IMAGINE! What happened? The weight moved off of my hands and, as an extra bonus, I found myself peddling better as well!
For the 40 seconds or so that this lasted, I was blown away! I had stumbled upon something amazing: posture! No wonder I hadn’t been able to find an answer. Nobody was going to say, “Well, you could try actually using that fat mid-section of yours.” Nobody.
With every ride, I tried it a bit more. The results were astonishing.
Today, I rode 51 miles up to Yorba Linda and down to Huntington Beach. I made it up to Yorba Linda and down to the beach, holding myself with my core muscles the whole way. I found I was using more than just my stomach muscles, but my laterals and my back and more besides. My hands were hanging in there like troopers. Things were great.
It was getting hot, though. Summer really has hit here in Southern California and I was guzzling water. By the way, you might not know this but a full bladder makes it very difficult to use any of your core muscles. Try it sometime. It just makes you want to pee. Dammit.
I headed back up the SART and was nearly at the 405 when two things happened simultaneously. First, my legs gave out due to the heat and bad planning. (I hadn’t brought something to eat.) Worse still, my core muscles sent a message to my arms that said, “You take this load from here. We’re done.” Right then, my core muscles went slack and all of my weight was put back on my hands.
I was about 12 miles from home and in pretty shitty shape.
Oh, I made it. And I’ll keep working those core muscles. It’s a lesson I wish I’d learned earlier and the more I do it the more stamina they’ll have. And I thought I’d toss this tip out there for anyone who is looking for a solution to the hand problem… or just a minute to laugh at a fat guy…
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Self-helping… myself…
Consider it another case of “You just never know”.
About a year ago or so, I submitted my book on success (Climbing Maya) to a certain publisher. Rather than an outright rejection, I received another reply typical in this economy, “Can’t take on any new projects right now. Try me back in a year.” Never one to look a gift horse in any orifice, I tagged it and flagged it for one year later.
That came up a few weeks ago. So, I emailed the publisher again. This time, I received the same “Can’t take any new projects” note, asking me to try again in six months. I also received another email. The publisher doesn’t just publish books but magazines as well and one magazine they publish is a self-help magazine. To my very great surprise, the editor of this self-help magazine saw my submissions and was asking me to submit something for the magazine.
Really? Me? Self-help?
Hi. We haven’t met. My name is Ken.
But hey, I have long since learned never to pass up any opportunity. And, while I won’t reprint what I submitted here, I will let you know if/when it hits the newsstands. No, the whole reason for this blog entry is just your regularly scheduled reminder: Don’t give up.
Believe me, I know the feeling. I’ve been working on my writing for over a quarter of a century now and have seen more dreams pass out of sight than I can mention. But you never know where opportunity will knock… or when for that matter. Heck, I’m no self-help guru but that doesn’t mean I haven’t learned a thing or two about overcoming obstacles. You just never know.
I have recently developed a relationship with an agent back east. While we haven’t met, he’s read a couple of my books and calls himself a fan. Thing is, being a fan ain’t quite enough. But he’s reading another one, looking for a book he thinks he can sell. While it isn’t opportune – heck, why can’t people just love me, anyway? – it is an opportunity.
There. How’s that for self-help? Don’t pass up an opportunity just because it isn’t “opportune”.
I’m going to put that on my Facebook page right now! You just never know when a little luck is going to strike.
About a year ago or so, I submitted my book on success (Climbing Maya) to a certain publisher. Rather than an outright rejection, I received another reply typical in this economy, “Can’t take on any new projects right now. Try me back in a year.” Never one to look a gift horse in any orifice, I tagged it and flagged it for one year later.
That came up a few weeks ago. So, I emailed the publisher again. This time, I received the same “Can’t take any new projects” note, asking me to try again in six months. I also received another email. The publisher doesn’t just publish books but magazines as well and one magazine they publish is a self-help magazine. To my very great surprise, the editor of this self-help magazine saw my submissions and was asking me to submit something for the magazine.
Really? Me? Self-help?
Hi. We haven’t met. My name is Ken.
But hey, I have long since learned never to pass up any opportunity. And, while I won’t reprint what I submitted here, I will let you know if/when it hits the newsstands. No, the whole reason for this blog entry is just your regularly scheduled reminder: Don’t give up.
Believe me, I know the feeling. I’ve been working on my writing for over a quarter of a century now and have seen more dreams pass out of sight than I can mention. But you never know where opportunity will knock… or when for that matter. Heck, I’m no self-help guru but that doesn’t mean I haven’t learned a thing or two about overcoming obstacles. You just never know.
I have recently developed a relationship with an agent back east. While we haven’t met, he’s read a couple of my books and calls himself a fan. Thing is, being a fan ain’t quite enough. But he’s reading another one, looking for a book he thinks he can sell. While it isn’t opportune – heck, why can’t people just love me, anyway? – it is an opportunity.
There. How’s that for self-help? Don’t pass up an opportunity just because it isn’t “opportune”.
I’m going to put that on my Facebook page right now! You just never know when a little luck is going to strike.
Saturday, July 03, 2010
The First Century…
So, here I am, awake at nearly four in the morning on the day after my very first century ride.
Yes, you read that right – probably left to right – I completely my first 100 mile cycling trip. I woke up an hour or so ago in just a whole lot of pain and went to take some more advil. I figure my muscles are in shock right about now, screaming, “What have you done to us?!” Silly muscles…
The ride began at 5:15 yesterday morning. My alarm went off and my first thought was, “What are Vicky and I doing to – oh…” And as reality sank in, I knew the day had arrived. I tried to find a way to get off the hook but Vicky (who seems to like watching me put myself in these awkward positions) kept saying, “No, you can do this.” She has so much faith in me… God, I hate her…
Anyway, I got up – put on my gear – loaded my pack full of food for the trip – filled up my water bottles – checked my tires and chain – and completely forgot to take some advil before I left or take any on the trip. You see, taking some advil before leaving on a long ride helps my body cope with the incredible amounts of pain long rides create and taking a bottle meant I could keep the pain at manageable levels… and I forgot both of those things… stooopid…
My butt began hurting as soon as it landed on the seat as I pulled out of my driveway. I rode up my street to the Santa Ana River Trail (“SART” from here on), which is about when my wrists began hurting. You might not expect the wrist pain but, believe me, it is very much part of the process. I am only beginning to learn how to balance my weight with my core muscles and how to utilize my arm muscles to mediate my weight so it’s not all put on my wrists… but mostly I put most of my weight on my wrists. Yep. We’re talking about nearly 250 pounds… on my wrists… surprised they don’t just snap off like twigs, really…
I hit the SART at about 6am and began the ride by cycling up to Imperial Highway and the Yorba Linda border. This way, I could put over 10 miles of the ride behind me before heading to the shore, thus reducing the ride from 100 miles to 90 miles… which is bullshit because 90 miles is still fucking insane… but I digress…
It really is insane, though…
I hit the end of the SART and Huntington Beach by about 8am. A good start. There wasn’t much traffic, which meant I could cycle as fast as I wanted without having to worry about passing anybody. My speeds in this part of the ride were up around 20 MPH… yeah… I’d soon be missing that…
The beach was pretty vacant at 8am. Lots of joggers, people getting a jump on the day. The speed limit when you’re riding on the beach is 10MPH. I rode on the beach because I wanted to keep my speed down; I had to last for many hours, yet.
When the beach trail ended at Warner Avenue (Sunset Beach), I took my first break. I hadn’t checked my odometer yet and did so at this point. I had ridden 34 miles. The route for the ride not being a perfect loop, I knew I’d have to complete the first 54 before turning around. That meant, I still had 20 miles to go. My first thought was, “Shit…” I would also be leaving the safety of riding on the beach to riding along Pacific Coast Highway (or “PCH”) with all the traffic. My second thought was “Shit…” But my speed on PCH was still good. I was up to about 20 MPH all the way up to Seal Beach… when my chain fell off. Yep… right off my bike. But I’d gone too far to turn back – actually, I hadn’t but the pain had dulled my ability to make excuses, I guess. So, I got the chain back on – then, it popped off again – and I got the chain back on again and, though it stayed on, it made some ugly noises for the rest of the ride.
At the Long Beach border, I turned onto the San Gabriel River Trail (or “SGRT”). This would take me up to 54 miles and the turn-around point. The SGRT is narrow and busy and, worse still, VERY poorly maintained for the first few miles. So, my already battered taint got to feel lots and lots of beating from all the holes and bumps… lots of fun… Why did I do this again? For those of you who get that part but don’t understand why “narrow and busy” is bad, imagine a group of 50 cyclists going 25 MPH passing within two inches of your face…
The furthest ride I’d take previous to this had been to El Dorado Regional Park in Los Alamitos. But that had only been a 70 mile ride. Even with the 10 miles cut out at the beginning, this still sucked…
So, what do you do when you’re a really far way away from your goal and you’ve already gone as far as you’ve ever gone before? (And you’re so tired you forget to look at your odometer so you can’t say how much further you had to go at that point?) You fix your eyes forward and you pedal. That’s it. You pedal past Carson and Del Amo and South Street. You pedal past all the equestrian properties in Lakewood. You pedal past the 91. You pedal past Rosecrans. You pedal past the 105, while somehow thinking, “At least, I’m not pedaling past the 105. That’s crazy far!”
When my odometer hit 50 miles, I past beneath Imperial Highway. I figured that would be a good place to stop for a break. After all, I’d ridden from Imperial Highway by Yorba Linda to Imperial Highway by Downey. Fuck. So, I had a bite to eat and drank from my diminishing water supplies. (Actually, what they don’t tell you about riding a century is what I like to call “water management.” You spend most of your time looking for places to find water and, um, get rid of… um, water…) Then, I started again. After all, I had to ride 54 miles before I could turn around. So, I rode past Firestone and Florence. I rode past the fucking 5 freeway! I rode past Telegraph Road and – at 54 miles – rode beneath… oh, shit. The street had no sign. Turns out, it was Slauson Avenue and I was in or around Pico Rivera… a very far way from home.
I turned around and hit smack in the face by the terrible reality of weather. You see, one of the reasons I left so early in the morning was so I could avoid being hit by the on-shore breeze that kicked up more as the day went on. Well, now it was about 11am or so… and the breeze was kicking. I threw my bike down into a much lower gear – fixed my eyes forward – and rode 16 miles through a constant wind right in my face. But I got back to PCH, if you can believe it. For that alone, I was proud of myself. Oh, and one more thing, I had now ridden 69 miles. No joke – and just one mile below my longest ride to date.
Another rider took a break where I was eating my snack and I struck up a conversation. Now, this guy was the picture of health and certainly looked like a hardcore rider. I figured he was probably on a long-distance ride of his own. So, I asked, “How long you riding today?” “Just to here,” he replied. No kidding. Well, after we clarified things, I found out he was riding 17 miles that day and he had never even considered riding a century, though he was interested in hearing about mine. My point in telling you this is you never know about a person by looking. More importantly, though, never think you aren’t capable just because you don’t look the part. I do NOT look like someone capable of riding a century – but I was the one putting myself through it.
And put myself I did… or something… Back down the coast, I coasted. Once back at Sunset Beach, enough beachgoers had arrived to make riding at the beach the pleasure you know it can be. By this, of course, I mean lots of underaged chicks with hardly any clothes on. Yes, I’m a perv but I was a perv on a mission… no, I mean the ride… no, I mean the bike ride…
I got back to the SART at about 1pm with 82 miles on the bike. Now, here’s the thing. Home is 17 miles up the SART and I needed 18. I was going to come in about a mile short. Fuck it – I wanted to go home.
With the wind at my back, I pedaled a respectable (for my weight and out-of-shapity, at least) 14 MPH. Sure enough, I pulled into my neighborhood – What? I was tired. Those last 17 miles were hell. You hear back talk about “hitting a wall”? Well, I hit a wall every mile. It was agony. All I can tell you is that I learned your body can only be in so much pain at one time before it says, “You just don’t care, do you?” – Anyway, I pulled into my neighborhood a mile short but that didn’t seem to matter. Suddenly, that last mile, I felt invincible! All the pain melted away and I rode around a couple of blocks like a 14 year old and not a 44 year old! (And looking kinda like an ass, too, I imagine.) When I pulled up to my driveway, I had 99.87 miles. I was going to stop there and let “rounding” do the rest of my word for me but I could hear Vicky’s voice say, “Don’t you want to see that turn over to 100?” She later assured me that was not her but my own neurosis. Okay, so my neurosis sounds like Vicky. I did two laps in my driveway – it’s a long driveway – and turned the odometer to 100.01 miles.
Sweaty, stinky, and in a fuckload of pain… I had done it.
Yes, you read that right – probably left to right – I completely my first 100 mile cycling trip. I woke up an hour or so ago in just a whole lot of pain and went to take some more advil. I figure my muscles are in shock right about now, screaming, “What have you done to us?!” Silly muscles…
The ride began at 5:15 yesterday morning. My alarm went off and my first thought was, “What are Vicky and I doing to – oh…” And as reality sank in, I knew the day had arrived. I tried to find a way to get off the hook but Vicky (who seems to like watching me put myself in these awkward positions) kept saying, “No, you can do this.” She has so much faith in me… God, I hate her…
Anyway, I got up – put on my gear – loaded my pack full of food for the trip – filled up my water bottles – checked my tires and chain – and completely forgot to take some advil before I left or take any on the trip. You see, taking some advil before leaving on a long ride helps my body cope with the incredible amounts of pain long rides create and taking a bottle meant I could keep the pain at manageable levels… and I forgot both of those things… stooopid…
My butt began hurting as soon as it landed on the seat as I pulled out of my driveway. I rode up my street to the Santa Ana River Trail (“SART” from here on), which is about when my wrists began hurting. You might not expect the wrist pain but, believe me, it is very much part of the process. I am only beginning to learn how to balance my weight with my core muscles and how to utilize my arm muscles to mediate my weight so it’s not all put on my wrists… but mostly I put most of my weight on my wrists. Yep. We’re talking about nearly 250 pounds… on my wrists… surprised they don’t just snap off like twigs, really…
I hit the SART at about 6am and began the ride by cycling up to Imperial Highway and the Yorba Linda border. This way, I could put over 10 miles of the ride behind me before heading to the shore, thus reducing the ride from 100 miles to 90 miles… which is bullshit because 90 miles is still fucking insane… but I digress…
It really is insane, though…
I hit the end of the SART and Huntington Beach by about 8am. A good start. There wasn’t much traffic, which meant I could cycle as fast as I wanted without having to worry about passing anybody. My speeds in this part of the ride were up around 20 MPH… yeah… I’d soon be missing that…
The beach was pretty vacant at 8am. Lots of joggers, people getting a jump on the day. The speed limit when you’re riding on the beach is 10MPH. I rode on the beach because I wanted to keep my speed down; I had to last for many hours, yet.
When the beach trail ended at Warner Avenue (Sunset Beach), I took my first break. I hadn’t checked my odometer yet and did so at this point. I had ridden 34 miles. The route for the ride not being a perfect loop, I knew I’d have to complete the first 54 before turning around. That meant, I still had 20 miles to go. My first thought was, “Shit…” I would also be leaving the safety of riding on the beach to riding along Pacific Coast Highway (or “PCH”) with all the traffic. My second thought was “Shit…” But my speed on PCH was still good. I was up to about 20 MPH all the way up to Seal Beach… when my chain fell off. Yep… right off my bike. But I’d gone too far to turn back – actually, I hadn’t but the pain had dulled my ability to make excuses, I guess. So, I got the chain back on – then, it popped off again – and I got the chain back on again and, though it stayed on, it made some ugly noises for the rest of the ride.
At the Long Beach border, I turned onto the San Gabriel River Trail (or “SGRT”). This would take me up to 54 miles and the turn-around point. The SGRT is narrow and busy and, worse still, VERY poorly maintained for the first few miles. So, my already battered taint got to feel lots and lots of beating from all the holes and bumps… lots of fun… Why did I do this again? For those of you who get that part but don’t understand why “narrow and busy” is bad, imagine a group of 50 cyclists going 25 MPH passing within two inches of your face…
The furthest ride I’d take previous to this had been to El Dorado Regional Park in Los Alamitos. But that had only been a 70 mile ride. Even with the 10 miles cut out at the beginning, this still sucked…
So, what do you do when you’re a really far way away from your goal and you’ve already gone as far as you’ve ever gone before? (And you’re so tired you forget to look at your odometer so you can’t say how much further you had to go at that point?) You fix your eyes forward and you pedal. That’s it. You pedal past Carson and Del Amo and South Street. You pedal past all the equestrian properties in Lakewood. You pedal past the 91. You pedal past Rosecrans. You pedal past the 105, while somehow thinking, “At least, I’m not pedaling past the 105. That’s crazy far!”
When my odometer hit 50 miles, I past beneath Imperial Highway. I figured that would be a good place to stop for a break. After all, I’d ridden from Imperial Highway by Yorba Linda to Imperial Highway by Downey. Fuck. So, I had a bite to eat and drank from my diminishing water supplies. (Actually, what they don’t tell you about riding a century is what I like to call “water management.” You spend most of your time looking for places to find water and, um, get rid of… um, water…) Then, I started again. After all, I had to ride 54 miles before I could turn around. So, I rode past Firestone and Florence. I rode past the fucking 5 freeway! I rode past Telegraph Road and – at 54 miles – rode beneath… oh, shit. The street had no sign. Turns out, it was Slauson Avenue and I was in or around Pico Rivera… a very far way from home.
I turned around and hit smack in the face by the terrible reality of weather. You see, one of the reasons I left so early in the morning was so I could avoid being hit by the on-shore breeze that kicked up more as the day went on. Well, now it was about 11am or so… and the breeze was kicking. I threw my bike down into a much lower gear – fixed my eyes forward – and rode 16 miles through a constant wind right in my face. But I got back to PCH, if you can believe it. For that alone, I was proud of myself. Oh, and one more thing, I had now ridden 69 miles. No joke – and just one mile below my longest ride to date.
Another rider took a break where I was eating my snack and I struck up a conversation. Now, this guy was the picture of health and certainly looked like a hardcore rider. I figured he was probably on a long-distance ride of his own. So, I asked, “How long you riding today?” “Just to here,” he replied. No kidding. Well, after we clarified things, I found out he was riding 17 miles that day and he had never even considered riding a century, though he was interested in hearing about mine. My point in telling you this is you never know about a person by looking. More importantly, though, never think you aren’t capable just because you don’t look the part. I do NOT look like someone capable of riding a century – but I was the one putting myself through it.
And put myself I did… or something… Back down the coast, I coasted. Once back at Sunset Beach, enough beachgoers had arrived to make riding at the beach the pleasure you know it can be. By this, of course, I mean lots of underaged chicks with hardly any clothes on. Yes, I’m a perv but I was a perv on a mission… no, I mean the ride… no, I mean the bike ride…
I got back to the SART at about 1pm with 82 miles on the bike. Now, here’s the thing. Home is 17 miles up the SART and I needed 18. I was going to come in about a mile short. Fuck it – I wanted to go home.
With the wind at my back, I pedaled a respectable (for my weight and out-of-shapity, at least) 14 MPH. Sure enough, I pulled into my neighborhood – What? I was tired. Those last 17 miles were hell. You hear back talk about “hitting a wall”? Well, I hit a wall every mile. It was agony. All I can tell you is that I learned your body can only be in so much pain at one time before it says, “You just don’t care, do you?” – Anyway, I pulled into my neighborhood a mile short but that didn’t seem to matter. Suddenly, that last mile, I felt invincible! All the pain melted away and I rode around a couple of blocks like a 14 year old and not a 44 year old! (And looking kinda like an ass, too, I imagine.) When I pulled up to my driveway, I had 99.87 miles. I was going to stop there and let “rounding” do the rest of my word for me but I could hear Vicky’s voice say, “Don’t you want to see that turn over to 100?” She later assured me that was not her but my own neurosis. Okay, so my neurosis sounds like Vicky. I did two laps in my driveway – it’s a long driveway – and turned the odometer to 100.01 miles.
Sweaty, stinky, and in a fuckload of pain… I had done it.
Thursday, July 01, 2010
On routes and men not straight…
So, I was thinking about something just now and thought, “I should put that on a blog somewhere… wait… I have a blog…”
So, this will be a two-fer, which only seems appropriate given how long it’s been since I posted a one-fer.
First… I’ve been running into a lot of plays written by straight men in which a gay man must inseminate a woman desperate to have their child – with HILARIOUS consequences! I don’t know which disturbs me, the idea that these playwrights feel it so important to make gay men a part of straight life or that they can only write these plays as comedies. Gentlemen. Listen. I know this happens, which makes it far from cutting edge. Okay? Also, there are seriously ramifications to this… so let’s stop making jokes about things we know nothing about. Okay?
Second… Vicky has it in her head that I’m going to ride a century tomorrow. A century, for those unfamiliar with the term is a 100 mile ride. It would be my first… and I am terrified at the prospect. I’ve ridden 70 miles and a good friend of mine told me that the difference between 70 and 100 is mental… so…
Now, I cycle on the Santa Ana River Trail (or SART, as we call it). This is far from 100 miles long, so I have to get creative. This means, I’ll start out riding up the trail for a distance, then back down to the beach. Then, I’ll ride up the beach to the San Gabriel River Trail and up that for a long, long time… then, I’ll have to come home.
The thought of being in pain for six hours or so – and this is what I anticipate, pain for six hours or so – is not a pleasant one. But I feel like I need to try it. Anyway, the Tour de France begins on Saturday and what better way to usher that in?... I mean, aside from staying home and watching it like a sensible person…
So, this will be a two-fer, which only seems appropriate given how long it’s been since I posted a one-fer.
First… I’ve been running into a lot of plays written by straight men in which a gay man must inseminate a woman desperate to have their child – with HILARIOUS consequences! I don’t know which disturbs me, the idea that these playwrights feel it so important to make gay men a part of straight life or that they can only write these plays as comedies. Gentlemen. Listen. I know this happens, which makes it far from cutting edge. Okay? Also, there are seriously ramifications to this… so let’s stop making jokes about things we know nothing about. Okay?
Second… Vicky has it in her head that I’m going to ride a century tomorrow. A century, for those unfamiliar with the term is a 100 mile ride. It would be my first… and I am terrified at the prospect. I’ve ridden 70 miles and a good friend of mine told me that the difference between 70 and 100 is mental… so…
Now, I cycle on the Santa Ana River Trail (or SART, as we call it). This is far from 100 miles long, so I have to get creative. This means, I’ll start out riding up the trail for a distance, then back down to the beach. Then, I’ll ride up the beach to the San Gabriel River Trail and up that for a long, long time… then, I’ll have to come home.
The thought of being in pain for six hours or so – and this is what I anticipate, pain for six hours or so – is not a pleasant one. But I feel like I need to try it. Anyway, the Tour de France begins on Saturday and what better way to usher that in?... I mean, aside from staying home and watching it like a sensible person…
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