I laugh harder every time I watch it having a harder time explaining it to my kids why it is funny or how it is that I can show my middle finger as a joke
Okay, the first matter of business comes in the form of an apology to my friends and drinking buddies in the biking community for my self-imposed exile of late, details of which shall remain nebulous, at least for now. Suffice it to say I checked out for a bit and now I’m back. Sort of. I mean, as far as fat-tire rides are concerned, I still haven’t put ass to saddle since SSWC 09 in September (and only a few times before that this year), but that dearth of dirt miles didn’t seem to have much impact on my ability to muddle along with the rest of the pack in Durango. Odd, yes, but I’ll take it.
On to the important stuff. The 4th Annual Bootlegger's Bliss will occur on Satyrday, November 14th, of this very year. Details such as time and location will be revealed shortly via email to all attendees of previous years' events.
For now, and especially for the uniniated, a maniblissto of sorts, to wit:
The history of all hitherto existing cycling events is the history of competitive struggles. Not so with the Bliss.
The Bootlegger's Bliss is a social event, designed to bring together people who share (or are simply curious about) two seemingly disparate passions: homebrewing and mountain biking.
The Bliss is not a race. It does not suffer elitist competition. It begets neither boasting nor bloviation. There are no medals, no podiums, no bragging rights, no prizes. No one's "in it to win it," as the dreadful cliché goes. No one trains for the Bliss. There are no "winners." Or, more precisely, everyone is a winner.
The Bliss is not a drinking contest. It does not engender wanton drunkenness. It is a tasting, and if you don't know the difference between a tasting and a drinking contest, the Bliss is not for you.
The Bliss is about fun for fun's sake. It is the arrowhead forged in the smithy of the soul, honed in secret, dipped in curare, then trained on the heart of the ogre Boordumb. The lifeblood of the Bliss is participation. There are no spectators; everyone is equally a "criminal" and delights in it. Everyone rides, everyone tastes. Participants are encouraged to front their very best brew, in keeping with the concept of the potlatch, whereby prestige is gained not by amassing coveted property like some plutocratic piggy, but by giving it away.
Leave your money at home. The Bliss is not about commerce—quite the opposite, actually. Aside from the homebrew and homecooking you're asked to bring and share, the Bliss is a free event, generously and officially sponsored by Absolutely No One®. That's the point. From a philosophical perspective, the Bliss was conceived as a small step outside of commerce—a tick in the matted hide of mass-production—and as an appreciation of highly personal craftwork against the backdrop of some sweet singletrack. It's a celebration of use value, that immeasurable quality that fills the soul with a sort of natural, ineffable satisfaction too seldom felt in the cold void, the funereal absence, the blanched banality that clings to exchange value like stench to carrion.
As Raoul Vaneigem put it, "We have a world of pleasures to win, and nothing to lose but boredom."
UPDATE: Rained out and rescheduled! Details here. (Thanks to riderx for the scoop.) Rob Harrington, the Leesburg Baker's Dozen race promoter, has come up with a new event, a two-day stage race called "Speed Freaks." Some time back, Rob requisitioned me as the artist for the event, and after dicking around (an art term) forever with a variety of concepts, I settled on the above image as my meager contribution. Simple, straightforward, and anything but elegant. This graphic will find its way onto some very nice long-sleeve jerseys as part of the race shwag and, hopefully, onto the backs of many of the readers of this blog.
If you're interested in doing the race, sign up by October 14th (that's tomorrow!) to save $15 off the race price.
Looks like a great opportunity to get in one more dirt race before the end of racing season. Check it out.
*Phrase brazenly stolen from the song "Sea Foam Green" by Jawbreaker.
It's official now. I'm a polo dork. Got the disc cover on front to prevent broken spokes. It didn't help my game though. I fell twice and landed on the end of my bar; once mid-thigh and once on my nipple. I can't decide which hurts more this morning.
Seven hours will pass before my Pops picks up Jo, me, Chester, and Quiring and drops the lot of us off at the airport. From there we'll go to Albuquerque to Santa Fe to Durango for the SSWC. Along the way there will be riding interruptions - middle desert - which I haven't done in like, forever. Vast expanses of dirt, cacti, but most importantly, actual mountains.
Tangentially, many have asked, "How're you feeling?" Much better, thanks. Doc says "Cut down on the fried foods and cholesterol, or it's the statins for you!" I hate taking meds. If I start statins, it'll be like, forever. I'll try my best.
Since I last wrote, I've become hooked on something new: bike polo. I've even given up totally beautiful riding days to instead go down to the rink to wack the street hockey ball around with a chopped ski pole topped with a piece of plastic tubing. So fun, sprinting up and down the walled court, twisting/contorting your body to snag and control the ball, shuffle it forward, then take a swing, only to miss. No problem, repeat again and again until you finally get it in, or the other team scores their five goals. So if you'll be in Santa Fe in the next few days or in Durango this weekend, look for a group of a striped dozen-ish. We'll be the ones laughing ours arse off, hooting and hollering, and altogether having a good time. Say hi. I'll be the one hacking in the back :)
I wake up yesterday morning with a tight chest. I go to work with earlier mentioned tight chest, when about an hour and a half later, my tight chest turns into a feeling where someone just reached into my chest and is squeezing my heart with all their might for about ten seconds. I set up an appt with my family doc who is across town. I get there, the nurse looks me over, then gives me an EKG. Two minutes later, they are hooking me up to an oxygen machine and are calling 911. They say my EKG looks abnormal and the oxygen absorption rate is ~70% when it should be 98-100%.
I'm whisked away to the nearest hospital via ambulance, less than 10 minutes away, and I'm met by a team of doctors and nurses. They get me inside, start hooking me up to machines, and tell me I'm having a heart attack!!! They're double-checking, but they want to know how to proceed just in case and depending on the severity: taking pills, open-heart surgery, or angioplasty. Doc says he'd recommend doing #3 if I was his brother.
It's too much. I, 37-years old, regular exerciser, but so-so eater, am having a heart attack! Doesn't the biking, at least every other day, count for nothing? Oh yeah, there's the little family history thing. My dad's dad died of a heart attack in his forties (I think) and at least three of my dad's bros have died of heart-related conditions. My dad has had a quadruple bypass, and here I am, still eating fried chicken, greasy fries and burgers with regular abandon. No worries, methinks, since I bike so much. Well, reality don't much care.
I'm rushed to another lab upstairs. They need to shave my nethers, make a cut, and stick a catheter up the hole to go straight to my heart and dye it so they can do more scans. It's surreal, the whole time never less than six people in the ER and now the cardio-scan room (or whatever they call it) are running around, explaining things, and telling me that time is of the essence. I'm freaked, but I go with the flow. They determine that I'm not having an outright heart attack, but they aren't sure what's going on, which means...more big machines and more testing.
They bring me upstairs to my room in the Cardio Unit, and start poking me with all sorts of needles to draw blood. I let them know ahead of time that there are two things that scare me more in the world than anything else: public speaking and needles and that I've even fainted at the latter a few times. It's then they discover that everytime they prick me with a needle to draw blood, my heart rate drops way below "normal", which worries them. They eventually are able to get a few vials of my plasma.
Meanwhile, the cut above my groin is really sore, but I can't move that leg for eight hours. They put a collagen plug in the hole, and if I move funny, it can come out, and it being an artery, I can bleed out. Greaaaaat.
I explain to these cardio nurses that I bike a lot. They realize that may the reason that my heart rate is registering so low. (I later discovered that I scared my night nurse when she peeked in and my heart rate was down to 34 bpm.) My blood pressure seemingly appears too low, but with the knowledge of the "athleticism", they realize that it's really good also, which begs them to ask, "What are you doing here?" They're used to seeing much wider patients, meaning, well, you know what I mean.
I'm kept overnight for observation and more testing. This morning, I'm given a heart sonogram. Good. Clean. Then later, I'm given a VQ scan, which basically meant inhaling and getting injected by radioactive dye to see if I have a blood clot in my lungs. Uh-uh. Nada. Finally, my fourth EKG in two days. Same ol' same ol', i.e., normal.
The cardiologists and other types of docs look at all the test results, and they can't explain my chest pain. I have a little plaque around my heart but nothing that should have prompted a heart attack. My bad cholesterol levels are a little high, and they recommend a heart-healthy, low-fat diet. 'Nuff said, done. They conclude that it might've been acid reflux, but I need to check back next week and three weeks from now.
I'm out of the hospital and back at home now. I'm sore from needles, not being able to move my leg for eight hours, and the cut they gave me above my groin. Selfishly, I'm glad it's supposed to rain and stay hot for the next week so I can't be tempted to get on the bike, which I need to do for at least three days.
My buddy Kathy, the schoolteacher, had an anecdote from a couple of days ago:
I know you all are jealous about me being off for the summer so I thought I'd give you a quick glimpse into my daily activities. I'll share today with you...
Drank coffee and did crossword puzzle for an hour
Went to Wakefield to ride -- best thing about summer is being able to ride during the day
Lube chain, check tires, get on bike
Go into the Bowl
Rippin it up
Something pinches my neck
Grab a bee from my neck
It hurts but I just got there
Decide not to be a whimp and keep riding
Fingers start tingling
Neck hurts but keep riding
Go to the racecourse
Clothes are itchy
Face feels fat
Lips are tingling
Helmet feels too tight
Decide to go back to car
See blotches all over my body
Feel light headed
See guy in parking lot and ask him what I should do
He offers to call 911
I refuse. It's only a bee!
Leave and go to 7-11 for Benadryl.
As I'm sprawled over the counter, lady can't figure how much it costs
Throw a ten at the lady and ask the guy behind me call 911
Slump to the floor
Firefighters and EMTs come
Am totally embarrassed
They tell me I'm going to the hospital
I say I don't want to
They ask why I called 911 then
Get in ambulance and go to hospital
Get IV and a bunch of other stuff injected in me
Lindsay comes
Get released four hours later
Now have to carry an EpiPen
Feel like an IDIOT
I hope you guys aren't too jealous with all of the fun I have during the day! :)
Artistic rendering. May or may not bee actual size.
Email invitation is out and in your inbox, if you made the list. If you didn't and should have, you know how to reach me.
Okay, the first matter of business comes in the form of an apology to my friends and drinking buddies in the biking community for my self-imposed exile of late, details of which shall remain nebulous, at least for now. Suffice it to say I checked out for a bit and now I’m back. Sort of. I mean, as far as fat-tire rides are concerned, I still haven’t put ass to saddle since SSWC 09 in September (and only a few times before that this year), but that dearth of dirt miles didn’t seem to have much impact on my ability to muddle along with the rest of the pack in Durango. Odd, yes, but I’ll take it.
*Phrase brazenly stolen from the song "Sea Foam Green" by Jawbreaker.
