Wednesday, on the way to work at the Newton shop, I double-flatted. Now I don't believe in bad luck really. I flatted because I was commuting on racing tires (Michelin Pro 3's) and they were beat to hell, it was only a matter of time before it happened. But twice in one ride? C'mon! It was pissing rain too, total deluge. I fixed the first flat, rode for about another fifteen minutes, then BLAM! Second flat.
I wound up riding the rear flat all the way from Weston over to Newton, at least five, maybe seven miles. It got really dicey when I stopped to grab a coffee. I was riding one-handed down Needham street with my rear end washing out all over the place. That road is about as smooth as Robert Davi's face. It was a minor miracle that I didn't go down.
When I got to work, I had some more bad luck — I hadn't packed socks and my feet were soaking wet. This is the only time I buy socks. I wish other clothing items were bought on such a necessity-driven impulse basis. I would have a much better wardrobe. I couldn't find any socks that I liked, so I decided to get all crazy and check out some of those compression socks that are all the rage with senior citizens who don't want to get blood clots in their legs on planes and bike racers.
The socks I bought were black and I was wearing all black, so I could delude myself into thinking I looked like an awesome Kiwi rugby player from The All Blacks.
Didn't Johnny Cash write a song called "The Man In Black (Compression Socks)"? Compression socks are totally bad ass.
I thought that the fact that they went all the way up to my shorts felt odd, so I decided to experiment with different short lengths. Dan The Man was stoked. Look at him checkin' me out. I think he wants to, as he says, "yummy down on it." His words, not mine. That's his weird blue foot in the photo a couple back. He's rockin' those barefoot running shoes, they totally creep me out. He looks like a member of blue man group who forgot to take his shoes off in the shower.
I asked James Morrison from Embrocation if he wears the compression socks. He told me (in so many words, that were nothing like these) that those things are for pussies, all the cool kids are rocking the full-on compression tights these days. I told him that those are called "panty hose."
Take two, this one with the socks actually pictured. This one is more for Peter (and maybe a for Dan too a little, hi Dan) who put the following comment on the blog yesterday:
fuck you.See those meaty Mirko Cro Cop thighs Peter?
I AM DOING six hours of power.
YOU stay where you are.
They're coming to the Six Hours of Power brutha. I'm towing them behind the Subaru in a Uhaul trailer. You better be ready for a battle, cuz I'm-a bring my A-War. I'll ride circles around you so fast that a vortex will be created. You'll be so turned around and upside down, you'll be calling ham "Canadian Bacon."
And now, in a very smooth segue from meaty thighed smack talk to...to, I'm not sure what. M and I stayed down at Pop's Camp in Wrentham last night. It's incredibly relaxing. I spend all my not-blogging and not-watching The Le Tour and True Blood time reading. It's sweet. What was not sweet was waking up to pee in the middle of the night. Well, not waking up to pee, but waking up suddenly as I smashed my fucking head into a 2 X 4. We were sleeping in the loft of the cabin, it's a little low in the ceiling. I thought I was being attacked as I dropped back to my pillow. I thought "Oh, so this is what it's like to be beaten to death with a bat in your sleep. Remind me not to piss off anyone with anger management problems and a collection of Louisville Sluggers."
Or cut Mark Renshaw off in a sprint lead-out:
In the morning, when I woke up from my concussion-aided slumber, I pulled my bike out of the boat and bike house. It's difficult to hit the road for a hard couple hours on the way to work when there are colorful floaty things in the boat house and beer in the fridge.
That's the cabin below. We call it "Pop's Camp." Pop was my great grandfather, he built the place. My Mom and my aunts and uncles all used to stay there in the summer with Pop.
In-between Wrentham and the Boston shop there's a pocket of some of the most amazing roads around. It's not a bad commute. It's not short, but it's almost 100% awesome.
There's a little bit of a contrast between Wrentham and Allston. It's mostly an olfactory thing. Wrentham doesn't smell so strongly of wet cigarette butts and urine.
But wherever you are, it's always a good thing to run into K.P., Kevin Porter. He is perpetually stoked and his stoke is contagious. I wish I could keep him in my closet. Every morning I'd wake up feeling like I normally do, which is probably worse than I should, and I'd open up my KP closet and he'd go "YEAH MAN!" and all would be well in the world.
Alright, off to New York for the Six Hours of Power. See yuz Monday.