Shit Island

I'm not exactly sure what put me in this incredible shit mood I am in. It could have been having to fix a flat on an electric Razor scooter at the work the other day. This incident prompted me to a propose a new policy for the service department — you can either a.) Do the repair you have been asked to do, or b.) Fight the person who signed in the repair to the death. Either way you win. If you're dead, you don't have to fix flats on electric razor scooters. Unless you die and go to hell, because that's all you do there, fix flats on razor scooters. That, and play golf.

Golf. God I hate golf. I'm sorry, I know a lot of people who golf, it's weird, I know. Sometimes you hang out with someone for years before you find out they play golf. It's like working with someone forever and then finding out he's a pedophile, you don't want to believe it, but it's true. It's just like that. I hate golf so much that I heckle golfers. It used to be: "Get a job!" Which is ridiculous, because of course golfers have jobs, how else could they afford to golf? But yesterday I was riding along next to a golf course and, out of nowhere, I yelled: "Tiger cheated!" This was just an adaptation of a taunt I have received from many a passing motorist:"Lance cheated!" At first I took this as a sign that things were moving in the right direction, that cycling was actually increasing in popularity. It was a much more informed taunt than, say "bike faggot!" Then it got old fast.

Now I don't think that golfers in Lexus crossover vehicles are the ones responsible for the informed, anti-cycling taunting, I just hate golf and want to cause golfers mental anguish. It took me a minute to realize that I had merely stated the obvious, quite loudly. Of course Tiger cheated...but I meant at golf.

No one has ever implied that Lance cheated in that way. Although when you're into "women" the size of the Olsen twins, it's very easy to get away with infidelity. "Did you hear that? It sounded like the garage door. Quick, get in the hamper!"


Speaking of trash talk, George W. turned me on to this site: HB Cut The Course in 1990, from which the above photo was stolen. Who knows, I'm so internet-slow that the photo may have been stolen from elsewhere. The site is like Bike Snob NYC for mountain bikes. That is if Bike Snob had been dropped on his head as a child and then spent the following thirty years huffing paint fumes.


You know what I don't hate? The heat. I'll take 100° and humid over 38° and raining any day.


This bike is called "The Islander." You know what island The Islander gets ridden around?
Shit Island, that's what island.


This bike makes me happy. Especially when two out of three bikes that roll in the door of the Boston shop are sweet, sweet fixies. If you want to stand out in the crowd, you have to ride something as awesomely gay as this thing.


As for the Olympus Stylus Not-So-Tough, it made me sad when is stopped working AGAIN about a week back. It would only turn on in PLAY mode. I let it rest for a few days, and then, just when I was picking it up to figure out how I was going to deal with the warranty business, it started working again. Ya, it's probably a lemon, and ya it's probably going to fritz out again, but it's working now, and I'm too lazy to deal with preemptive responsible consumer-type-action.



The frightening fact that I am going up to the six hour race at Pats Peak tomorrow makes me neither happy nor sad. I am just going to go up there and do as many laps as I can in preparation for the Wilderness 101. I may have something worth talking about on Monday. Madness.


Sunday is my year wedding anniversary (if I can make it through the next 24 hours without screwing up big time). My wife doesn't like the above photo, but I do, and I like her too, maybe even more than like. Whatever else is going on in my life, she is always there, and I can always count on her support. It is only through some grand cosmic mistake that a woman like her ended up loving a guy like me. But I'll take it.