[I] decided to cut back on the distance a smidge this week in an attempt to recover from lots of miles over the past few weeks.
I said that in Tuesday’s post, and I meant it. Well, at least at the time, and I kept to it for the first three days of the week when I did sub-6 mile hikes and was more than OK with aiming for a 25-mile week.
But then, as the week progressed, I was feeling pretty good, so I said, “fuck it,” and finished off the week with 7.12-mile and 6.09-mile lumbers, which put me at 30.15 miles for the (M thru F) week and my 5th 30-mile week in the last 6. Old, fat, stupid, and sort of, kind of, almost fit with a beer gut is so *in* these days.
WARNING! You can stop reading now unless you want to hear about American Woodcocks and lots of unfunny, immature commentary.
“Dig that crazy bird!!” – me, last summer.
The first time I saw “that crazy bird” was last summer when I started a “run” at dusk with a headlamp, and the same bird kept running in front of me just beyond the throw of my light. It would run off and on like that for about a quarter of a mile until it finally darted into the brush.
The second time was about a month ago. I was coming around a blind corner, startled the crazy bird and it startled me. Then, it took off into the woods, and I checked my man-gutchies for soilage. Of course, there was.
Then, today, once I parked and geared up, I headed towards the suspension bridge, and for the third time in my life, the same kind of crazy-assed-looking bird darted in front of me and into the brush.
But THIS time, I finally got a shot, and I was finally able to find out that it was an American Woodcock. Not a chuck, not a shop, not a pecker—a cock. And not just a cock, a WOODCOCK. I guess Hardwood, Bigdick, Meatstick, and Birdy-Birdy Dicknose were already taken.
It was cool to come home and read up on the crazy little bird with the long beak and a name like a well-endowed gay porn star. Or if you’re looking to besmirch the poor thing, you could say its full name sounds like the title of a Kid Rock song.
From the ad in Billboard magazine:
“Kid Rock is back with his brand new single, American Woodcock, A “balls out,” old school patriotic rock and rap anthem inspired after a sweaty night of dick pills, rhythmic slapping, and deep unbridled homoerotic passion with good friends Donny and Hulk Hogan. So much bad hair! So much ball cupping! So few brains! So little talent! So… AMERICAN WOODCOCK!! The new single is available now on all right-wing media platforms and streaming on internment camp loudspeakers everywhere!”
OK, even though I dig the bird, that’s enough about woodcocks, I swear. And I promise to never write about Kid Rock again; I feel dirty, like a recently stoned Old Testament whore who soiled the marriage bed with my lustful ways.
DIGRESSION IS NEEDED, STAT!!
After my encounter with the crazy little bird, I was lucky enough to see another snapping turtle laying eggs near the river, as well as some shots of a colorful iris along the way.
It was a fun week of lumbering, and I’m looking forward to a weekend of slack, sloth, beer, and crap football.
Later.
P.S. Sorry if you’re reading this on a work computer and got flagged for reading my bit about the woodcock. Unless you are a fan of any of the people I slagged. Then you can piss off.
THE SOILED SOUNDS TRACK OF THE POST