My family and I are about to spend the Christmas holiday in our own home for only the 2nd time in the past 12 years. The first time was in 2020 when the world was balls deep into the COVID-19 pandemic, so there was little to feel good about. This time it’s ongoing dog boarding issues have prevented us from traveling back to Western PA for the holiday, and if you know me, my distaste for holiday travel, and my love of routine, you know I’m pretty stoked about that.
As I start this post in the morning darkness of the winter solstice, I have just cut a large Yule Log (the reason for the season?), and I am eagerly awaiting today’s very limited appearance from the sun before heading into the woods to burn some incense and get freaky with a nymphomanic Yule Goddess in celebration of longer days returning.
After early last week’s shin injury scare, I bounced back harder than a large rubber dong repeatedly bounced off the back of a skull and ended up with 28.23 miles on the week and 306.71 miles (now 316.05) hiked since the start of my 2022 Not Dead Yet Comeback Special on September 19th.
As I start this post in the pre-sunrise hours of Wednesday morning, I sit on 9.02 miles hiked so far this week and 287.50 miles since the start of the 2022 Not Dead Yet Comeback Special on September 19th.
This blog, website, journal, whatever the fuck it is, is holding on like the last elastical strains of Moscato-flavored vomit off a drunk sorority girl’s chin; for that, I apologize.
In all honesty, I should have put this thing to bed years ago when I realized my love for cycling, especially racing, was evaporating. However, if I sat around thinking of all the things I should have or could have done with my life, I would be a depressed, 51-year-old fat man living in the middle of nowhere-ass Michigan with no real career, dreams, desires, passions, or lusts left in the tank. Um, OK, forget that.
With all that said, I begrudgingly continue on for some reason.
Holiday #1 in the Trifecta of Holiday Evil has come and gone without incident, as expected. Mostly because B’s schedule and dog-boarding issues prevented us1 from traveling 13+ hours round trip for the pleasure of me being riddled with enough sadness, anxiety, and resurrected childhood traumas to keep my mind racing in The Bed of Torment for the next 12 months again. Fuck that shit. Continue Reading →
Last week was a snowy and cold one, but it felt great to be outside stomping miles through the woods rather than on a treadmill in the gym, going nowhere slow while trying to avert my eyes from the row of TVs in front of me beaming crap morning talk shows and right-wing news, as well as trying to ignore Karlee checking her booty gains in the mirror and Brice flexing his massive arms while disregarding the squat rack and his steroid-induced thinning hair which is offset by his ironic mustache.
Sure, I have abandoned Operation Peck Lift III and lost all my gains again, but I’m much happier outside, embracing shit weather, taking photos, and, let’s face it, pushing myself through the aches and pains that an out-of-shape 51-year-old doofus feels when hiking 4+ miles 6 to 7 days a week while attempting to stave off the depression that had me opting for hours staring a dusty ceiling fan (since dusted) while laying in the Bed of Torment wondering how one person could be filled with so much self-loathing, even on the nicest of summer days.
The week started with a dry and crisp 4.5-mile hike on Monday, followed by a 5-mile hike on Tuesday morning, which featured the unofficial arrival of winter to mid-Michigan. There was little to no rejoicing.
This week picked up where last week left off with more time in the woods with my camera.
Here is another unneeded post about me stomping around in the woods with my camera for no real reason other than to stay active outdoors while exfoliating the depressive hunks of shit that often cling to my brain like barnacles on a 17th-century sailor’s unkept man-nubbins.2
