Last night, right after I hit the publish button on what will surely be known as the most widely unread blog post in Soiled Chamois history, I popped my normal shot of ZzzQuil and headed up to The Chamber of Farts that is my bedroom. An hour or so later I was still awake; I tossed, I turned, I coughed, I was hot, I was cold, I was sweating, I coughed again. “Wait, why do I keep coughing?” I thought to myself. Then it hit me…. I’m getting sick… I’ve got the crud! OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!
Last week I made some pasta with (jarred) marinara sauce and homemade meatballs. As soon as I started eating it I found myself on my knees shaking my fork towards the food gods above, cursing them for letting me make pasta and jarred red sauce. Almost every time I eat it I end thinking it’s too salty and an evil bout of indigestion will be waiting for me within minutes of finishing. The only red pasta sauce I REALLY like these days is my homemade Bolognese sauce. With that said, I was in the mood for pasta today and remembered a recipe I made once last year that was pretty darn good and avoids straight up red sauce.
I may or may not have mentioned this before, but in the world of beer (in which I am a well steeped lover), Dogfish Head Indian Brown Ale just MIGHT be the beer that has retained most of my affection over the years. I could seriously make love to this beer… it has everything I could ever want in a beer and more. I don’t drink it all the time, but GODDAMN, when I do I sort of get all tingly in the nipple and crotchial regions.
That’s it, carry on, a more thorough blog post about nothing is forthcoming.
Later.
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Photo: Soiled Chamois file photo from last weekend.
Yesterday was my typical and not-so typical Monday. Typically, I was super busy with stuff through the day but oddly enough, in the evening I found myself out at a local watering hole with a couple of friends. Believe me, that is NOT a typical Monday evening for me, but Wifey was throwing a “welcome party” (I had to Google that) for a woman she works with that just adopted a little boy and wanted me out of house, as was going to be overrun with lady folk, and she was pretty sure I would just sit around farting and burping while they were here. As luck would have it, a couple of my college teaching friends were up for going out since their students are doing nothing but taking finals right now and they can goof off a bit.
So, I was able to waste a couple of hours, catch up with some friends and drink a few good beers on Monday night. An unusual Monday night for me, but fun nonetheless.
Anyone who has ever come within three feet of me or this blog knows that I hate winter. I’m not happy about it, but there’s nothing I can do about it, so I have learned to embrace it. However, that embrace is sort of like when you’re thirteen and one of your grandmother’s buxom friends decides that she wants, nay, NEEDS a hug upon meeting you. You’re not happy about it, but at some point during the embrace your realize that despite the woman’s advanced years, caked on makeup, wrinkles, eye watering perfume and ongoing fight with gravity, her extremely large, round boobs ARE indeed pressing into your chest. Sadly, no matter how hard your try, you end up using that bit later whilst in private*. You’re not happy about it, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Riding in the winter is my touchy/feely big boob hug.
Up until today, the week has not gone according to plan as far as doing stuff. Monday is always a crapshoot on whether I can get out and this Monday didn’t really cooperate, it was the crap part of the crapshoot. On Tuesday we got hit with some lake effect snow and strong winds so I thought it best to stay off the roads with visibility so low. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it was west of Mt. Peezy but it snowing and blowing hard nonetheless.
As I rode today I tried figuring out how I would describe our current weather. Fall has pretty much come, colorfully shit the bed, changed the sheets and left, but it’s not exactly winter now either… or is it?
I often use the phrase “doing stuff” here on the blog, for those who don’t know, that’s my code for working out or riding my bike. Some folks call it training, and there was a time when I too called it that too, but since my days spent unsuccessfully racing my bike are all but over–save for a few races here and there–I just like to say doing stuff.
With that unneeded explanation out of the way, last week I got in some above average hours of doing stuff; roughly seven hours spent rambling around Michiganderburgh dirt roads on the Farley (that doubles as strength training) and two hours of sweating as I lumbered like a handicapped oxen on the treadmill. Along with that I have embraced my old diet ways of eating low fat and clean during the week and doing as best I can on the weekends. ‘Cause really, if I can’t have beers and maybe some pizza on the weekend, what the hell is life good for? Wow, I’m off track… Anyway, I had a good week, I was feeling good and after taking Sunday off, I hoped to pick back up again on Monday; I didn’t.
We are all individuals! But are we allowed to be?
Lately I have been thinking a lot about individuality and its place within cycling and bike racing. It’s a strange beast, especially for someone like myself, who more often than not, feels like he just doesn’t belong to any real part of cycling culture. That’s OK, I mean I’m talking about cycling, if one wants to “fit in,” there are plenty of other hobbies and lifestyles to choose from in modern-day society.
The dictionary dictators amongst others define the word gobsmacked the following way…
1 ˈɡäbˌsmakt/
adjective BRITISH informal
adjective: gobsmacked
utterly astonished; astounded.
With reference to being shocked by a blow to the mouth, or to clapping a hand to one’s mouth in astonishment.
Not me, while I have no doubt that is the correct definition, I would amend it to include a second: