Is your nubbin buttered? Would you like us to assign someone to butter your nubbin?
I’m fairly certain that no one on earth, aside from me, calls tree buds, flowers, and other plant-based woodsy matter “nubbins” (short for Nature Nubbins). However, like most of the stupid things I think, say, and write, it popped into my head years ago and never left my lexicon.
Today, April 28th, is the 20th anniversary of The Soiled Chamois. We all know it should have ended long ago, along with nearly every other bike blog from the early 2000’s. But, as they say, here we are.
Much has changed along the way, for better and for worse, but for some unknown reason, I keep hitting the publish button. For that you have my apologies.
I like to think the way I write has got better over the years, along with my perspective on things like bike racing, bikes, photography, and life in general.
The bulk of the bike-oriented blogging was done from 2005 to 2013 and on Google’s Blogger platform, and sadly, when I look back from time to time, I can’t say I enjoy reading it; that’s why it remains offline these days.
There’s a saying out there amongst office-working types; “This meeting could have been an email.” Well, I think it goes without saying the bulk of my posts over the past 20 years could have been a Facebook post or, better yet, maybe just not posted at all.
However, I am a creature of habit, and this digital fish wrap helps me bring my favorite hobbies together, share some words, and have an outlet for the creative part of my brain that I don’t know how to shut down. (I imagine more stuff before 7 AM than most people do all day!!)
At best, I hope my blog can inspire you to get outside or maybe laugh. And at worst, you find me an insufferable prick that can go fuck himself.
The blog post below was the first “real” post I did as The Soiled Chamois. I don’t have any photos from the ride, but I included one of me and a 15-month-old B-Man taken a week or two after that first post. The pic is just before the start of my first race of the 2005 season (The Revenge of The Rattlesnake XCM in West Virginia). B looks less than thrilled to be on the start line, and 33-year-old me looks emaciated compared to 53-year-old me!
I don’t think I have another 20 years of this shit show in me, but until my hosting plan runs out, I’ll be here.
Later.
It seemed like Thursday was the first day Ma Nature deemed that spring could officially begin, and I was eager to embrace the day proper.
Despite arriving home late from our trip to Lansing (More on that later, but I will say “late for me,” is arriving home at 11 PM, but that is 2 hours minimum past my bedtime!) I was still up at 5:50 and eager to get in the woods.
The week thus far has been productive in the lumbering and photo departments.
While the mornings are still pretty chilly, spring is definitely in the air, and the forest is slowly becoming alive with activity and burgeoning nature nubbins that will soon turn the trees green.
I can’t even wrap my head around the fact that at this time last week, I was en route from Michigan to my late father’s house in Pennsylvania to help my family clean out and dumpster the plethora of junk in it. Since then, I’ve come back to Michigan on Monday, found out my mother-in-law passed away that evening, returned to Pennsylvania on Thursday for the service, and BACK to Michigan on Friday.
The rollercoaster of emotions between two different family deaths and miles traveled has me feeling like I’ve lived five different years in one week.
Part I Things Got Worser
After nearly 20 years of writing this bullshit, I still don’t consider myself a writer. Mostly because I have zero formal training as one, and often, my posts are an unintelligible scrambled mess of thoughts. So, to say I have “writer’s block” sounds stupid, but I really have been at a loss for words this week, and I have tried writing this post about 4 times. Mostly because the past week has been a whirlwind of travel and, unfortunately, more sadness.
In the summers of 1999 through 2004,1 Wifey and I would drive from Pittsburgh to Colorado to ride bikes, hike, and goof off in the most amazing mountains my untraveled eyes had ever seen; the Rocky Mountains. It was quite the adventure for two Western Pennsylvania flatlanders who, during most of that time, lived in an apartment in what I think qualified as “the city,” given our proximity to traffic, tall buildings, and the sounds of nighttime gunshots.
Well, the weather goofs were not wrong, and we ended up with about 5 inches of snow last night. For the most part, it was light and easy to move but still a pain in the balls and enough to curtail this morning’s lumber.
I think it might have something to do with my recently departed father, but I have been craving Hamburger Helper. I’ll explain.
Back when I was a kid in the mid-80s, the factory my dad worked at shut down, and he was out of work for two or three years as mill after mill in the Western Pennsylvania area closed. During that time my mother worked as a receptionist for a doctor, and my dad was put in charge of getting me dinner.
Chili, hot dogs, box mac ‘n’ cheese, chili, cheap fast food, frozen french fries, more chili, and, of course, LOTS of Hamburger Helper were all part of our weekly menus.
For this Christmas Day post, I am going to steer clear of writing about the emotions and grief that my family, near and far, and I have been going through over the past week due to the loss of my father last Thursday and our 13-year-old dog Jake the very next morning. I’m sure you can imagine what it was like; you don’t need me to shit on your holiday.
