Posts Tagged → sorry attempts at humor

A Weekend With Grady

gwilsonSICKI have no idea why, but for years I have been saying to anyone that will listen (no one) that Grady Wilson from the old 70’s NBC TV show Sanford & Son is what the flu, head cold or similar ailment would look like if it took human form. I say that with not one ounce of disrespect to the late Whitman Mayo who portrayed him, but a fact’s a fact. Or at least an outlandish proclamation is one oddball’s point of view.

I bring all this up for a reason, that reason being that early Friday evening as I sat in the corner of a local junior high gymnasium watching B-Man take part in some winter soccer drills, I knew that Mr. Wilson was about to pay me a visit. In other words, I knew that illness was setting in.

Shit.

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A Small Mental Victory Over Winter

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Since Tuesday’s 30+ mile per hour wind gusts and -25˚ wind chills moved on, we here in central Michigan have been treated to a few days of brilliant sunshine and blue skies. Of course the lack of cloud cover also means that temperatures are struggling to get out of the single digits until well after lunch. Unfortunately, my time slot to ride is around 10 a.m., when the thermometer is grunting, groaning and moaning to get above zero.

Because of those high winds earlier in the week and the frigid temps that followed, I spent the first three days of this week hunkered down in the Stankment™ putting in miles running on the treadmill and riding the trainer. You would think that after forty-three years of living in the cold winter climates of Pennsylvania and Michigan I would be used to the cold and snow and would have learned to love it. Nope.

Like many of my cycling friends in Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota I try my best to be active through it, but unlike many of them, I always fail to embrace or love the winter. For me the result is always the same; I tolerate winter and merely try to survive it with my mind and liver still functioning properly and my pant size unchanged come spring.

But enough of that winter hating hyperbole, lets’ get to the winter riding hyperbole…

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Finding Blog Maturity (Sort Of)

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Earlier today I had the idea to take a look back at one of my early endurance mountain bike races and rewrite the race report from my current perspective to see how different I might write it now, nine or ten years removed. I still plan on doing that in the near future, but as I read over some of those old posts on the Soiled Chamois v.1 blog I found myself sidetracked with some mild embarrassment and distaste for the way I wrote and approached blogging writing back then (mostly in the ’05 to ’08 era).

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At Long Last

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Like my grandmother** (God rest her soul) used to say, “Jason, no matter how much of a disgusting, big, fat, lazy, good for nothing douche bag you are, something good will happen sooner or later.” I guess she was sort of right, because after two weeks of failed attempts at riding outside, I FINALLY got out for a ride on Saturday. It was nothing great; a short 20 mile ride on dirt roads that alternated between snowpack, solid, bone breaking ice and bare dirt. Still, I was out riding shortly following one of the coldest spells of the year and I have to say, after temps that were in the -25 degree range, 30 degrees in the sun felt like a warm, heroine enema covered in chocolate and espresso, scented with that Victoria’s Secret perfume that strippers wear. Mmmmm(ish)…

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A Plan

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It’s been a while since I had a plan or a goal when it comes to my riding and/or racing. The last time I had a plan was probably back in 2011. We moved to Michigan in the fall of 2010 and my goal for the coming season was simply to race as much as I could so I could get a read on the scene, the riding and the trails. And that’s what I did…

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I’m NOT homesick!

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I woke up today around 8 a.m. when Wifey came in the bedroom to fetch her eye glasses. I assumed she had been by my side all night, but it turns out she fled the room at some point, claiming that it got “too hot” in the bedroom. Since it was roughly -15˚ outside, I doubt that was true and this was most likely her way of telling me that the baked ziti I made for our Valentine’s Day celebration had taken the form of a vile, warm, humid gaseous cloud of digested red wine, garlic and sausage and had exited my flabby rears way too much though the night and had caused her to seek refuge elsewhere. Much apologies to my ginger haired, bosomy Valentine of what is now 20 years. You deserve better…much, much better. But I’m sure you know that already.

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Good At Faking It

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The other day I proclaimed the words “I’m hoping to get outside and do something–ANYTHING–in the coming days.” Today I am forced to exclaim “SHITBALLMOTHERBUCK!” Because that just hasn’t happened and I am filled with a seething hate as intense as a thousand, blistering suns.

OK, not really, not at all.

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Winter Shutdown

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I am forty-three years old. That means that I’m getting older, as well as saggier, fatter and harrier in all the wrong places. It also means that I have endured forty-three winters. I’m not sure how many wet, slush filled shoes, slips on ice, scraped car windows, shoveled driveways and bouts of uncontrollable cuss-filled shivering that adds up to, but I’m sure it’s a lot.

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My Voice

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After I write a blog post, in a crap attempt at proof reading to make sure it sounds even a little bit correct, I find myself reading it out loud. I hate doing that because I really hate my voice. If you’ve ever heard any of the XXC Magazine podcasts, you know exactly what I’m talking about. My voice sort of sounds like a pubescent teenage boy (or girl) with a twist of Quentin Tarantino and not one tiny ounce of the talent.

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Off The Bike Intervals

Intervals. Man, NO one likes ’em. Especially fat, 43-year-old cyclists who aren’t really training for anything. The only reason I’ve rediscovered them at all is due to their ability to burn fat. Getting faster for the one to three races I now do each year is the least of my concerns…what’s the difference between 12th and 20th place in some vet class?

bellybeerfatdudeIntervals now (and not the 12 oz. sort) are all about trying to stay in the same sized clothing, preventing my belly from bouncing on my thighs when I ride, and burning off all those beers and cocktails I enjoyed over the past few weeks years.

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