A 3 Fingered Christmas

It was a great Christmas except for a sore elbow received while "bowling" on my grandson's Wii. I cannot be the only person who sees the irony in this. I long for the days of real bowling. The smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and ugly shoes. The thrill of trying to find a bowling ball that actually fit my hand and didn't weigh, seemingly, 200 lbs. *sigh* But now real activites are replaced by video game replicas. We're doomed. (I shouldn't complain, I can't hold a regular bowling ball now, anyway. I just wanted to whine.)

I did a quick Desert Classic, at South Mountain, ride on the Specialized after work on Christmas Eve. I guess I should have cleaned and lubed the bike after the 24 hour race in early November. It made a lot of noise. Or, maybe those were just squeals of protest caused my the weight of my massive mid-section. Small planets have been known to be drawn into it by its strong gravitational pull. I have, also, finally killed my rear Crossmax wheel. It is worn out after 5 hard years of use. Now I get to build those Chris King's I have been dreaming of. I have the hubs. Just need the rims.

My X-Mas present to myself was a nice 5k run in the cold rain Christmas morning. Fun, fun, fun!!! I at least "earned" the right to drink all the Hoegarden I wanted that afternoon. Well, three at least. I also needed the alcohol to dull the pain in my upper lip. While putting on my arm warmers my hand slipped and I smacked myself in the mouth. Not hard enough to see stars but enough to make my eyes water.

A buddy from Flag, Marc, came down to see his girls for Christmas and we ended up doing Desert Classic Sunday afternoon. For someone who doesn't ride as much as he wishes he could, he is super strong. I dreaded the ride a bit since I was forced to ride the single speed due to the other bike's wheel issues. I held my own, though, and actually put a bit of hurt to him. What a change. Last time I rode with him I coughed up a kidney. Oh, my lip was sore again. My hand slipped while I was putting on my arm warmers and...well you know the rest. Santayana said that those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it. Who am I to argue? I'm doomed and I didn't even forget.

Well, on to 2009.....Will there be more 3 Fingered Moments? I'm doomed.

Another 3 Finger Moment and Other Stuff

I went to the post office to mail a couple of letters and somehow found myself at the drive through book return at the library read to dump the letters. Fortunately I caught myself in time. I wish I could say that weighty matters caused me to make this mistake, but no, just a Three Fingered Moment.

I've heard some grief from male co-workers and friends about my last post that refers to a study showing French men require the largest condoms in Europe. These people say that the French lied, or exaggerated, the size of their, um, assets. I disagree. When I mentioned that the average size was claimed to be only six inches, almost invariably everyone replied with, "Well, that's a size Small here in the U.S. of A." Who's exaggerating now I ask?

The Colon and Rectal Center of Arizona has either the best or worst name ever for their website. Kolonokopelli.com. The logo is Kokopelli's cousin blowing into....well you just need to see it yourself. Kudos for their imagination. I am tempted to run away with this, but I am sure I would be told to just blow it out my @$$.

Here is a picture of the newest addition to the household, Stella Fitzgerald. She is an adoption and has quickly made herself the queen of the house, if not the globe.

I finally took my first run since being sick at Thanksgiving. The first 100 meters were smashing. The rest of the run was a complete suffer-fest. I am turning into a complete weenie. I better get cracking with the training. Keir signed us up for a Duo in February's 24 Hour of Old Pueblo. I stunk up both 24 hours I did this year and don't want that trend to continue.

It's Twue, It's Twue!!!

Thanksgiving Day has come and passed and I have finally recovered from the past week's intestinal adventures. One news item which helped my recovery was a report from Reuters that stated The Institute for Condom Consultancy has found French men require the biggest condoms in Europe. This statement raises (no pun intended) no questions or surprise from me. My friends have always told me us French are the biggest pricks in the western world. I think they are just jealous.

Just In Time For The Holidays

I got a bad case of food poisoning on Sunday. It's Tuesday and I am now up to eight pounds lost since Sunday night. But fortunately I am starting to feel a little better. I am trying to think of humorous things to say but I can't.

Why Cable TV?

The cable TV box died and went to Digital Heaven. Its demise was preceded by its freezing of the screen every five seconds then coming back to life after 10 seconds and then repeating the cycle again. After trying a reboot, the cable box flatlined and a new one was necessary. The replacement works great but even with 180 cable stations the programming still sucks and I find myself always reading a good book for entertainment instead. (Does a Donald Duck comic qualify as high literature? Carl Barks' four-color covers from the '50s for Comics and Stories and Uncle Scrooge do qualify as high art, though. Look him up. But I digress) All this begs the question, why have TV at all?

A Tale of Two Races

In the spirit of literary references here is a visual tale of two races.

It was truly the best of times and the worst of times...weather wise.

The Team Squid Pro Quo race headquarters in the February 2008 24 Hours of Old Pueblo:

The Team Squid Pro Quo compound in the November 2008 24 Hours of Fury:

Can it really be November? 87 Degrees? Oh, how we suffer.....

The Sound and the 24 Hours of Fury

Mine is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and the 24 Hours of Fury, and our efforts resulted in nothing.

I have finally recovered from the 24 Hours of Fury put on by 4 Peaks Racing up at McDowell a week and a half ago. Team Squid Pro Quo had penciled this in as our prep race for the 24 Hours of Old Pueblo and we were pretty excited. On the same course four years ago, in the 24 Hours of Adreneline, we put in 23 laps farting around and figured being in better shape we could contend for at least a good placing.

The Squid Pro Quo Compound in about the most perfect racing weather imaginable:
I won't bore the reader with how we did, but I'll only say I got sick during the first lap, barely finished the second lap, slept for ten hours and never darkened the track with my presence again. Fortunately, I had three Warsteiner Dunkels in the cooler to soothe my fevered body Sunday morning (It turns out I had gotten an infection).

I had a feeling we were doomed when Keir called just before the noon start and said he couldn't show up (he traditionally always does the first lap). He had a work emergency arise just before the start of the race and wouldn't make his appearance until late afternoon where he did one lap and promptly disappeared again until Sunday morning. Cesar stepped up to the plate and attempted to give us a strong first lap, but two flats killed his effort.

Cesar at the start pulling away (Lee is across the way taking a picture of Cesar's "good side"):
Cesar and Lee carried the torch and kept us in the hunt for third to last place. But, alas, without Keir and I to spell them, we slipped into second to last place late Sunday morning despite their best efforts. I just stayed at the compound and moaned and complained to everyone.

I was reminded of Macbeth's soliloquy after the death of his wife. It seemed apropos with references to "the way to dusty death" etc... We strutted our way upon the stage for each hour that a lap took but in the end with all of our sound and fury, it signified nothing. But maybe I doth exaggerate. Next year we will be heard from again!

The Soulcraft ready for battle with the S-Works waiting in the wings behind:

At the end of the first lap. It took so much effort to smile I could not even suck my gut in:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

That about describes the race for me.