- Bad Idea Racing - HAS LEFT THE BUILDING

    if I’m goofing,

    or what I don’t wear….

    if it’s party time,

    or go time..

    or whatever I do…

    on my best hair days,

    or my worst hair days…

    when it’s cold,

    or when I’m dead sexy hot…

no matter what,
when my head hits the pillow the last thought in my mind will be “Damn, I’m so much better looking than my competition, how can they think they stand a chance?”.

I pedal everywhere I go.

Wow. I continued on and wrote a lengthy diatribe defending my decision to ride fixed gear bikes in the woods, but thought better of it and pushed the delete key. Somewhere between junior high and now I learned that I can do what I want without answering to strangers (probably learned that closer to forty than fourteen). This thread is about smack, pure and simple, so let’s get back on track.

People need to realize that off road fixed gear riders are superior bike handlers, stronger, better looking, and have much bigger penises (even the female fixie riders). The reason to fjear us is as plain as the writing on the wall. We are just that much better than you in every conceivable way. Sorry.

Here he is toeing the line with the other two riders in his class. It’s kinda weird going to these short track races for all these years. I’ve watched a lot of these kids really grow and learn how to ride.

I picked up my free plane tickets to SSWC08 last night. Free? Yeah, on my way home from Hell Ride last June I missed a connection and slept on the floor at the Chicago airport. I was supposed to catch the first flight outta there the next day, but I took a bump to a later flight and a free round trip ticket. So yes I got a bike, a free trip to Downieville, a bunch o’ schwag, and a free ticket outta the Hell Ride deal… the gift that keeps on giving.

Run Club is a go this weekend. Sunday we will be meeting at the visitor center on Sparrow Springs Road and leave at 10:00AM. I think there will be between five and twenty idiots out there with me for this ill conceived venture. I have no idea if I am up for running up and down a coupla mountains a few times, but we shall see, won’t we?

And a “Why not?” pic of my injured hand:

Using this thing called a “cell phone” I reached Stabby, and he said they had started without me safe in the knowledge that I’d catch up sooner or later. I chased pretty hard and just about ate shit as I slid through a muddy corner with them just within earshot to hear me careening through the underbrush. We rode together for a short while, but Eric had a co-worker with him that was trying to “get back on the bike”, so I ended up groupless again. Although the trail was in fine condition (for the most part) it was slick in some sections, and my worn-out Rampage was occasionally looking more like a bagel than a 2.35 knobby. Unforunately it was in the bagel form on a slick rocky descent, and before I knew it I was on my way down to the ground.

I hit fairly hard, and my hands took the brunt of the impact. My left hand was throbbing, but my usual operating procedure is to get back on the bike as quick as possible and ride it off. This did not work, and it got much worse. It became quite apparent that I needed to find the quickest route back to my Dirty Little Box as I couldn’t really hold the bars without pain, and using the front brake (my only brake) was impossible. As I rode back to the parking lot I wondered if I needed to go to the Urgent Care, or should I just change my shoes and run some more. The Pie is a nurse, and I could only imagine she would be disappointed in my decision making skills had I chose to do some more Run Club. Instead of the Urgent Care I decided to go home for her opinion.

The Pie looked at my hand when I got home. She said it could very well be a break. The affected area was a very common place for a broken bone (she has years of ER experience). She also said that if it was broken it would still be broken tomorrow, so I could put off going to get X-rays till Sunday if it still hurts. Since we had arranged for some nonrefundable childcare that night for The Fajita so we could take The Boy out to dinner I chose to drink a few beers, pop some ibuprofen, and do some RICE in lieu of actual medical care.

I was kinda bummed all night. For me to even consider seeking medical care means that I actually banged myself up pretty good. I am cheap, stubborn, and an American (I hate inconvenience), so avoiding proper medical attention is my modus operandi. I also don’t want the “Oh, it’s just a little boo-boo” speech from a doctor, or the “just a little boo-boo, but we took X-rays” bill associated with seeking professional help. I think it all worked out fine as I woke up Sunday with a less than fully usable hand, but a lot less pain than the day before. Maybe no mountain biking for awhile, but no need for a cast either. Bullet dodged. I think the 1,774 cc’s of Amstel Light and 887 cc’s of Sam Adams healed it. That and a shit ton of red meat for dinner.

The other day I flip-flopped the wheel on the Berserker Fixie Boredom Killer. The 36X19 was too easy for general cruising so I went with the taller gear. I have a 15 tooth on the other side, the theory being that all I have to do is shorten the chain by one quick link, and I won’t have to adjust the tension. Theories… pffft. After adjusting the tension I pulled out the calculator to figure out the new gear inches. Let’s see… 36 tooth chainring divided by a 15 tooth cog times the 27.75″ diameter of the Mythos cross tire gets me….. dare I speak it?

Can I get my weekly checks now please? Don’t forget to add lots of zeros.

Speaking of foot flesh…

My pinkie toe is just about ripe and ready for harvest. I’m beginning to think it has less to do with exposure to cold and more to do with lack of racing. All my pent up angst and anger currently has no outlet for expression. It is my theory that angst and anger are more dense than flesh and thus they tend to gravitate to the lowest point possible. Once I get a chance to prove my theory it will be known as the Law of Dicky Pinky Toe Entropy. I forget, before it becomes a law does it first have to be a bill? I’m always mixing up my junior high science with School House Rock.

“Yeah kid, I’m just a bill, and I’m sitting here on Capitol Hill. I’m not going anywhere as I’m the healthcare for everyone, stop the war, gun control, clean air, income cap, apologize to other countries for our transgressions bill. They call me the Snowball in Hell Bill. Why don’t you just run along and let me lay here and die quietly?”

I had to make an immediate trip to the nearest discount store. I am so concerned about what others think, and I’m also pretty worried about losing a blog fan over a fashion dispute. I had to do something.

I’ll give the credit to you Mr (or Mrs, or maybe even a blogstalker Miss) Anonymous for my new purchase. It would have nothing to do with the fact that my old (and very ugly) shoes were made for running on even paved surfaces and were lacking in traction and foot control. It would also have very little to do with the cheap price of these handsome foot covers. Nope, this purchase can entirely be attributed to peer pressure, the need for validation, and the fact that GW has convinced me that the only way to keep America safe and afloat is to continue consuming (even if the shoes were made in China).

I guess if I’m going to adress on Anonymous comment from yesterday I would be remiss if I didn’t adress this one:

I have taken immediate action to educate my ass. Although it is has been difficult teaching my one-eyed end anything my dumb ass is now reading at a third grade level. I’ll have to call Carl Lewis and share the good news. Ass GED’s for everyone!!!!

Well, I dunno… what else?

Not riding for three days last weekend put me in a funk. I will not let that happen again. I couldn’t reflect back to a recent divine moment on the bike all week, and it had an effect on my attitude towards work, life, and fashion. Riding is obviously an addiction, and I’m in some kind of withdrawal right now.

Sunday The Boy has a short track race in Charlotte. I’ll be there to watch him go in circles and mock the other children. The Boy isn’t much of a smack talker so I shall be his proxy in the verbal volley of tormentuous blather. Those kids don’t stand a chance against my rapier wit and ninth grade vocabulary. I won’t be racing unless the chance of rain or snow increases. If the weather goes to shit it will lessen the likelihood that the children I just got done taunting will stick around and give me a dose of my own medicine.

One week till Run Club Run.

Run Club

Think again.

Run Club proves to be a very valid, and perhaps the biggest reason to fjear me this year. Run Club is proof positive that I can take the most insignificant thing and turn it into pure obsessive evil. All I did was happen upon a pair of shoes for less than $30, and the next thing you know I’m looking at which mountains I can run over first. I ran myself into the ground until I was almost cripppled all because Value City was having a sale.

It doesn’t take much to set the gears in my head in motion, and once they start there’s no stopping them. The Terminator looks like a under achieving, minimum wage, high school drop out Whopper flopper in comparison to my level of compulsive obsessive behavior. I clearly stated my goals when I started this blog over two years ago:

“My goal isn’t to just see how far I can push myself. Instead, it is my goal to see how big of a scorch mark I can make on the earth when I finally burn out.”
Dicky….. January 2006

Big numbers mean big things.

Will I have a swarm of tifosi blocking the course at every race I attend waiting for the moment that I come by to scream “Allez Team Dicky!!!! Venga, Venga!!!”?

Will corporate America wake up and see what a big marketing opportunity they are missing and start throwing money at me to send me to more exotic locales to race at in order to make my stories more interesting and sell some deodorant?

Will women be running up to me asking for an autograph on their breast?

I’m thinking none of the above. I think the big numbers mean big love. I’m pretty sure ever since my mom saw me put up a stat counter on my sidebar she devoted her life to hitting refresh as many times a day as possible. She would do anything to bolster her son’s confidence and give him a false sense of relevance. Why should that induce a sense of fjear in my opponents? Because my mom is fifty percent of my genetic make-up and one of the molders of my brain for 18+ years. If my mother, even with MS and wrist pain, can hit refresh hundreds of times a day just imagine the kinda things her offspring would be capable of. Staggering, isn’t it? I just recently discovered that my stat counter has a lot more info available, and I swear I’m gonna find out just how she’s hacking into servers all over the world to produce hits from Japan, Finland, and Ukraine.

It’s kinda depressing to think that all the hits might be her as I was really looking forward to signing some strange women’s breasts in 2008. Dare to dream, huh?

At least The Boy could race in the first race of the short track series if we stayed home, right? I figured I’d even enter the SS class if we were going to get our predicted wintery mix. Wrong. The promoter pulled the plug the night before as he didn’t want to have Parks and Rec come shut him down halfway through the event. Denied.

I woke up Saturday morning with no plan. I decided to run my ‘87 Samurai over to the inspection place and run the long way home. Four to five miles later I got home, bundled up the Fajita and ran another two miles while she Barbie Biked her way around the hood. Later in the day The Boy joined me in a short run to pick up my car (it failed inspection) in the falling snow.

I woke up Sunday morning with a plan and two sore legs from all the Run Clubbing the day before. The Boy and I were going to head out in the sub freezing temps to do some trail work up north. Before I got outta the house I saw something that turned me into a bit of an artistic shutterbug.

clicky make biggy thus more artsy-fartsy

The light was coming in through the window and making the bottles glow all Last Dragon style. Although I don’t consider myself an artist (even with a BS in Art Education) I couldn’t help trying to do some artsy-fartsy shit. What’s my bike doing all cleaned up and sitting pretty in my war room? I’m going up to Durham today for a photo shoot for a Carolinas sports magazine interview. Why do an interview? Why drive four hours to get your photo taken? What’s the motivation behind it all?

I thought hard before agreeing to do an interview (especially one that requires effort). Everytime (I mean everytime) I’ve ended up in print I’ve ended up feeling kinda awkward when I saw the results. I’ve been misquoted, slighted, and even photographed with an emphasis on my widow’s peak. So do I go ahead and do it to seek validation? Nope. Maybe for the fame or a little recognition for my sponsors? Not so much. Then why? Because it will be a different day than I woulda had if I stuck it out and worked all day on my bike. Different experiences are worth having, so I’m going along with it enthusiastically with The Boy in tow at noon today. Joe told me all the nude shots would be done tastefully, so I guess I have nothing to lose. Can’t wait to see what kind of artistic efforts The Wonderboy will Sharpie onto the final published images. That alone should be worth the drive.

Since I was off Monday (yes, I don’t really blog on my days off), I decided to run more errands and continuing my streak of days with no bike riding. I woke up and took my Samurai to get the exhaust fixed. Just how exactly it’s “unsafe” to have a leaky exhaust on a car with no windows or back I have no idea, but it costs me an arm and half a lower extremity to get it fixed. At least I got to Run Club the 4-5 miles to pick the car up to turn the positive to a negative (kinda).

So three days, no blogging, no riding, no sense of normalcy.

BTW: If you really like the YAZOO merino wool shirt I am so lucky to have in my wardrobe (and I’m wearing right now) you can get ‘em here. They also have some Pisgah related T-Shirts, and this particular bad boy that has a warm place in my heart:

PISGAH WORKS

I’m having a conundrum. A quandry if you choose to call it so. I’ve been looking forward to Thomson Fest for a coupla months now. Ronnie’s death last week sank hard in my gut as such an oddity, but I decided I would go anyways. I’d like to think that when I pass no one close to me has to suffer anymore than they have to (I’ll be dead, you won’t hurt my feelings). So I decided early in the week to press on and attend with The Boy in tow. Heck with Thad having to skip the event the 4:20 No Dab race is wide open, and mine for the taking.

Then this whole winter thing started happening here in the South. As things stand right now there is a 100% chance of rain, about a half inch of the wet stuff. Temps are gonna hover around the high 30’s and drop into the 20’s as I try to sleep Saturday night in the Dirty Box. So… drive for five plus hours leaving around 6:30 tonight, sleep in the Box, wake up and get ready (in the rain), ride for five hours (in the rain), shiver, shiver, drink, shiver, spectate, shiver, drink, freeze to death. I’m gonna have to keep a close eye on the weather I guess. If I was a local it would be a no brainer, but with the price of gas and entry fees for The Boy and I it’s about a $150 investment for the opportunity to be miserable all day.

Yesterday we had what we call a “wintery mix”.  I think when I lived in Ohio we called it a shit storm.

Rain and low 30’s.  Awesome.  Makes for an interesting day, and my rotten pinkie toe (yes, it’s back) was loving it.  My pinkie toe is hoping we go stand around in the rain tomorrow in Georgia so it can get so big and enraged that it will develop its own personality and branch out with its very own blog (which will no doubt be better than mine). 

At least if we choose to stay in town The Boy can race the first short track race (of the series) here in Charlotte.   Hell, if Charlotte gets the weather the all knowing “they” are prdicting I’ll even come outta short track retirement to race 45 minutes in the muck.  If you’re not gonna click the link I’ll just tell you it’s looking like the race will be held with 1-3 inches of snow and rain tomorrow.  That’s worth a 30 minute drive fo sho.

I’m still blogging five days a week.

Some folks are pulling out their road bikes and hitting the road for some of what the old skoolers call LSD (long slow distance). This is an antiquated ideal that is still being upheld by the toe strap/leather helmet/Sheldon Brown crowd. A lot of folks are doing more of a coaching advised plan with all kinds of zones and irrelevant information to help the rider feel like they’re making some kind of progress over the winter. Me? I’m blogging and working as little as possible. I don’t know if you’re a big Weather Channel fan, but it tends to be colder in the winter than it is during the other times of the year. My grandmother used to tell me that I could catch my death going outside when it’s too cold, so I’ll play it safe and only go out on the bike as needed. I like think of my body as more like a car engine. If I want it to perform this summer I sure as shit don’t wanna drive 100,000 miles this winter putting on “base miles”. Better to keep it in the garage until the mercury rises a bit.

Now there’s a concept; “base miles”. Since I’m sitting in front of a computer I looked up base on m-w.com and here’s some of what I got:

So let’s see… unless I’m playing a stupid sport that requires a stick, some balls, human growth hormone, and steroids I don’t need any base in my life. I’ve been riding my bike five to seven days a week for the last ten years. I don’t need a starting point, as I never have to start over.