(no subject)
I went on a 25 mile bike ride yesterday with my dad. It was one of those benefit rides, so all the money went to charity. The day got off to a rough start, unfortunately. I wanted to ride this really nice red mountain bike I was borrowing from my dad: countless gears, shocks, top of the line (think Pee Wee's big adventure). So in the morning I tried to pump up the tires.
I ended up tearing off the valve when I tried to remove the hand pump; half of it went inside the damn tire. Why does this crap always happen to me? So much for riding the bike I wanted. So I had to call my dad, and he had to go through his shed and dig out my old bike from when I was a teenager.
Its brand was a "Giant Butte" mountain bike. I just remember that in college my wife got whiteout and erased the "e" in the name. She thought that was very, very funny. Anyways, the bike is now covered with rust and dirt; and, as it turned out on the ride, half of its gears don't work. Before we left, my dad had me hold the spokes with my fingers while he attempted to straighten out the tire and pump the damn thing up. He just about broke my fingers in the process. He just said, "same thing happened to your mom a few minutes ago when I asked her to help." Thanks dad.
My dad has a very loose sense of time, so by the time we got to the starting point to register our bikes and get our number, everyone was already leaving. He's also a talker, one of those folks who doesn't read the clues that you're done talking, even if your foot is creeping out the door. So he had to schmooze with random business associates (might I mention that my co-chair at work also is perpetually tardy to everything and just as verbose. I always end up around the same types of people). I know that we're not a couple of Lance Armstrongs or anything. Still, it sucks psychologically to be dead last.
I was right about not being Lance Armstrong. About 5 miles in we had to go up some large hills. Half my gears were gone, so I was standing up while I was riding. A windbreaker I was wearing overheated me, and I had to sit by the side of road, my heart racing. I just about blacked out. So much for being in shape. This lack of cardiovascular fitness was further confirmed at about the 10 mile mark when my dad and I, huffing up an endless hill, heard "on your left." A gray hair--an octogenarian--casually passed us on a reclining bike. A few minutes later, he was speck on the horizon. At a checkpoint some kids helping with the charity were cheering us on. I told them that after being passed by this old gentleman, we certainly needed the encouragement.
We came in third from last. Woohoo. The crowd went wild.
I spent all night applying layer after layer of that "icy, hot" cream to my legs. One must be careful that it only gets on your legs. If not, pain will ensue.
I ended up tearing off the valve when I tried to remove the hand pump; half of it went inside the damn tire. Why does this crap always happen to me? So much for riding the bike I wanted. So I had to call my dad, and he had to go through his shed and dig out my old bike from when I was a teenager.
Its brand was a "Giant Butte" mountain bike. I just remember that in college my wife got whiteout and erased the "e" in the name. She thought that was very, very funny. Anyways, the bike is now covered with rust and dirt; and, as it turned out on the ride, half of its gears don't work. Before we left, my dad had me hold the spokes with my fingers while he attempted to straighten out the tire and pump the damn thing up. He just about broke my fingers in the process. He just said, "same thing happened to your mom a few minutes ago when I asked her to help." Thanks dad.
My dad has a very loose sense of time, so by the time we got to the starting point to register our bikes and get our number, everyone was already leaving. He's also a talker, one of those folks who doesn't read the clues that you're done talking, even if your foot is creeping out the door. So he had to schmooze with random business associates (might I mention that my co-chair at work also is perpetually tardy to everything and just as verbose. I always end up around the same types of people). I know that we're not a couple of Lance Armstrongs or anything. Still, it sucks psychologically to be dead last.
I was right about not being Lance Armstrong. About 5 miles in we had to go up some large hills. Half my gears were gone, so I was standing up while I was riding. A windbreaker I was wearing overheated me, and I had to sit by the side of road, my heart racing. I just about blacked out. So much for being in shape. This lack of cardiovascular fitness was further confirmed at about the 10 mile mark when my dad and I, huffing up an endless hill, heard "on your left." A gray hair--an octogenarian--casually passed us on a reclining bike. A few minutes later, he was speck on the horizon. At a checkpoint some kids helping with the charity were cheering us on. I told them that after being passed by this old gentleman, we certainly needed the encouragement.
We came in third from last. Woohoo. The crowd went wild.
I spent all night applying layer after layer of that "icy, hot" cream to my legs. One must be careful that it only gets on your legs. If not, pain will ensue.