Driving to school, after having been regaled with the sum total of his knowledge of the communication methods of dogs, – apparently it mostly involves “smelling each others butts!” — the subject suddenly changed …
Carl: “What is the seed that gets put in a lady’s belly to make a baby called?”
Me: “… Uh … it’s called a sperm cell.”
Carl: Quietly to himself … “sperm.”
Me: (please don’t ask me how it gets in the woman.)
Carl: “How big is it?”
Me: “It’s very tiny. Too small to see with your eyes.”
Carl: “Is it big enough so you can feel it?”
Me: (Don’t. Laugh.) “No, too small to feel.”
Carl: “SO HOW DO YOU KNOW YOU PUT IT IN?”
Me: (oh, for the love of … ) “Um … well … you just … know.”
Carl: “Does it just make a popping sound?!”
Me: (Bwahahaha-don’t you laugh, goddammit!) “No, buddy. No popping sound.)
Carl: “… Oh …”
Carl: “What does ‘FedEx’ mean?”
Me: (OH, THANK YOU PASSING SHINY FEDEX TRUCK!) “It means …”
My hetero life-mate Cap’n Gassypants and his exquisite wife, my #2 fan* & uber-commenter, KD, are traveling to San Diego tomorrow.
On a plane.
That is significant because the good Captain’s enthusiasm for slipping the surly bonds of earth to touch the face — or at least the tastefully pleated pants cuff — of God through the miracle of powered flight cannot be understressed.
He’s terrified of planes, is the point.
So much so that I just got the following from Frau Gassypants:
Bring a couple of extra happy pills for yourself, KD. You’re both gonna need ‘em.
* My wife holds the coveted #1 spot. Sorry KD.
Sitting in my lap watching bar-cam footage of Shedd Park as I am editing:
Carl: “Are you at the back?”
Me: “sigh.. Yes. Yes I am.”
Carl: ” …”
Carl: “That’s okay. It just matters that you’re having fun, right?”
Me: “That’s right, buddy.”
Moments later, when the entire 45+ field can be seen stretched out in front of me:
Carl: Thrusting out his arm and pointing at the screen. — “YEP, YOU ARE AT THE BACK!”
Me: “Go play with your Legos.”
Now that I’m finished editing video from last weeks Minuteman Road Club race, and have an hour to kill while it uploads to Vimeo — because I feel the need to record and save it at the highest resolution I can in order to give you stunning hi-def images of me flailing around at the tail end of the masters field — I figured now is a good time to finally write a report on a race that happened three weeks ago.
Because I’m all about being timely.
What can I say about Gloucester? It’s an awesome race at a beautiful venue and I rode just as I expected to. (Hint: I expected to ride terribly)
I only did Day 1 this year. Lots of rain leading up to the weekend and rain as I drove to Gloucester had me pretty giddy. I like muddy races. Mind you, I’m not particularly good at riding in mud, but oh how I do enjoy riding in mud.
I was lined up in the tenth row or so. Not quite last row, but close enough. Instead of the usual practice of just calling up the first couple of rows — aka: The Fast Guys — they called each and every rider up to staging by name. So I sat there chuckling as I realized that I had just gotten a (almost) last row call up.
Get it? The name of this dumb blog? Because no one ever gets a last row call up? Never mind.
The call up was pretty much the highlight of the race for me. I rode fairly well, all things considered. Spent most of the race alone in my usual little no-man’s land. Didn’t finish last. Only crashed once.
At this point, my only goal is to be able to stay with other riders so that I will be able to have something to write other than, “I rode around by myself and tried not to suck too loudly.”
I’ll work on that.
This just makes me smile, for some reason. The kings of two utterly different disciplines show that we cyclists are all connected by a common bond.
Thanks to Carl Ring for the link.