Yesterday was sixty miles out to Crown Point. There are some fast guys and some guys who puke. I am both, and sometimes neither. Totally depends.

There has been some debate here, mostly internal, concerning the upcoming (as in, happening right now) road-racing season, and whether we shall undertake such pursuits. The resounding murmur has been darkly negative. I treasure my collarbones, and as Mr. Chris so succinctly put it today, "I'd rather spend the money on bike parts".

No shit, man. There's enough for me in our weekly team rides, the occasional Rapha jaunt, some light touring once the weather turns fair, and mine own, gut-wrenching sojurns up Le Col de Rocky.

Cyclocross starts in September, which is just around the corner, really, and at which time I may begin the wholly selfish three-month endeavor of the drenched, bloody, and drunk weekly racer.




Embro

Guy le Tatooer

There isn't much to say about tattoos that hasn't been said. So I won't.

However, this very much makes me wish I had a plane ticket, a bunch of cash, and bare arms.











Guy le Tatooer

Dennis

Take the time to watch this. It's important.

transmission

hell of the north portland

There was some exitement about the footballs today. I looked at it, beer in hand and my aching legs propped up on the coffee table.

I liked it okay. The little boys were interested. So yeah. I watched the fuckin superbowl with my sons.

It was boring as shit. More boring than baseball, which is really boring. I love baseball. But it's pretty dull.

Not dull: Fast, trading pulls pacelines along the river with a bunch of hard-charging bastards. Like nails. Like railroad spikes. Numb hands and shoe covers.

Try to think about anything but holding on. Taking your bit. Falling to the back and looking for your pace in the awful wind. Awful.





pics by Jose. Thank you, Cthulu.