demoralizing mud vs plentiful bud
crushing car farmers on the century ride
We were in farm country.
Mile after mile we passed one dilapidated trailer after another.
Some with tires on their roofs, others wrapped in Tyvek.
Some had evidence of pets - dogs, chickens and horses. Discarded litter boxes provided haunting evidence of ghostly kitties.
The yards were unified as breeding grounds. Chevies on blocks mounted big blocked Fords. Those pregnant Fords bulged and birthed Omnies, Chargers and the odd Chevy Acadian.
It was baby birthing season out there in car farmer country.
At the Gas station / liquor store / campground in Rawdon Gold Mines a big black Ram pulled up. The boys jumped out of the cab, crushed a beer then chucked the can into the bed.
You boys look like you found some mud!
Oh the mud we encountered. It was demoralizingly plentiful. There was enough clay caked onto my drive train to keep a pottery school in business for more than one semester.
What do you mean you’re riding a hundred miles? And peddling? Y’all gotta be crazy.
This fool?
Well, I can attest to my own mental destitution. Zeke is more the malicious, sadistic crazy. The others? They were crazy too.
Dear reader, I’d explore that further but if I did, it would take two more posts and it’s getting late and I’m still sleeping very well with the post ride exhaustion.
We went outside to eat. The boys from the Dodge bought a case of Bud Lite. They each popped one open for the road.
How old are you anyway?
I responded and his shock was more pronounced.
Holy shit! I’m only 29 and I couldn’t ride a dirt bike a hundred miles. That would kill me.
He took another chugg of his beer.
Likely would, I replied, but if you wanted it and prepared, you’d be able to do this ride too.
He crushed his beer, opened another and popped back into the truck.
Have fun boys he cried as he blasted away down the highway.
I left a little out with this dude. Though I told him that he could do the ride, I didn’t tell him that booze would likely get in the way.
On the ride there were five of us.
I stopped drinking four years ago. Smoking, just recently.
Though we rode to a brewery at the midpoint, none of us wanted booze.
We’re all middle aged. While riding we all seemed to agree that we could either ride bikes or drink beer and smoke weed.
But the days of riding bikes while drinking beer and smoking weed?
They are far far behind us.
But I’m still an addict. I just have a bette addiction.
Riding a hundred miles is addictive. The pain is sublime.
Conspicuous in his absence was our mopy friend. He loves bikes and booze and weed. These days though, he chooses beer and weed over this kind of riding. He’s choosing beer and weed over paying rent.
He’s being crushed by the weight of his addictions. I can’t help but wonder if the two young men, out on an Easter booze cruise are not on the same path.
But one is only granted a limited number of beers that one can drink safely. After reaching your limit, the beer is drinking you.
Basically, there comes a time when you need to decide, are you going to be a sad, soppy beer drinking shit bag or are you going to put the hammer down, get disciplined and make shit happen?
So, are you a sad sack tubbalard boozer or are you ready to go and hurt yourself in a way that you can be proud of?
What is going to be, punk?
(and here’s a video from the ride)