taxi777
04-08-08, 07:39 PM
Putz (p~uts)
1. Slang- A fool; an idiot.
2. Muggins,saphead, tomfool.
3. P.F. definition – A**hole
SO… What shall I be tonight? Race! I hear the word and my testosterone spikes. I can immediately feel the back hair growing and the brain rapidly decreasing in size, and my logical thought processes have completely dissipated. Henry bolts out of the starting gate on that cute little yellow birdie…tweet, tweet. I knew as soon as I reached for Henry’s fixie that I was doomed. I’m not a fixie guy whatsoever. Don’t like em, never will like em. Their right up there with tattoos, piercing and branding. I’d rather rebel with my music or the spoken word, which is safer… sometimes? Rode a one gear bike as a messenger for a couple of years way back and the novelty wore off pretty quick. It was major suckatude! I graduated to my first multispeed bike (Bianchi Grizzly) and never looked back. But I do respect and am somewhat impressed with those that can commandeer one of those death tools. I have visions of the Great Grim Reaper with a sickle in one hand and a Bianchi fixie in the other.
As I build momentum the laws of physics are calculating and plotting their equations to paint me into a corner where the sum equals no escape and certain obliteration like a supernova collapsing into itself and meeting its event horizon only to disappear through a singularity never to emerge again. As always the moment before cataclysmic doom, a sudden moment of clarity is reached when the Universe screams out to you and all the mind matrix’s from ape to Einstein have evolved their higher intellect into that one summation of ultimate epiphany, the deafening roar heard through the Cosmos! “ YOU A**HOLE!”
As I realize I’m pedaling at full speed STANDING! And I need to brake fast for I’m beginning to run out of elbow room between Henry’s back wheel and my front with on coming traffic! I reach for the right break lever… nothing… I pull the lever of which there is no cable connected to anything resembling a brake pad. At that point I automatically push back with my right foot to position my self for evasive maneuvers. Countless hours and thousands upon thousands of hard earned miles have wired my brains neurons to automatically fire electrical impulses down my spine to my leg in which it responds with well practiced and concise reaction… Wrong move… The words that I muttered to myself as I picked my aching body of the asphalt will not be repeated here. Only the Creator will ever know. I hear the echoing “are you alright”? What happened the crowd by the restaurant wonders? I pedal back looking at the blood dripping off the back of my hand and feeling the searing whirling pain through the left part of my skull and hip. I sheepishly mutter “Sure! I’m ok” to the unknowing caring bunch I’ve just finished having a really nice dinner with, and would rather not have the evening end on this note. I hide my torn bloody hand in my jacket pocket and try to not show my limp and shallow breathing. One look at Cathy and three decades of honing our non-verbal communication skills and she new it was time to go. Then I arrive home with out being talked into going to the emergency room, (had enough of the hospitals this year). As soon as I get out of the shower and I’m patched up there’s a knock at the door…Fire! On the 3rd floor! Help! At this point I’m done and can barely move. My rib cage is in agony while I limp/run to the 3rd floor. Elevators shut down and pilot themselves to the lobby and lock in place. Tenant decided to grill at 11pm and started an oven fire. Now the hallway is filled with smoke and freaked out people. I end up climbing 9 stories to reset elevators and back down 9 stories to reset alarms.
I sleep then wake in agony at 6am to decide on doing my ride today. I’m so pissed at myself I some how throw on my kit pump my tires and out the door to meet the ALC group at sports basement. I then take off because I don’t feel like talking, and time trial it all the way to Woodside. I angrily eat my turkey cranberry sandwich from Roberts. The group arrives and I split to do Kings Mountain, the fastest yet. I’m in pain and bonked, so I struggle against 20+ mph headwinds for the next 20 miles. Cathy feeds me Meatballs spaghetti. I pass out and my phone rings. Fire! Fire on Stockton Street…My other building!! Oh come on! I crawl down the sidewalk. Fire department is putting up ladders and dragging hoses. Another oven fire. I secure all issues and reset panels and thank firemen. I pass out in my bed.
Sometimes things don’t go as planned. This week has been everyday plumbing issues and angry people. It’s been a real struggle to even get a ride in.
So any way thanks for letting me vent. And I still had a great time Friday night. Good and bad, it’s nice to live life to it’s fullest. No regrets…
Pete
1. Slang- A fool; an idiot.
2. Muggins,saphead, tomfool.
3. P.F. definition – A**hole
SO… What shall I be tonight? Race! I hear the word and my testosterone spikes. I can immediately feel the back hair growing and the brain rapidly decreasing in size, and my logical thought processes have completely dissipated. Henry bolts out of the starting gate on that cute little yellow birdie…tweet, tweet. I knew as soon as I reached for Henry’s fixie that I was doomed. I’m not a fixie guy whatsoever. Don’t like em, never will like em. Their right up there with tattoos, piercing and branding. I’d rather rebel with my music or the spoken word, which is safer… sometimes? Rode a one gear bike as a messenger for a couple of years way back and the novelty wore off pretty quick. It was major suckatude! I graduated to my first multispeed bike (Bianchi Grizzly) and never looked back. But I do respect and am somewhat impressed with those that can commandeer one of those death tools. I have visions of the Great Grim Reaper with a sickle in one hand and a Bianchi fixie in the other.
As I build momentum the laws of physics are calculating and plotting their equations to paint me into a corner where the sum equals no escape and certain obliteration like a supernova collapsing into itself and meeting its event horizon only to disappear through a singularity never to emerge again. As always the moment before cataclysmic doom, a sudden moment of clarity is reached when the Universe screams out to you and all the mind matrix’s from ape to Einstein have evolved their higher intellect into that one summation of ultimate epiphany, the deafening roar heard through the Cosmos! “ YOU A**HOLE!”
As I realize I’m pedaling at full speed STANDING! And I need to brake fast for I’m beginning to run out of elbow room between Henry’s back wheel and my front with on coming traffic! I reach for the right break lever… nothing… I pull the lever of which there is no cable connected to anything resembling a brake pad. At that point I automatically push back with my right foot to position my self for evasive maneuvers. Countless hours and thousands upon thousands of hard earned miles have wired my brains neurons to automatically fire electrical impulses down my spine to my leg in which it responds with well practiced and concise reaction… Wrong move… The words that I muttered to myself as I picked my aching body of the asphalt will not be repeated here. Only the Creator will ever know. I hear the echoing “are you alright”? What happened the crowd by the restaurant wonders? I pedal back looking at the blood dripping off the back of my hand and feeling the searing whirling pain through the left part of my skull and hip. I sheepishly mutter “Sure! I’m ok” to the unknowing caring bunch I’ve just finished having a really nice dinner with, and would rather not have the evening end on this note. I hide my torn bloody hand in my jacket pocket and try to not show my limp and shallow breathing. One look at Cathy and three decades of honing our non-verbal communication skills and she new it was time to go. Then I arrive home with out being talked into going to the emergency room, (had enough of the hospitals this year). As soon as I get out of the shower and I’m patched up there’s a knock at the door…Fire! On the 3rd floor! Help! At this point I’m done and can barely move. My rib cage is in agony while I limp/run to the 3rd floor. Elevators shut down and pilot themselves to the lobby and lock in place. Tenant decided to grill at 11pm and started an oven fire. Now the hallway is filled with smoke and freaked out people. I end up climbing 9 stories to reset elevators and back down 9 stories to reset alarms.
I sleep then wake in agony at 6am to decide on doing my ride today. I’m so pissed at myself I some how throw on my kit pump my tires and out the door to meet the ALC group at sports basement. I then take off because I don’t feel like talking, and time trial it all the way to Woodside. I angrily eat my turkey cranberry sandwich from Roberts. The group arrives and I split to do Kings Mountain, the fastest yet. I’m in pain and bonked, so I struggle against 20+ mph headwinds for the next 20 miles. Cathy feeds me Meatballs spaghetti. I pass out and my phone rings. Fire! Fire on Stockton Street…My other building!! Oh come on! I crawl down the sidewalk. Fire department is putting up ladders and dragging hoses. Another oven fire. I secure all issues and reset panels and thank firemen. I pass out in my bed.
Sometimes things don’t go as planned. This week has been everyday plumbing issues and angry people. It’s been a real struggle to even get a ride in.
So any way thanks for letting me vent. And I still had a great time Friday night. Good and bad, it’s nice to live life to it’s fullest. No regrets…
Pete