Ladies and Gentlemen, hold onto your seats. We've been blogjacked. Try not to panic. SOT2.0 seems to have boarded our peaceful (yet stagnant) blog in the dead of night, taken over, and is now piloting this ship to the top of Flattop Mountain and beyond. Yes, he's the pilot, pirate of this ship. So prepare your landlubber souls for more time spent reading the details of explosive bonks from sea to shining sea and back again, neveryoumind the misplaced modifiers.
You see, a few weeks ago I sat down to purge some of the excessive things from my life in the name of being a better father when November rolls around. And since excessive riding wasn't something I was prepared to cut just yet, I thought maybe excessive blogging about riding might work instead. See below a sample of the list of cuts from Dave's excessive lifestyle:
MTB Tire collecting
Frequent dangerous consumption of non-FDA-approved energy drinks
brownie crits where I eat all of the brownies
100+ hours of trailwork/year
All of that, I'm OK with. I'm going to be a great Dad, I hope, and maybe it's things like knowing the things you don't want your kids to know about you that make you a better man. But, two things happened, and now I'm back in for the blog.
1) Turns out my hot wife finds the fact that I'm a writer sexy.
2) SOT2.0 stepped in, scurvy and all, and boatjacked this thing for places further on up the high sea of bike blogs.
So I'm committed to jotting down a thought or two here and there as long as Toph is. And, worried though I was, I'm quite pleased to see this blog is still technically about Kev29er, as he'll certainly be on the bow of the boat as Toph turns the wheel onto gravel and up up up tomorrow AM at whatever godforsaken hour they decide to set the landspeed record up Wyant Mountain. Pass, thank you. But I'm giddy to see the results.
In the meantime, a few pictures that I hope will help me acheive immortal Pivot Glory, courtesy of Jude Monoco Ortiz.
Proof positive that rumors of our bike blogs death are unsubstantiated and incorrect.
Now if you'll pardon me, I've got to go watch grown men sweat and cry over a bouncey leather ball.
Up, up, up.