Wear your chaps.
Although the more I consider this wee gash, the more I believe I created it not with an actual powersaw, but by swinging an alarmingly sharp hand pruner around the local goods like a light saber. So really, this picture is actually a testament to my safety-first mentality and not my proficiency with a chainsaw. Sort of.
Orange duct tape anyone?
Moving on, I thought I'd throw up (post, not vomit) a couple more pictures from my recent trip to CT here. Again, some really nice riding up there. Repeated 100 foot climbs followed by dangerous slickrock scrambledowns linked by precarious ladder stunts. Yes please. The attitude of the people? Not always so much. But thanks again to whoever rear-ended my subaru in the parking lot and didn't even leave a note.
Moving on again. For those of you not in the know but who like to act like you know when held accountable for such things, tomorrow is Kev29ers birthday. So he'll be rolling over the odometer one more year in style, gimpy lumbar and all.
Does ones 34th birthday necessitate a, gasp, 34-fer?
To get to 34 rally-workouts in one day, one would assuredly have to multi-task.
But is that even possible? Or is scaling said celebratory rallying back to a more reasonable 3.4fer level the way to go for a guy who literally threw a disc out in his back last month via sheer uphill torque? Debatable. What's not so debatable is the awesomeness of such an injury, which is quite possibly the most manly singlespeeding injury ever conjured (and there have, quite certainly, been some doozies.)
that's so weird, you'd never imagine a guy could herniate a disc riding. a rigid singlespeed. for 12 hours. at night. totally incomprehensible.
Being only mostly healed, maybe we'll go with the .4 fer, then do some fishing and drink a black and tan or three.
And last but not least, cute pregnant ladies and their belly buttons which have never seen the light of day are popping up everywhere. Sunscreen mandatory. Use your brakes a little in the corners for the next few months, lest you come face to face with a maternal-instinct reckoning that you can't handle.
Up, up, up.