Don't just give up, Piggy.

Don't just give up, Piggy.  It might be summertime, but if you keep acting like this you're going to end up dead.  

Poor choices.  It really comes down to choices, Piggy.  Like, for example, taking a stroll down the middle of markwood rd to eat some trash at 8:30 AM on a Thursday morning.  Not a great decision.  Or stepping on my flip flopped foot when I'm the only person out there in the middle of the road trying to keep you from becoming bacon.  

Interventions aren't easy, no one's saying that, but I'm doing this because I care.  

Look, I know it's summer.  It's hot.  You don't feel like training.  In fact, the only thing you really feel like doing is lying around in your own dung, eating pork rinds (ummmm...), and generally behaving like the rest of the population.  

peanut pops.  not a recovery drink.

Look, maybe you just need some inspiration, Piggy.  This fat funk you're slobbing and dribbling through is probably just boredom.  Maybe you should think about doing something incredible.  

Take, for example, the Chupacabra.  Found himself a 100-mile mtb race to train for, and boom, he's motivated, lean and mean.  

Flattop by 830 AM.  That's tall.

Or Scanlonetti, notorious uphill TT victor on the road, but a mountain biking virgin at the incredulous age of 45.  He found himself a Pivot, deflowered his soul, and up, up, up he went.  

so far, not eaten by bears.  but close.

I'm not saying their wild choices have to be your wild choices.  But for heaven's sake, Piggy, look at yourself.  You're just lying on the couch and bitching about how malnourished Chris Froome looks, and you're not having any fun.  You used to pin it. I don't even know who you are anymore.  

Look, here's my point.  You're not fat yet, and you're still young.  OK, you are pretty fat.  But you're standing on the precipice, piggy, and I'd estimate it's one way or the other.  Find yourself a reason to live!  

How 'bout Walnut?  

Sure, you've only got a week to train for it.  And it could very well be a million degrees on race day.  And the only license you have is your License to Ill cassette tape, which you inadvertently devoured half of in your last traffic-halting, trash-diving suicide attempt.  

Damn, Piggy, you used to rock.  

But what kind of glutton would you be if you weren't, also, a glutton for punishment?

And how many pork rinds can a pig buy with $600?  

Sunday.  Get there.  

Up, up, up.