You know how some guys are intuitive riders, natural racers? I’m not. I am intuitively a writer, so of course I over-think things — that’s just how I roll. Probably why in the Army I was a better S3 Plans officer than S3 Operations officer — but I fucking love this sport, the characters, the craft, the art and the leadership of high performance riding.
I know I should be pursuing something sensible to keep me off the streets. That third interview at The Apple Store, like some Police Athletic League for UNIX orphans. There’s a Masters Degree clawing at my back. Child support eating my lunch. The Department of Defense wants me to save the country from cyber Pearl Harbor. I’d rather hang with the bike boors.
Rumor is that infantry officers have higher IQs than the more gentlemanly branches. The combat arms poker players. Bill, The Lonesome End, Carpenter,
“I need an air strike on my position.”
The cavalry-hatted colonel Kilgore, because “Charlie Dont Surf” the untrainable intractable bulls stampeding the china shops of civilization. The shit on this motherfuck that. The sweat-sweet racers molt their leathers and chase every split-tail in the paddock.
“I’m a racer I ain’t giving you shit.”
Give me a reason to get my zero-five-thirty ass to the gym, to lose a gut, to not lose point-five pounds of muscle mass every tinkerbell fairying year after forty.
I love training dogs, soldiers, kids and if I earn the privilege of riding for CSS, I’ll love that, too! And/or I might just wet myself!
life … fully-descended
scrotocycles.rip 