Name That Road

I don't care much for technology when I'm riding...besides the essential phone that is. I have no idea how fast I'm going or even how far. I certainly don't know what street I' on or where I'm going. Just riding.

In the country it's no big deal. First of all, you really can't get lost. Too many rides marked right there on the road for you. Problem is you might have to ride the entire Seagull Century before you get back home. And FYI...there WON'T be a pie and ice cream stop.

But at least you'll never have to worry about turning the wrong way and being faced with a giant hill. No 35% grade in this corner of the country. Not even a .35% grade.

Here's the best part. You can always phone a friend. Every try this in the city? Where no one is FROM. They are likely to not know the next street over from their house. In the country you can give a cross street and the person on the other end of the phone will know EXACTLY where you are WITHOUT consulting a map.

In fact at one point today when I was on a long stretch of road and wanted to know where I was, I noticed there was never a street sign that named the street I was actually on, only the cross streets. I considered calling the girl at work just to read names off the mailbox to see if she knew where I was. Like a party trick. I bet she could have done it!

Hard Head

Recently we made some additions to our helmets in the city. For the events mind you. But she said, hey let's leave them on, they make people smile and maybe it's harder to be angry at someone with a monkey on their head.

Well I'm not sure about the last part, but they definitely do make people smile. Including myself as I passed under the parkway the other day, entered the tunnel, and ducked like a pterodactyl was about to take off my head. RAH RAH! Six more weeks of spring...the scaredy-cat cyclist was afraid of her own shadow.

So, in light of my better judgment I left the aeronotsodynamic hat at home on a recent trip to the windy country. Didn't need my head tossed around like a bobble head. Tragically, some other cyclist had 'borrowed' my helmet upon my arrival, leaving my melon unprotected.

She says, what, there are several motorcycle helmets laying around surely they must be good enough for bicycling. Ah, a smart ass, yes, but I would have been off with a parrot on my head! But if I put one on, it would at least get to leave the house this spring...on a bike that moves. Touché.

Really I could just take one of the 18 kitty litter buckets adorning the yard and cut eyeholes in them. I mean now that muscles figured out how to get the lids off!  I just pulled my Dr Pepper hat low over my eyes and tried to forget about it. I did well, minus the handful of times I tried to buckle my non existing strap. Ask me about my refreshing Downy water.

Holes, She Said Two Holes, Not Hos.

I'll just put it out there, the girl ain't gonna like this one. This is a picture of two Frisbees. Yes, Frisbees. Two of them. And this might sound like I'm calling the girl cheap, but..well, in the world of Urban spitting I guess I am.

See as I understand it cheap is not needing much paper. Like McD's as opposed to Ruth Chris. It's all beef Yo! No really, as in the Frisbee on the right is clearly the cheaper purchase.

Now, the girl will argue she's frugal. Cuz, it sounds better. More respectable. More prudent. More responsible. And she does like to look for a bargain. That's frugal. But take a look back at those Frisbees. That's Cheap. Foregoing quality to buy what is cheapest...that's not frugal.

See, those yellow shards of a Frisbee...that's what a 5 minute old cheap bargain Frisbee looks like. She buys them because her hole digging, rat shredding dog tears them up in a day. I say, give the dog quality and it will last, not quite a lifetime, but at least a week or two. No way, too expensive, she says. So she continues to buy dollar Frisbees by the armful.

$158 cheap Frisbees later...the Frisbee on the left, of a higher quality, still standing. It's got a couple holes and is quite gnawed upon, but it still flies. Better yet, it's still recognizable as a Frisbee! That's a quality Frisbee. AND it was a give away at some event, so FREE.

I'm just saying, just because the bigger jar, box, or bag cost less per ounce or ply that doesn't make it the better buy. If you only NEED X amount of product A you don't need to go to Costco to spend a dollar more to get a quarter more product-B you'll NEVER use! Confusing her with algebra, never gets a point across. But if you tack on the price of gas...don't even get me started on the cost to run across town for a cheaper can of beans.

Miss Utility Player

Ahem. Dog. Yes, you. That particular area in which you are *ahem*; digging, was not preapproved for your excavating services. In fact you are dangerously close to some underground electrical cabling and I suggest you BACK OFF.

Oh, she is good. I think I mentioned recently something about a little -rat-a-tat-tat- incident? Perhaps it was just a little Ratinator reference. Meet: The Ratinator.

The thing is. She doesn't really know what she is digging for. China by the looks of it! She has gotten me on more than one occasion. I mean she really thinks there's something in those freaking holes. Sometimes, Dog, they are just holes. Holes YOU create no less.

 

In the country I don't recommend you go off all willy nilly running around the yard like some school girl in a country meadow breeze. First of all, it's never a breeze. Second of all, you'll twist your ankle in those crazy diggin' dog holes.

 

It's a bit like watching Caddy Shack when she's around. Once, just once, I said, What's In The Hole. And out popped a rat. A big, fat, city rat! rat-a-tat-MOM. I won't recall the details of what happened next, but Rips got an extry dog treat that night.

 

But let's get back to the extraneous hole digging. You are to dig on command. MY command. Yes, I know it's YOUR yard, but I have to clean up YOUR mess, in more ways than one. I win. Quit diggin', you dig?