Here's Rollin' at you, Clive!

June 19, 2011

I seem to have survived yet another organized ride in the form of Rollin' to Colon. The form of a colon may also be seen in Michigan's Palmer Lake. A town near the lake was named Colon, and Colon, Nebraska was allegedly named after the town in Michigan. I consider your colon to be pretty much the same as your large intestine (mine too). After the ride I scarfed down more than half a "Thai" pizza with a ton of sweet chili sauce and my colon was playing chicken with my stomach.

The ride itself was dreamlike as we started out in a thick fog that forced me to remove my spectacles and squint nerdily about saying things like, "Are you my dad?" and "Pardon me, was that your water bottle?" My dad flew by the first rest stop and so I was forced to keep pedaling along so as not to be lost in my myopic stew of incomprehension. After several more confusing minutes the fog began to lift and I returned to my accustomed vantage point behind my soothing, non-confrontational lenses of perceiving.
We eventually rolled into the welcoming Colon.

A very pretty, peaceful community, with a wall dedicated to angst and expressionism where we all (in an act of fraternal empathy and slightly suppressed angst) leaned our bicycles.

This wall seems to act as a kind of pressure relief valve that allows Colonians to maintain a tranquil disposition even during the rough times digesting the suspicious concoctions life sometimes crams into its gullet.

While I was waiting for my chance to be alone with the designated toilet for men I heard many women commenting happily that it was nice to see that the men's line was much longer than the women's. It was true and unusual.

This line included me, and wrapped around the corner (colon-like)!

After some snacking, I noticed this sweet-ass Salsa Vaya.

I am considering one day purchasing a bicycle with the awesome power of the disc braking system, and perhaps this machine will someday be the conveyor of that awesomeness to my trembling index fingers. I will call her Suzanne Vega and we shall sing to one another!

When we left Colon, we rolled along the highway near the town of Prague. I felt like a tourist in my home state, and I hope to one day return to this Europeanesque delicacy of a community.

My butt was damn sore by the time we made it back to Valley. Large amounts of food made me feel significantly better. Then as we were leaving, I heard someone say that my cousin had won a prize! I accepted the prize (in a bag) on his behalf. It is now resting, comfortably unopened, in the trunk of the 'tro (I hope it's not a sandwich or a kitten). I will let you know what it is when I find out. If you are my cousin, please feel free to stop by to claim your prize.

The Rollin' to Colon experience was the most memorable Father's Day event ever. Please believe me and be ready to hit the Colon with me next year!

June 20, 2011

Made it down to the College World Series tonight in time to see some storminess and an impressive display of pro-bicycling propaganda.

Since I was without a faithful bicycle companion, I felt a bit sheepish as I moved my unattached feet up and down in a non-circular pattern, seemingly mocked by the superior glances of the two-wheeled centaurs proudly claiming roads and sidewalks everywhere I looked.

There was even valet bicycle parking, which I eyed enviously. I imagined myself handing over the Old Bastard, slipping the concierge a 5 and winking, "Clean 'er up a tad, wouldja Clive?"

Ah, yes. The day of the bicycle had come at last! Unfortunately it was also the day of the 70 mph wind and heavy rains that caused the game to be postponed after the 6th inning, and me to temporarily lose my sporty visor. Still, all in all, an enjoyable excursion to the evolving downtown area in the midst of the CWS bustle. And we all know how good it is to get up into that bustle now and then, eh Clive? wink wink, nudge nudge.

Incidentally, some blame (or thank) the bicycle for the decline in the bustle. That's right, those ladies with a yen for independent travel at speeds faster than your average pedestrian were not able to mount a "freedom machine" with that unwieldy garb limiting their posteriors. "Good bit o' trivia for ya, eh Clive? Cheerio, ol' chap, cheerio!"