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Nope. No sappy end of year memoir here. A lot of people feel compelled to take stock of their lives and publicly review them in blogs and social media posts. I will not do this. I will not subject people to that terrible sort of cliche. Not that you are a subject just because you chose to read this. Anyway, I don’t believe in socialism or plutocracies or totalitarianism or communism or any modern forms of government for that matter. But I will tell you about a recent ride in Kentucky. It goes like this:
I was in the great state of Kentucky for the holidays with my wife’s family a few weeks ago. For those who do not know Kentucky, it is basically the most convoluted system of roads and hills and valleys and creeks and limestone cliffs and rivers and tobacco fields you have ever seen. I have heard that it is also filled with secret marijuana fields and something called Kentucky Colonels. These Kentucky Colonels are not actually Colonels in a military sense…rather they are people who have been formally recognized as contributing something significant to the state of Kentucky. The title has it’s roots in military organization but that ended in the 19th century. I shall speak no ill of the organization as my father-in-law is a Colonel himself. I do think the whole notion of Colonel Sanders is funny, though. And his bow-tie is certainly stylish and non-functional, as any form of tie should be.
That makes me think about suits. Why do people wear suits? There is absolutely nothing functional about them. They are terribly uncomfortable, they do not move well, they are normally accompanied by the wearing of a tie, which is basically a collar and short leash for a person, and they all look basically the same (despite what their makers may tell you). But people spend much of the money they make (in the corporate world) on these restrictive woolen garments in an attempt to, presumably, impress clients, bosses, and even their equally-leveled co-workers. But the very people on whom the impression is meant to be made actually only feel either envy or contempt when confronted with the competing garment. Once this miniature rapport is established, and the silent judgement begins, the Dow Jones will move up or down a few points based on completely fictitious circumstances, one of the parties shifts his gaze slightly downward (this is such a small movement that only the contest winner actually recognizes it…the loser does not even know he just averted his eyes) and immediately check himself into rehab for three months before seeking work at a bike shop. I find the whole notion to be ridiculous in the most literal sense of the word ridiculous. The thing is…I will actually wear one in two weeks when I attend a black-tie-optional event in the name of charity. And I will fidget the entire evening as my shirt migrates up and down and around when I sit down or stand up. I will itch the next day from the wool collar touching my neck. And I will wonder why in hell did people pick this form of garment for large get-togethers and corporate work environments instead of something really comfortable and conducive to productivity…like a felt jumpsuit or flannel pajamas.
So…back to my ride. My ride was great. Probably one of the best rides I’ve done this year…and in December, no less. But the thing is, I am basically flying blind whenever I do a long ride down there. I am beginning to get a decent mental map of the four or five counties in which I ride around Beth’s parents’ town but only in a very general directional sense. For instance…I know which way is North because moss only grows on the north side of all the roadside ditches in which the hundreds of goddam huge mongrel dogs wait to ambush me. These dogs live at every single one of the tobacco farms and rooster concentration camps around the areas in which I ride. They are obviously an ancient breed…probably a crossbreed of pit-bull, timber-wolf, and razorback hogs. They are fast, huge, and nearly silent as they begin their attacks. I have grown accustomed to them, though, and my ears have become finely attuned to the sound they make as they rush at me. This is called sprint training. Their carcasses litter the sides of the larger roads, killed instantly as they try to attack combines and tobacco trailers. To effectively evade the beasts, you MUST be willing to stop and fight. If you are not, they will sense your fear and become overwhelmed by blood-lust and crazy-eyes. Sort of like the curious mania that develops when network or cable new stations get wind of a white policeman kicking the shit out of a black, so-called perpetrator (who in hell knows whether this person actually committed a crime because as far as selling advertising, that fact is about as important as whether or not Ndaukong Suh is playing fair or dirty when he bludgeons a quarterback…the point is that violence is being done, and violence always creates a polarized situation and that can make or break the Nightly News (or ESPN)…especially if the poles are different colors).
Anyway my ride was great, as I mentioned earlier. Even with the dogs. Some of them have actually gotten to know me a bit and I think they even appreciate my presence. I always make sure to wear blue as even the dogs are UK fans in that area of Kentucky. Actually…it seems to me that EVERYONE in Kentucky is a UK fan and NO ONE is a Louisville fan. Am I correct? No matter I guess, but it is a weird thing. I have not met one single person in Kentucky who would root for Louisville in a UK vs Louisville game. I am sure they exist but something tells me they all live in Clarksville, Indiana. THE RIDE! I actually have lost the impetus to write about the ride. Suffice to say that I went up and down many, many hills and was chased by many, many wild dawgs, as they say in Kentucky. I even made it up Thunder Road Hill, which is a very steep road that was presumably created as a joke by the DOT. It is approximately a 40% grade and is completely formed out of what can only be described as jagged charcoal and solidified rooster shit. As a matter of fact, at the bottom of the hill is one of those bizarre rooster-camps I see all over the place in central KY. I don’t know why they exist. They are always fenced in and guarded by a Great Pyrenees Dog (huge white fluffy dog from Belle and Sebastian). The roosters live in blue 100-gallon barrels and are sometimes on a chain and collar. They may be bred for fighting…or maybe just to be used as Foghorn Leghorns. Every hen-house has to have a man around to fix stuff and ward off the chicken-hawks, right? Right…so that was the ride.
Now it’s time for New Year’s Eve which is a celebration of booze and broken dreams and Dr. Neil Clark Warren just loves it as he chugs lemon-drops and sings Auld Lang Syne and swims in his e-Harmony money. The jails will be full tonight with mean drunks and despondent loners who only care that they just spent hundreds of dollars to be at the coolest party in Indy and ended up behind bars instead of between the sheets because they were on the wrong side of point zero-eight and probably the wrong side of the road. It’s a rotten sham and we all ride that train in our twenties and thirties because hangovers really don’t get serious until you make over 50 grand a year. (side note: when you make over 200 grand a year you may drink in the morning to rid yourself of the hangover)
We are going to a friend’s house tonight. We actually like these people though and it doesn’t really matter if it’s December 31. We would go anyway. And i won’t have a hangover tomorrow.
Time to go now….
