Wilbur ride, beet juice, old man power

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It’s all stress and response, really.  Stress, response, recovery, get better, stronger, faster, smarter, whatever.  That’s how the world works.  In every respect.  

We ride bikes very hard and it hurts and we sweat and we breathe and we do the chicane loop over and over and vo2 and threshold and zone whatever and then……….fast.  At least that’s what we hope.  

So I did a hundo plus nine last week with some pals and it was really sublime.  I needed the miles and the outside air, due to the many days of forced trainer time in the basement, so I did what anyone with a desire to ride but no plan would do….I called Bri.  Bri Clark is like the Master Control Program from the movie Tron.  She knows everything in the world and when tasked with something to do she moves at the speed of before you even thought of it.  I know that sentence made no sense but that’s all I have to describe her super-human powers of just getting things done.  And if you want to plan a route to Wilbur and back….well, ask and you shall receive…before you even hit send on the damned text button.  And what a route it was, I tell ye.  

I am currently looking at the pictures in my head that are floating around trying to describe the terrain upon which we rode and all I see is World War 1.  The roads were very crude and dotted with great big holes and rubble and i felt like maybe we would be better off on fat bikes…or dune buggies.  I gave up trying to call out pot holes and bumps because I think that those things were more prevalent than smooth tarmac for the majority of the ride.  And Bri planned this route!  I think she had our best interests in mind when she planned it but I don’t think she accounted for the sheer magnitude of road work that our great city was currently stitching together.  No one could have, mind you.  Indianapolis (and probably most major cities at this point) will, from this point on, be in a perpetual state of Orange Barrels and frantically waving hands as it valiantly tries to keep up with the absolutely horrifying rate of road degradation and general aging that naturally happens to all cities but that no one ever wants to acknowledge.  I bet there was a time when one could ride a bike from the north side of the city to the south right through the middle and not even worry about constantly looking down and calling out road hazards to ones cohorts.  But I also bet that that was in the 1950s or something when the world was a much cooler and docile place and everything was black and white and Opie went fishing with his dad, the Sheriff.  And just like that…I went off topic and the paragraph got way too big and confusing.  Let’s start over:

I originally wanted to write about training and racing because that is what is coming up really soon—Spring is just over the horizon and that is when a particular group of grown men will break out the clippers and razors and shave their legs and pretend that they are the local Legends of the Road and carbon fiber.  And it will be fun.  I always enjoy that time of year.  It is refreshing and difficult and many a leg will burn but man oh man do we all enjoy that bike racing stuff.  And that’s all fun and well and good but I need to tell the story of the ride to Wilbur with the crew.  

We started out from Hotel Clark with a decent group:  myself, Harry, Bri, Betsy, Bob Brooks, and Jim Creamer.  All capable of riding a hundred miles and all in decent shape.  We hit the road and straight away Bri and I were two up and riding a decent tempo up front for the first 45 minutes or so.  We went down Spring Mill because of some problem with the Monon Trail or something…I don’t really remember what it was.  Harry mumbled something about it but I was cold and really just wanted to pedal so as to warm up so I did as I was told.  So down Spring Mill Road we hustled.  Not much conversation, strangely enough, at first.  We pedaled smoothly through the maze of roundabouts of which Carmel is made and pointed our way toward Broad Ripple.  Bob was talking about beet juice and CBD oil and I was casually listening when the first wave of pot holes started to appear more and more frequently and I knew then that the ride had begun in earnest and that now I had to actually pay attention to things.  

We began to point out holes and bumps and dead things and eventually made our way through the Ripple and into the Downtown area of the city, through which I absolutely abhor riding…BUT….Bri made the route and she knows all and I follow orders now instead of giving them and so we rode through the grit and grime and holes and bumps and dead things and strange people with dull eyes looking at us through the windows of their hazy old houses like hungry lizards peering at passing flys (flies? fly’s? —what is the plural of fly?).  Past the Monument and the Courthouse and the bricks and tall buildings and shadows.  You know…downtown Indy is really an interesting place if you take the time to look at it in depth.  There are all sorts of little hideaway stores and pubs and tiny restaurants and shops built into the remnants of the many old and wildly unique structures and edifices that stand guard around our proud little big city.  The bold and vibrant colors of Mass Ave and the Cultural Trail and the Bohemian vibe of Fountain Square…the sour smell of city grime.  It’s all amazing and old but packed with New and we rode through it all and the air was warming up and I felt great.  And then! …we got smacked in the face by the South Side.

The city was behind us and suddenly we were on Bluff Road and there was what appeared to be a sort of suburb or something on the left and a big open stretch of grassy field-land and long-ago abandoned concrete foundations on the right.  The roads were somewhat better here and we could keep the speed up but I knew what was coming up pretty soon and there is no way to get to Wilbur but through a bunch of big hills and old roads and on and on we went.  

This year I have not been eating breakfast before most of my rides.  Actually I have not been eating breakfast before rides for quite a while.  But this day I did.  And I felt really good on the bike so I was generally on the front whenever I could be.  Bri also seemed to be feeling good.  I could tell by the look on her face and the insistence on 21+ for the pace.  Harry did his usual thing of fooling around somewhere near the caboose (that’s what she said) for the most part but when it was his turn to pull he was Steady Eddy and the speed would neither surge nor slow no matter what the incline of the road was.  He is the worlds biggest bluffer and do not ever believe it if he tells you that he is “retired” or “out of shape” or “training for TRIRI this year” because he can and will still make you hurt badly on any incline short of 45 degrees.  And so he hit Observatory with much gusto and panache and seemed to want to punish us for something.  I only had a 23 tooth so I had to stand up and pedal hard so I did and went pretty fast up that hill and what the hell was that surface?  It sure as shit was not pavement.  More like a crumbly sort of loose black silty stuff.  It wasn’t really hard and it wasn’t really soft which made it feel like riding on a dirt road but with a little more traction.  That first hill was steep and I could tell right away that not all of us were going to be happy three hours from now.  

You can tell you are getting close to the hard part of the ride when you get to Mann Road and start to make your way through Mooresville.  Mooresville and the surrounding area is made of hills.  There is no flat.  You either are climbing or descending and usually you are in some sort of danger, be it a savagely eroded road surface or one of the many wild and irritable feral dogs that roam around Morgan County.  Luckily we were un-molested this day and were free to enjoy the suffering of Robb Hill Road and the run-in to Wilbur with not much trouble.  Oh yeah, wait, Robb Hill Road…and I only had the 23 tooth and so I had to stomp up those hills and it reminded me of when I used to ride there when I was younger and not eligible for masters racing and I did what was called “training” because I wanted to be a good bike racer.  

Now by this time I could tell that Jim and Bob were somewhat irritated with the pace up the hills and were huffing and puffing a little bit.  Betsy was a champ and was climbing well and so was Bri.  I was content to just go as fast as the 23 would allow me to but Bri insisted on going a little faster so I had to keep jumping back up and by the time we got to the little corner store in Wilbur I was feeling pretty beat up.  

So we get to the store and we all get our little snacky cakes and energy drinks and I think someone even bought a slim-jim which is very gross but to each his own and we sat in the sun and rested for a few minutes.  Then I glanced to my right and saw Thomas Revard and Seth Worthington and company. They were probably on their hundredth mile or so and just getting started, and I knew right then and there that I was old.  Pro cyclists…..

Aaaaaaand so we started back to our destination which was home and food and comfortable seating and my legs just felt marvelous, for real!  I actually felt like I might be able to do bike racing if need be.  And that made me want to go fast.  And so I did.  And so did Bri.  And then we found ourselves alone without our compatriots and where the hell did they go?  Turns out they took a short-cut because they are outright ninnies and didn’t want to climb up one more hill for fear of terminal hammy cramps or something.  But, we eventually found them and started back toward the South Side and the border of the city and the safety of flat roads and the ride started to feel like it was settling down and we were all good.  But then I heard something strange.  It was a sound like some sort of a very old machine with a lot of pulleys and wheels and cranks and metal all creaking and groaning and shuddering and demanding that we Slow Down!  And What?  Was someone shouting something?  I turned my head around and realized that it was in fact Bob Brooks and not an old decrepit machine that was following us with a bunch of rusty old bits and pieces wanting to give us tetanus.  

Bob was clearly cooked and the look on his face was obviously one of dread because his eyes had actually sunken to the back of his skull and all he could see was a long dark tunnel with a little piece of pizza hanging from a string at the end of it.  He was long gone into that place where all bonked cyclists eventually end up…it doesn’t really have a name but that doesn’t matter because it definitely has a personality and there are rules in there:  no talking, no help, no smiling or laughing and SLOW THE F__K DOWN!!  But keep pedaling!  Do not stop pedaling and what is the quickest route to my refrigerator and food.  That is where we left Bob and I believe he made it home but I’m not entirely sure.  I offered him a gel but he just flailed his hand at me and made a sort of choking sound like a dying bullfrog and rode on.  And so it went until we made it to the Monon Trail and the safely of fine asphalt and hundreds of people with dogs on long leashes.  I left the group at 136th street and the famous eight-circle roundabout that goes under 31 that as far as I can tell no one in their right mind knows how to navigate.  I just sort of count to three and go as fast as I can in as straight a line as possible from one end to the other and hope that no Carmel soccer mom in a huge black SUV doesn’t blast me to smitherines.  

I’m getting tired and I know that last paragraph had very poor grammar but I just don’t care.  It was a great ride and I think I will do it again this Wednesday with Andrz-too many consonants in a row in his name and whoever else wants to ride with us.  Maybe Felipe or Kevin Noone.  If anyone want to find me in the next few days I will be at Gray Goat Bicycle Company trying to convince the world that tubular tires are still the shit and I am the best at sticking them to your rims.  

Your pal,

Twisted Richter

123117 The Year That Almost Killed Me

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Tumultuous

THAT is what my year was.  It was weird.  It was wild and beautiful and crazy and scary and sad and way too many other adjectives for me to list.  I sold the store and took the summer off and then got a job and basically just twisted my whole life around and inside out and I still don’t exactly know what the hell I am doing or where I am going in this life.  I can tell you that I am much happier now than I have been in many, MANY years though.  But I am not exactly sure why.  My head is a full of bats and snowstorms and stomping goblins all gnashing their teeth and laughing and yelling at me that it’s time to let the past go and not just in a passive sort of way.  But can I do this thing?  I am trying.  Let me explain…

The store was my life.  Every single bit of me went into that thing and a large part of me is still in there to this day…banging around in the back with a drill or a ladder or something and doing the THINGS that made the place what it was and what it probably still is, just a little bit.  I spent many a long day and night creating a space and a culture there and I am damned proud of what I did.  Of what I created.  The ability to create is perhaps the most important gift I have been given in this most tempestuous life.  It is what drives me and makes me happy and basically keeps me alive at this point.  The act of creation is sacred to me.  It should be.  It is so very important.  That drive and that NEED to bring something into existence and grow it into something that thrives and has utility…it is more or less indescribable.  I cannot think, right now, of proper words to describe how important it is to me.  Without it I would never have built the store, or the bike teams, or the many wonderful and important relationships that I have been blessed with over the past ten years.  Holy smokes…we are all capable of so much if we just let ourselves open up our minds and our hearts and hands and eyes and all the other senses we can and just do the things and make the things and just DARE to grab ahold of our dreams and wrangle the things into existence by sheer act of will and stubborn bull-headed persistence! 

And so much for all of that.  It is over now.  I did the things and made the things and they were all awesome and I had so many friends and customers and acquaintances and teammates and sponsors and man oh man it was a wild ride.  What I want to get off my chest though is how very very very VERY damned sad I was to leave it all behind.  It really, profoundly affected me.  The store belongs to someone else now (a very good man) and the team is no longer mine.  Things happened between myself and some other people who are involved with those things and not all of it was good and most of it was my fault.  Let me say something here:  I don’t consider myself a great person.  I am not one to grandstand when I race bikes or gloat when I accomplish something good in life.  I try my best to be quiet and considerate and ALWAYS to listen to people when they talk to me.  But sometimes I can pop off at the head when I feel strongly about something and sometimes I can say or do things which may be hurtful to other people.  I don’t do this very often but I have been known to do it.  And sometimes the things I say or do are so hurtful that I damage relationships just like an axe through wood.  I am sorry for those things.  I really am.  But now I consider those matters closed and that part of my life over.  I truly miss those people and the good times we had together but I understand why the distance between us has grown so vast.  Sucks…really does. 

So now I am at another shop and it is on the complete opposite side of the city and that fact is very prescient.  I manage a big store and I really like all the people I work with….err, with whom I work.  Sounds so goofy to say it properly.  I am NOT the head honcho anymore and I have to be accountable to someone else now…a behavior which has never come easily to me.  But, anyway I like what I am doing and I have started several new projects that are really stirring up the creative juices.  …my mind is aglow with whirling transient nodes of thought…careening through a cosmic vapor of invention (stolen) and I feel very invigorated right now.  I am slightly manic a lot of the time because my head has not been this free for many, MANY years.  I am also coaching and have started two other teams, with the help of several great friends.  And soon you will be seeing a big huge sprinter-style van full of tools and workstands and bike parts and covered with big logos and stripes and such and you know what’s inside?  …a little bike shop!  We are launching the mobile side of the store and I am pretty dang proud to say that I have a large hand in the creation of this new thing.  We will be driving around soon and going to your house to fix your rig instead of you having to drag it over to us!  The store is also the primary sponsor of our new women’s racing team, Gray Goat Mobile - Bullseye Total Media Women’s Racing (I have long supported women’s racing in Indy).  This team is, well, just badass.  They are fast and hungry and I imagine they will pretty much dominate women’s racing around the INKY area and also on the national scene as they are a division 1 team in the USA Crits series. 

Creation, folks…it’s the best.  Make stuff and feed it and water it and give it love and watch it grow and thrive and just be happy that we all are blessed with this ability to bring our ideas into existence.  I feel…good.  I dare say it.  I actually feel good right now.  I have been a stark raving mad anxious maniac for way too long and now it’s time for me to calm down and just let it be, let it be………let it beeeeeeee yeah let it be!  Whisper words of wisdom….let it be………..  Thanks, Paul. 

A new Chris has emerged, folks, and he is a much better and happier person than he has been in a very, very long time.  This may be dangerous as when I get to being manic and having flights of ideas and stuff I tend to go all wacky-wonky and I can’t stop until the thing careens all fast and loose and faster and faster and give it MORE GAS FOR CHRISSAKES!!!!!  …..we gots things to do…

MUCH LOVE

Deckard and the Coyote and life is too short.

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Watching Blade Runner again, maybe for the tenth time.  Priss and Roy and Tears in Rain and all that stuff.  Such a great flick.  I’m looking forward to seeing the next one.  It’s an absorbing movie.  Even Beth is watching without being on a device.  

If I only had four years to live, well, shit, what would I do?  I can’t make the decision alone…too important.  Gotta have assistance.  My brain is a used up old car with manual roll-up windows and a broken radiator.  The AC doesn’t work and there sure as shit aren’t any seatbelts.  It loves to run at 150 miles per hour but it overheats all the time and I have to piss in the radiator out in the middle of nowhere while the coyotes stare at me and the turkey vultures hover around like…turkey vultures.  

A vehicle needs maintenance periodically but I do not have the means to provide it.  Drugs can help (my mind, mind you…haha get it?)  a little bit…I guess.  A vehicle needs fuel also.  A life that burns twice as fast burns half as long, said the Man.  Gotta find some fuel fast or that life won’t even have a chance to burn so bright.  And to hell with all that.  It’s a stupid analogy.  

Wiley Coyote….Super Genius!  That’s more like it.  I’ll spend my life planning elaborate traps for a bony-assed little bird who runs really fast and relishes the opportunity to outsmart me at every bend in the red desert road.  And it’s all sponsored by Acme Corporation.  That’s my life.  I am constantly defeated by a missed step or a cracked outcrop and I fall a hundred feet to the dusty road below.  But I never die.  That’s the rub.  I keep doing stuff.  I keep planning things and paying too much attention to the stream of ideas that runs in circles around and around in my little cave dwelling behind some rocks in that awful desert with that jackass bird constantly foiling my plans.  But sometimes it works a little bit.  I’ve actually eaten roadrunner.  Not The Roadrunner, mind you.  But I have eaten one or two of its kind.  Not much meat.  It you dry it out you can get ten years worth but you have to really meter it out and sometimes in the winter it gets pretty scary and you may need to supplement with a can or corn or something. 

The movie is almost over.  Roy is chasing Deckard through that old building and bashing everything to pieces and he’s about to make the Speech.  Such great dialogue in this thing.  Everything is wet and greyish-blue and it’s all ABANDONED!  

A change of heart and the Speech.  Tears in rain.  Always gets me.  It’s a pathetic end to a fast-burning but short life.  I wonder which is better because it gets kind of boring on the hundred year plan.  You actually live several different life times within that jeering span.  The span is the outline and the Mind who makes the decisions…it peers on at you in a sort of narcissistic realization that YOU are ultimately sprinting around in strange patterns and every once in a while you stop and have a moment.  And the moment can be a few minutes or ten or thirty years or longer.  But at the end of the line, when you have run your last pattern and the rain starts falling hard and grey those moments will end up washed away like Roy’s.  And that’s how movies get made!  You’re welcome…

Jesus what a morose entry!  I am really sorry for that.  How about this to end things up:

I have noticed that the coyotes have begun to shit everywhere again.  I don’t know what they eat but it is red and has what appear to be a lot of pumpkin seeds in it…or something similar.  That means little dogs should not go walking around alone at night.  Though…the more I think about it, the more I want a coyote puppy.  They are fascinating.  We’ll put a collar on it and call it Banjo Fred and he’ll be our inspiration for many home movies, newspaper cartoons, and oil paintings.  And that’s FINAL!  No negotiations.

Go ride your bikes and walk your dogs and enjoy your lives.  You never know how much time you’ll get.

Road Season is Over and other rambling nonsense

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Cycling season is over.  Cyclocross doesn’t count.  Cyclocross is mud and wet and cold and in many ways it is the most miserable thing I can think of.  I remember one race watching some of the juniors waiting in line, in freezing temps, for the use of a hose so that they could have their parents, or friends, aim the thing at their mud-caked bodies, while still wearing their kits, and spray them off.  I felt so sorry for them.  Why go through this terrible ritual just for the sake of a 45 minute race on a course that could be described as a replica of a World War I battlefield?  I did a few of them and I guess it’s just not for me.  Cold, wet conditions are not my friend.  I need to be very warm in order to perform optimally and ‘cross just is not normally like that.  Current conditions are definitely not an accurate representation of the mean conditions that normally greet racers.  It has been in the 90s this week and there have already been at least two local races as far as I can tell and the racers are sweating like war horses as they pedal and run up hills and all that crap that’s part of cyclocross.  But that will soon change and it’ll be back to rain and cold slop and those of you who do this sport will regale instagram and facebook and twitter with tall tales of heroic exploits and “Almosts” and I will have to unfollow all of you.  And enough of that.  I have a lot of friends that participate in that kooky sport and some of them are actually really good at it…some of them are pretty dominant.  Thermal skully hats off to ye…

But the road season is over now.  Except in Belgium where Jack and Robert are slaving away doing kermesses and muddy crits and having an all around great time…according to social media.  I have been so impressed with the development of those two.  First IB has really taken care of them and the team has made it possible for them to do what a lot of young, talented racers dream of.  But for us masters and the other young guns who train relentlessly day after day and week after week over the winter and spring just to be in shape to do one-hour crits in the summer…the season is finished.  And that sucks.  I loved this year.  it felt different than years past.  Team Heroes was pretty damned good and we had some great results.  The other strong teams in this region were still strong but we had an answer for anything they threw at us and we were more proactive in our race strategies also.  Personally, I had a great season and won some races and raced hard and tried to be a good teammate and I think all of that was pretty damned neato.  And hell no I am not thinking of doing some ‘cross races.

Crits are fun.  Going super fast on bikes in extremely close quarters with a bunch of other guys who are bumping bars with you and always searching for better position and attacking and countering and bridging and cornering so hard you can feel your rear tire slide a little bit…all of that is super addictive and I miss it already and it sucks that we have to go through winter and trainer season before we can do all that shit again.  Damn!  That was a long sentence!  Long sentences are sort of fun, though, aren’t they?  They create a sense of anticipation and a buildup of tension until at the end, there is some sort of combination of words that creates a resolution and you can sigh and start something new.  Like music.  I’m rambling now.  No matter…it was crits we were talking about.  I like cornering the best.  I love being at the front of the group approaching hard corners and just blazing through them as hard as I can and looking back at what sort of gap I created.  The sensation of the rubber gripping the asphalt and the tension in the wheels as you reposition your body low and forward on the bike so your center of gravity is correct is just pure roller coaster school and I highly recommend it to anyone with a healthy bit of aggression and killer instinct.  

Killer instinct is something I talk about a lot with the athletes I coach.  I firmly believe you are either born with it or you are not.  Now, that’s not to say that there are not varying degrees of killer instinct, because there are.  There is no such thing as an absolute, IMHO.  But it has been my experience that the riders I have placed on teams or coached fall into two camps.  Those with natural killer instinct, whom I call Killers, will generally be more successful in races, with less effort on my part.  They simply “want it” more than the other guy.  There is an inborn need to be better than everyone else.  And while they may not ever actually be better than everyone else, they will always work toward that goal.  I can tell if an athlete has killer instinct almost immediately upon meeting them.  There is a sort of fiery-eyed confidence that radiates out from a Killer.  And it infiltrates and punctuates pretty much everything they do in life.  You have to be careful with them, though.  They can be a bit emotional when things don’t go their way.  I’ve seen pure phenoms go to tears when they missed out on the winning break and had to roll in with the peloton in ignominy.  Or at least ignominy according to their aggro-addled brains.  Killers are the fun ones to coach.  They always want to do more.  They always want to push the intervals a little bit farther.  They will always skirt the high edge of the zone they are in and they will never miss an opportunity to sprint you if you prod them. 

The other athlete, the one without natural killer instinct, will often test very high for FTP or maximum sprint power but it is much more difficult to get them to the point where they can be competitive in races.  It can happen, but it just takes a different approach.  These athletes want to be competitive…they want to be bike racers, but they tend to be too analytical and tentative when faced with extremely fast-paced challenges like fast, hard cornering or positioning during a sprint.  It tends to be very easy to get them in really good shape but when it comes to applying that fitness to the actual sport, it takes a lot of conversation and sometimes a practical, hands-on approach like making them follow you through hard corners on a practice crit course until they can stay on your wheel…or making them stay in the top six or eight riders in a very difficult local group ride…a “worlds” type ride or local Hammerfest.  These athletes find it difficult to do these things because their personalities are not conducive to that sort of riding.  But…with a lot of practice and some practical and/or motivational conversations, the non-killers can become pretty good bike racers.  Oh and by the way, I am building a website for my coaching biz.  it's called Zone-6 Coaching.  I'll put something on social media soon.  If anyone is interested, let me know.  Yes, I know what I'm doing.  

Tired of talking about that also.  So here are some things that make me happy during bike season:  Bikes and asphalt and hot sun and water bottles…10 x 10 tents and sticky skinsuits and shit!  Where the hell is my rear wheel?!  Furiously attempting to pin a number on when it’s 93 degrees and you got to the venue a half hour after you wanted to.  Tom always leading the first lap, no matter where we are.  Tom always knowing about a thousand different people NO MATTER WHERE WE ARE.  Harry’s Jorts and the Bri and the girls with their love affair with many different brands and patterns of socks.  Court off the front.  Court off the front.  Court off the front.  Aaaaaand Court off the front…  Don just generally being the most selfless teammate I could ever imagine.  My need for hour-long warmups on the trainer while Tom and Harry casually pedal around for fifteen minutes and whatever, dude…  The general awesomeness of the atmosphere at Indy Crit and the teams always congregating in the same spot under the usual tents with teammates, friends, and family hanging out and cheering and bullshitting and drinking beer and hot damn it’s just such a great sport…

What a super rambling, possibly incoherent piece of nonsense this thing is.  I apologize if you read it all and missed something important on the TV like some stupid platitude-filled post-game speech by one of the overpaid NFL players that just narrowly missed getting a concussion today (to be sure, I like the NFL and watched most of the games today).  Everyone hates Trump, especially the NFL right now...well, except Jerry Jones.  Sports and politics mixed up like concrete and hair-gel and who the hell cares, anyway?  (probably a lot of us, but it sounded good)

I need to go and watch the new Star Trek now and then go to bed.  Beth is already being magnetically drawn toward the stairs.  The Tempurpedic mattress uses the Force to draw her in and she falls asleep in five minutes nightly.  Wish I had that ability.  Oh well…  Later,

-C

Rats! And the Force! And the miserable Colts.

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Rats are gnawing on my irises!  They are literally chewing on the backsides of my eyes because they are in my skull right now.  They have not eaten much of my brain yet, which is why I can write this, but I am afraid that they will do that soon enough.  

They got in my head last night when I was passed out next to the fire pit on our patio.  I don’t know how I lost track of time, or my consciousness, but it happened, and those filthy fuckers cut straight through some of my neck tendons and crawled up through the foramen magnum, one by one, with help from their razor sharp claws and powerful leg muscles.  Rats are very strong.  They are also attracted to white matter, apparently…and eyeballs.  

What I DON"T want to happen is for them to mess with my higher cognitive functions and my eyesight, in general.  I already have to wear readers when I am looking at anything closer than about two feet from my face.  And I don’t want them to get too close to my pre-frontal cortex.  That would be disastrous.  I can feel them wriggling around in there like two huge beetle larvae just eating everything they can until they develop their armor and legs and can escape.  But escape is not what these awful devils want.  They want to take control of my mind and direct me like a shitty little homunculus with ten arms and a fiendish book of instructions that was created specifically by someone or some thing on acid or mushrooms.  

That is what it feels like sometimes.  Levers are pulled and buttons pushed and I do things and say things and move around as if controlled and directed by a foul-tempered wizard.  I don’t know why I do some of the things I do!  I just can’t help it.  I mowed the lawn and planted a tree and made the bed but I didn’t ask my wife what she wanted to do today because I thought, for whatever reason, that my doing chores was something good and something for which I should be rewarded.  But this is marriage, people!  It does not work that way.  (she is sitting next to me with a blanket over her and playing on her computer…Bella is between us and Walter is on the floor and we are watching the Colts game and waiting to go to church)  What I should have done was work out (ride) while she was doing her workout and then come home and ask her what was most important to her today.  That is what a husband should do.  Happy wife / happy life…as they say.  And I should have done that.  But…I didn’t.  It’s the rats.  

I can tell they have made their way into my temporal lobes.   I can’t remember things like I could twenty years ago when I was smart.  But they are eating my temporal lobes now and it is much worse.  They need to stay away from the dura mater.  That is the lining of the skull.  Can’t let them get to the actual bone…the calcium.  They need it to aid their muscle contraction…especially the heart muscle.  And they can get it if they drill through to the bone.  So I am officially asking anyone reading this right now if you have some rat poison or repellant which I might borrow…or just take, so that I can stuff it up the open wound in my neck and kill the evil bastards.  I think they may have targeted me.  I have spoken to some of my neighbors and they all seem to be fine.  They sort of look at me queerly when I tell them I have giant rats in my head trying to blind me by eating my eyes from the inside out, but what am I supposed to do?  What I can’t tell, though, is which one of them set the dirty things loose on my patio (rats don’t normally live around here).  Whoever it was must have been watching me…which leads me to believe that it was one of my closer neighbors.  I’ll find out.  You can bet on that.  I have ways!  A person like me always has ways.  inexhaustible resources…intellectual purpose and laser-focused direction, my friends.  I’ll catch them soon enough and then it’ll be rats for them!

But in the meantime…it has to be poison.  That’s the only way to get rid of rats…especially when they obviously have a purpose and are motivated to fill their bellies with axons and dendrites.  Gotta be careful, though.  Can’t just stuff it up there because I don’t want to destroy any more of my brain than absolutely necessary to get rid of the fiends.  I may need professional help.  If I could find an exterminator with a gentle hand and surgical precision i would hire him or her but I doubt that person exists.  And it figures.  And so it goes…  That’s always the way it goes with rats.

When your wife is happy with you, or forgives you for something, or is just generally nice to you, the rats get sick and begin to die.  I don’t exactly know how it works but you can actually feel them slowing down their movements and they stop chewing so incessantly on your eyes and dura mater and whatever lobes they happen to be near.  Sometimes you still need rat poison to fully rid yourself of the little shits but I do know that the surest way to mitigate the damage done by them is to be a good husband.  Don’t be selfish.  Take her for a walk sometimes with the pups.  Talk to her.  Listen to her.  Go and do something that she wants to do on your day off.  Make her dinner.  Lots of things…  They all help kill those rotten buggers in your skull…in my skull.  They are still there and I can feel them but they are getting tired, I think.

Colts just threw an interception and now the Cardinals are poised to kick a FG and put a bullet through the horse.  Hell they may get a TD.  Fegging Colts.  Oooohhh…FG it was.  Being a Colts fan is like being in a submarine that has a random tendency to Crazy Ivan without permission from the Captain…or anyone else, for that matter.

But the rats.  I just pulled one out.  It was disgusting…all bloody and covered in my grey and white matter and cerebrospinal fluid.  Skinny thing.  I opened the back gate and turned it loose toward the middle of the commons area.  No, I did not kill it.  I don’t do that.  All life is sacred, and all that crap.  Beth always gets mad when I capture spiders and let them loose outside instead of killing them.  Anyway the coyote or the red fox will probably get him…he was pretty weak.  The other one is still in there but I think I can get him before the end of the night.  If not, I will get him tomorrow morning after I have some coffee.  I think the caffeine might help because it is a vasoconstrictor.  Might make some more room for me to reach up there.  It’s almost dead, I think.  My wife seems to like me right now.  Some sort of inverse relationship between our relationship and the health of the rat.  I assume it is some form of telepathy mixed with the Force.  And I really believe in that shit, mind you.  Lightsabers and dead rats.  The fate of the galaxy in the balance and I have to deal with fucking rats.  

Anyway, be nice to your wife is the point.  And I’m out…