Tuesday, July 28, 2009

I have 24 mosquito bites.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

On the Fests

Working my way to the police tape barrier I elbowed another hippie in the face, the satisfying crunch of bone disintegrating sending a pleasant shock up my arm. Stomping a too slow pair of skinny jean wearing, long haired emo wienie boys I carved myself and my friends a spot at the front of the crowd. We were here to watch the bicycle races.

Over the past week Central Oregon has played host to the Cascade Cycling Classic, a multi-stage pro bike race that during the last several years has drawn the biggest names in form fitting shorts and sore grundles, including everyone's favorite enuch, Lance Armstrong. Last night was the final race of the series, a high speed criterium oval race around the main downtown block. As the final race, with the shortest track, the biggest crowds and the most desperate racers this race promised to have the highest potential for carnage, therefore being a must-see event for the vast majority of the Bend population.

As soon as Miss Kay, Nickmate and I had established our post on the inside edge of the last turn in the oval before the finish line the spotters whistles began blowing shrilly, announcing the arrival of the pedaling horde. Vanguarded by a referee astride a flashing BMW motorcycle they began wizzing around the turn, the collective hiss of a thousand bike tires running over the pavement at speeds above 30mph sounded like nothing so much as the mother of all bee swarms, or perhaps a locust horde of apocalyptic proportions.

Eagerly I watched the tightly packed mass hurtle around the turn, the flashing colors of the crowd making me dizzy. Yet I dared not look away. Right when my hopes began to fade it happened. The best possible occurence occurred. With a twitch and a shimmy one of the central riders bikes wobbled, and went down. At the speeds they were riding, packed as tightly together as they were on the turn, his fall was unavoidably catastrophic.

Oh the violence! Bikes by the untold dozens flew through the air, the shriek of mangled carbon fiber and steel mixing with the sound of bones snapping like stale bread. Tightly dressed bodies skidded along poorly maintained central Oregonian asphault, shedding skin faster than a python special on the national geographic. Unlike the snake show, this skin did not fall off to reveal shiny fresh scales, just pulped muscles and shredded tendons and guts and black stuff. Clapping my hands hard enough to sting I laughed until tears streamed from my eyes, and I might have actually pooped myself a little.

The only thing better than seeing one skinny hippie bicycle rider eat shit is seeing an entire column of them do it, while their adoring hippie fans wail and moan and tear their dreadlocked hair out by the roots. It was a perfect night in Bend.

Or it would have been if that had actually happened. Instead what happened is we battled our way through the smelly patchouli-oiled white bread west-side bend-elites to see the promised carnage, only to watch several successful, very non violent laps by the bikers, whereupon we grew bored and fought our way down the sidewalk to Sidelines sports bar, where we enjoyed a few cold ones and some greasy fried food. Choosing to avoid the crowds upon exiting the bar Marissa and I bombed out to the old mill in our gasoline powered, smog producing motorvehicle to watch a talkie in the theatre. We saw the new Johnny Depp gangster flick. It was alright.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

"Utter" is a funny word. As in "The mouth of the righteous utters wisdom, and his tongue speaks justice". Not as in "Damn that cow has some sweet utters." Because those are actually udders. Savvy?

I've been trying to utter things more often in my daily life. It's far more satisfying than simply saying them.

Friday, July 3, 2009

On Patches the Friendship Raft

Today: I got my first (legal) paycheck for more than 1000 dollars for one pay period since I left CT. Hooray for commission. I also got a brand new free 8G IPod nano in the mail, courtesy of Harley Davidson Corporate. On a related note, does anyone want an 8 gig IPod nano?

Yesterday: I worked all day, and then drove around down for 2 hours looking for a KFC, because steveo called me with an order for thighs and mashed potatos. Then I fell asleep watching Tropic Thunder. It wasn't any good.

Wednesday: Woke up so very early. Day off. Why?

His name is Patches. Patches the Friendship Raft. And we were going to ride him down the Northern Umpqua. Patches isn't much to look at, a 12 foot red inflatable, with a liberal smattering of blue patches and camel snot green glue. The rear crossmember simply doesn't exist anymore, and in its place is a heavily duct taped sheet of plywood. Where there is usually a metal frame to keep the boat stiff and rigid, there is simply nothing at all. When Drew first brought it home for us to see, after finding it sitting sad and alone in someone's front yard, it was love at first sight. This was to be its maiden voyage with its new family.

Drewmate's friend Jess, a standard Drewmate friend in that he's in his 30's, unemployed, and drives a 1984 biodiesel converted chevy truck offered to bring us, so he rolled into brohouse around 10am. We loaded up Patches next to his fancy raft (fancy in that it's self bailing. Ohh, and it holds air) and hit the road. The ride down to the Umpqua really is beautiful, closely mirroring the trip down 97 south and 138 west toward Crater Lake, just staying on this side of the mountains between here and Medford. After a harrowing 3 hours sitting in the back of Jess's hippie monstrosity, stuck between a smelly dog and a smellier girlfriend, I finally got a chance to stretch my legs at the Umpqua river. Leaving Drew, Marissa and I to inflate the rafts, Jess took off for the take out point to collect his sister and friend Woody. We were going to do a 15 mile stretch of the river, chock full of class 3 rapids, with a few 4's thrown in for flavor.

When Jess got back, Drew fell in love. With Jess's sister. In poor Drewmate's defense, at 25, and a student, who has evidently been actively travelling the globe for years now, she is an interesting subject. She's not bad looking either. For reasons I still can't fathom, Drew somehow convinced her to join Marissa, Hank, himself, and me in Patches, rather than staying in Jess's much more reliable, maneuverable, and comfortable fancy raft. It proved to be a long day, full of interminable stretches of boredom and frantic duct taping/raft pumping, interspersed by periodic near death experiences and uncontrollable caterwaulling shooting the rapids.

It really became clear that Patches the Friendship Raft was doomed when Hank abandonded ship in favor of Jess's fancy raft at the first possible instant. Like any good captain, Drew resolved to stick with his vessel, and if it should collapse, and sink, killing us all, so be it.

It didn't sink. But it does leak air dramatically, and floated the rapids more like a sloppy wet noodle than an actual boat. Fun.

After a long long day of paddling, and a long drive home I was kept awake all night by the soreness in my legs, back, and shoulders. I like days off.