As the calendar arbitrarily rolls from one year to the next there is often much reflection on the past followed by resolutions for the future. Total bollocks. Reflecting is for mirrors and small to mid-sized garden pools. As for resolutions, those are only made by people who show extreme dedication to their diet and exercise program from January 2nd through March 31st and not a day later. Why not January 1st you ask? Hangovers. Plain and simple.
You will find no such drivel here. I have decided to forgo that wasted energy and instead make a bold declaration. I declare that 2011 shall henceforth be known as The Year of The Man.
The Year of The Man. Rolls off the tongue nicely if I do say so myself. And I do. But what does this declaration mean for daily life here on planet earth? It means that I will boldly strut through the coming year in an impressively manly way. There will be 72% more grunting. 100% more scratching. 118% more spitting. And 237% more awesome! This is all very scientific of course. I'd explain the formula I used to come up with these percentages but I fear it involves mathematics at a level far too elevated for most mere mortals to comprehend. I had to bust out my calculator watch so you know it's serious.
I felt that The Year of The Man should begin with the designation of a role model. When I visited my good friend google to search for the ultimate male I stumbled upon some very unsettling results.
I just threw up in my mouth.
That did not go as well as I had hoped. I needed to come up with a shining beacon of manly hope to guide me through the fog of the coming year. A man that kicks ass while kicking some more ass while drinking a whiskey. He should probably spit too.
Whooped 'em again, eh Josey.
Now that there is a man. I studied several hours of cowboy film footage and could find only one difference between myself and Clint Eastwood. If you are thinking that I'm half his size, don't have a poncho, a cowboy hat, pistols or a horse.....well, you're right. But this is my blog so I get to make the rules. I came to realize that the most important thing missing from my repertoire was something that could help me achieve my numbers above in both the "scratching" and the "awesome" categories.
Perhaps a little Just for Men could bring out the best in this somewhat sparse facial foliage.
With my fine looking beard solidly attached to my face my manly voyage had begun. Of course, despite what I might like to believe, I am not actually a cowboy. Yet. Until that perfect day when I bust open the saloon doors and cast a shadowy bow-legged figure across the floor, I will be a cyclist. Always have been. As such, there was something that just had to be done. My cycling heroes carry no guns, wear no ponchos and probably kick no ass. But they do all have one thing in common.
Smooth as silk and 5% faster.
With the first race of the year only 11 days away I'm starting to get that twitchy feeling in my legs again. That could be razor burn but I doubt it. My focus for the next twelve months will be to hurl myself through the woods with a number plate strapped to my iron steed while I chase the proverbial bad guys. As I ride off into the sunset after conquering my foes the townspeople will celebrate and cry out my name. Mothers don't let your sons grow up to be cyclists.