Saturday, March 22, 2014

Chapter Two

We'll call the past eight months an intermission.  A simple break to allow each of you time to stretch your legs and take a trip to the bathroom while reflecting on the the first part of the show.  Of course, that is a very long time to step away.  What you do in the bathroom is your business but with 3/4 of a year to kill you had plenty of time to get a little weird.  Don't send pictures, I don't want to know.  Based on my reader statistics I know there are at least a couple freaks among you.  I'm cool with it.  Stick around.  We're all friends here.

To answer the question you are all surely asking I will simply say this.  The writing stopped when the inspiration stopped.  Not sad, just true.  When I first started this little project in 2009 my goals were simple:

1)  Utilize this creative outlet to explore my interest in writing.
2)  Make my friends laugh, possibly snort and occasionally blow drinks out their nose.

There probably should have been more well defined goals or perhaps a specific framework to provide direction.  I ventured down the mountain bike racer blog path for a while because their certainly aren't enough of those scattered across Al Gore's interwebs. Then we took that painful little trip down the path of trail running bloggy-ness.  I heard your complaints.  I ignored them.  I'll continue to ignore them but I still love you in a very southern, non-Brokeback Mountain sort of way.  Don't worry, we can still wear cowboy hats.

So let me tell you a little story about the genesis of this lengthy hiatus.  Yes, I was running again.  After breaking my leg last summer I went through a lengthy recovery period and eventually got my lungs back.  My legs?  Well, they were on their way.  I was making some excellent progress when my old friend Stupid came back into my life.  Stupid is that little devil who sits on my shoulder and says things like "36 is the new 22."  "You can do it, this is definitely not a bad idea."  Or my personal favorite "Go ahead, I'll hold your beer and take pictures."  Stupid.  Perhaps more an evil twin than a friend.  Either way, the cause of more good stories than any other source of inspiration I know.  Except drugs.  But drugs are bad, mmmkay.

Night running.  Yup, running at night.  On trails.  In the dark.  With bears and vampires.  Night running.  Like night putting but without the 15 year old daughter of the dean.

When I was first invited to join a night run on the trails of the USNWC I was 100% certain it was a bad idea.  Then I went out and did it and was thoroughly convinced that I was correct.  Running at night while wearing a headlamp is not an inherently foolish endeavor.  Most people who do it enjoy a leisurely pace and chat with their friends while watching the beam of their headlamps bounce along the trail ahead of them.  Me?  Not so much.  Feeling springy I decided the best course of action would be to run my lungs out while pushing the pace with a couple other skinny kickers.  I was recovering from a broken leg.  They weren't.  We all know where this is going.  The good news is that I didn't break anything.  The bad news is that I haven't been able to run for six months.  Yes, that is the bad news.  Stop whining about the lack of bike content, that will come.

With lots of free time on my hands over the past six months I have been able to explore a few new adventures and one of them will be discussed heavily here.  The Little Italian and I are embarking on a new journey three weeks from now when we leave the suburbs behind to start a new life in the city.  We'll tell you about it here.  There will be pictures.  I may write a poem or two.  It will be awesome.  But to keep you occupied until my next post I must paint a picture with words........

I woke up this morning to find my cat standing in my frying pan.  The frying pan was on the stove, the cat was in the frying pan.  Oh, the possibilities.  Think about that for a minute.  Cat goes into the litter box.  Cat does horrible, unspeakable things in the litter box.  Cat scrapes around a bit with her paws.  Cat stands in frying pan.  How many times have I washed my frying pan?  Seven.  Seven times.  And I'm going to wash it again right now.  Then I'm getting a dog.