A couple of things. Yesterday, a publisher partner took us--us being the fantastic team of professionals I work with day after day after day--to lunch at Del Frisco’s, a posh, midtown steakhouse, and that’s always a pleasant way to kick off a holiday weekend. After sitting down at 12:30, we continually gorged ourselves with fresh crab cakes, jumbo shrimps (I realize it’s supposed to be just “shrimp,” but the “shrimps” with the extra S just sounds kind of cool, doesn’t it?), cajun corn, potatoes au gratin, and tremendously thick and juicy slabs of beef. Then, around 2:30, the waitress came over to inquire regarding dessert and the fastest way to ascertain whether or not you’ve eaten too much is when a single girl at the table fails to express interest in free chocolate.
“The onion rings never came out,” our host mentioned to the server and as a result of those six simple words, not only did the manager stop by to apologize, but they sent out several of the thickest slices of cake I have ever seen in my life: chocolate, lemon, cheesecake, and something that looked like a fried bag of pure chocolate. Maybe it was souffle?
Twenty minutes later, I found myself practically trotting toward Grand Central in the hopes of (a) making a 3:17 train, and (b) that my stomach might hold out until I reached home, lest I near the verge of exploding, meaning I’d have to make use of one of the MetroNorth bathrooms, and who the hell ever wants to do that?
Sitting on the crowded train, a few concerns kept swirling around in my head. First, I was desperately holding on to the hope that no one would sit next to me. I realize my monthly pass only allows me a single seat, but give me a break. I don’t know about everybody else, but I don’t think a day’s ever gone by when I found myself on either a train or bus thinking, Maybe I’ll get lucky and that sweaty 350 pound slob walking down the aisle with the oversized briefcase will sit next to me. Second, I was also hoping the conductor would arrive ASAP to check tickets. The reason I say that is, the minute the train pulls from the station is prime time to fall asleep and if the conductors take their sweet time reaching the car in which you’re seated, they’re going to wake you up in the middle of a restful, 30-minute nap, yet I got lucky yesterday and the conductor showed up just after the Harlem-125th Street stop a few minutes outside Grand Central.
Finally, I realized that if I went home and did the napping thing the right way, I may have very well succumbed to a massive heart attack while I snoozed considering the amount of red meat ingested during lunch. So rather than risk my life because of a ribeye steak, I figured I’d go riding. Then I got to thinking, rather than a road ride, I’d break out the mountain bike--the bike I’ve only ridden once since buying it over a month ago.
Now usually, I wouldn’t be the biggest fan of riding off-road alone. It’s something I would never dream of doing on my dirtbike. When it comes to motocross, I don’t do those illegal off-road places. Why not? Let’s say I’m out riding through one of those spots where I can find myself a mile from my truck and all alone and I make a mistake and go down and f*ck myself up in a big way, meaning I break something (on me, not the bike). That happens and how the hell am I going to get out? I tend to think of mountain biking in the same light. Yes, I realize I’m a lot less likely to break something fragile while mountain biking compared to motocross, but I’d hate to have to lay in the middle of a trail as dusk comes on and hope someone comes along to carry my broken ass out to where the EMT can reach me.
Regardless, I grabbed the bike and drove the two miles to Graham Hills park. Despite the above concerns, I’m glad I went. I took a few spills, of course, and ended up with a few scrapes, but a few scrapes around the elbows, knees, and shins are okay. Such scrapes are a testament to a man’s manly-man-ness. Such scrapes say to the world, Not only am I active and doing something to keep myself in good shape, but I’m also quite daring. Not really, but you know what I mean, yet on the other hand, a hard cast that’s put in place to set a broken bone sort of says, While I’m active and daring, I sometimes suffer from a lack of good judgement. I realize there are exceptions to every rule, but for the most part, the above statement stands.
In hindsight, though, I don’t think I’m ready for a place like Graham Hills. I very much consider myself a beginner on the mountain bike, and Graham Hills trails are more suited to intermediate/advanced riders (at least according to www.wmba.org, the Westchester Mountain Biking Association) considering the long passages of jagged rocks and technical descents featuring, you guessed it, jagged rocks. Going down is one thing, but going down and landing across a crop of rocks is an entirely different story.
Still, it was a pleasure to get out on the trails with and come across other mountain bikers--cyclists who actually act cordially and take the breath to say hello, unlike most of the road riders up here who won’t even bother glancing over at you when passing on the opposite side of the road. At the top of an ascent in Graham Hills, I bumped into a pair of riders and introduced myself while removing a twig from my rear derailleur. They explained the riding at Blue Mountain is not only bigger but a bit easier to handle for beginners and that there’s some sort of one-day mountain biking expo event taking place up there on June 10th. Hear that, Picco? Something we may want to look into.
Finally, Bjarne Riis, the guy who runs the CSC team, the guy who won the 1996 Tour de France, came out of the closet yesterday and admitted to taking drugs during his career, including 1996 when he won the Tour. Here’s a link to the full article:
Bjarne Riis Confesses
While it’s great that so many cyclists are coming clean, it’s also a big load of shit. The only reason these guys are admitting to wrongdoing is the fact that there’s so much pressure on them these past few months via the media. None of these guys seem tormented by guilt when they’re actually taking the drugs and winning races. Nope, they only seem to get a bit teary-eyed when they’re on the verge of litigation and/or two-year bans from racing, meaning they’re about to lose a hell of a lot of money. With that said, Mr. Riis can take his heartfelt, emotional confession and blow it out his ass. He won the Tour de France more than ten years ago and there’s an eight-year statute of limitations on these things, so it’s quite convenient he waited as long as he did, isn’t it?
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