Are you a gambling man, Mr Bond?

This morning is tainted with a certain amount of fuzzy head.  A last minute stop at Total Wine on the way home will do that I guess. 

Most money spent on a single beer.

But that's just that and no reason to be all slack here.

I love when the internet feeds me.  Blog fodder comes cheap.  Remember when I had to come up with The Horny Single Speeder's Guide to Single Speed Podium Etiquette as a reaction to the unfortunate Alison Tetrick's Basic Top 13 Podium Rules?

It had to happen.  Eventually someone would decide to share mine own with the original Emily Post of the Podium.

Some may think I'd take some offense to be considered one who "appears as an elf," but quite honestly waking up at 124.8lbs this morning, I realize that I am within reach of that magical weight that I'll need to be in order to finally submit my resume to the folks at Keebler.

As to being "the god of over 40 single speed bloggers?

What can I say?  In the land of blind pigs, the one eyed pig is king.  As of right now, I can only see outta one blurry eye, so I guess I am indeed the royal pig.

Not only does this blog help to perpetuate a godly elf like presence, apparently it also makes me a "badass singlespeed rider/racer."

If there is one thing I have learned from the Karl Rove generation of the political campaign machine, it's that if you want to make a lie a truth, you just need to keep telling it until you believe it yourself.  Only then will the public embrace you as a god or a badass and grant you the power to control drones and outlaw nutrition.  Isn't that every little boy's dream, and aren't I nothing more than a little boy with those same dreams?

The Pisgah Eleventy-one and Fiftyfivepointfive are this weekend.  It is coming regardless of my readiness or preparedness.   Of no concern to the promoter, at least not enough concern to postpone the race, my rib issues will not be resolved in 48 hours.  This I know.

I have a new game plan.  I can not say it is wise as far as long term cost VS benefit analysis goes.  It would be smart to skip the Eleventy-one giving my ribs another 26 hours of rest, try my best at the Fiftyfivepointfive, and hopefully be as close to 100% as possible for the demanding seven day Trans-Sylvania Epic coming up the very next week.

No one has ever accused me of being smart.

I did have a 6th grade science teacher that liked to call me "B+ Boy," but that would be as close as I got.

My plan is to drive up on my own tomorrow night.  Sleep somewhere, perhaps in the woods, perhaps on the back porch of The Pisgah Tavern.

Low preparation, low maintenance, low expectations.

This grants me certain freedoms. 

The kind of freedoms that allow me to be a little bitch at a moment's notice.

If my ribs give me too much trouble at any point of the race on Saturday, I can return to my car and either change clothes, drink beer, fall asleep, and do the drive of shame on Sunday, or just go straight back to Charlotte when no one is looking.

I know, not very god-like or badass.  Either option will kill my hard earned internet status and my dreams of controlling drones and reinventing the Twinkie with nothing but recycled Styrofoam.

Sleeping in tomorrow and loading up the Fit of Rage for an after-work exodus.  Pregame blog hiatus.

Next week expect two race reports, one, or none.

Place your bets.