Weak End

Headed to Uwharrie this past Saturday.  Trying to not replicate last weekend's missed connection and actually ride with Nick and Chase as opposed to just leaving them in the parking lot and never seeing them again.

Riding to the trail in Nick's Nissan increased my odds of success by at least 50%.  I'm happy that Nick has a truck because now we can wave at other truck users in acknowledgement of our shared love of all things truck.

Different group than I'd ever ridden with before.  Different experience as well.

They liked to ride as fast as possible in ten to fifteen minute intervals and then stand around at trail intersections and swap recipes.

Some old, bearded wise men in the parking lot told us about some new trail being built in the area that was not ready to be ridden.  They were correct about all things, but I never doubted them because.... wizards.

In between the recipe swapping...

 The tensile strength of my of my never-ending supply of clogged-lung phlegm is strong.

Someone had the wherewithal to bring posties, and that person is now my hero, because I brought none.

Nick and I stopped for Mexican on the way home.  I've already discussed how perplexing all the options on a Mexican menu can be, but I usually only go chicken burrito when I can't find "special dinner."  That's always the best choice for a non-foodie who doesn't know the difference between an empanada and a flauta.   It's just some random tubes filled with random animals with sides of things.

The main rule of Mexican food dining is that you always gets the novelty sized 32oz Dos Equis if you're not driving.  Otherwise, you are abusing the privilege of being a passenger.

Nick also went with the special dinner.  He started looking a little defeated towards the end, and was leaving some wrapped tube of animal untouched on his plate.  I asked him how it was possible that he would walk away defeated.

"I don't like mole sauce, and I'm full?"

Full?  This is special dinner.

"How can you walk away from this challenge with only one item to go?  That's like being a hundred yards from the finish line of a mountain bike race and just quitting."

"That's a terrible analogy," he replied.

"Okay.  It's like you're getting gas, and when the pump shuts off because your tank is full, you pull out the nozzle and just spray gas all over your car."

Once I started in on the last meat tube on my plate that corresponded to the one remaining on Nick's plate, he saw that it was identifiable as a "tamale."

"Awww, man.  I like tamales."

He crossed the finish line that day.

On the way home, we were pretty sure a State Trooper was pulling us over as he sped past pointing his finger to the side of the road.  It wasn't us he was after, and when we knew we were in the clear, I asked Nick if he just got "cop heart."

He'd never heard of such a thing, but when I explained it, he said he did.