I'm a loser, baby

If memory serves me correctly, this story is true.

I was a mere yute hitting golf balls in an open field at a summer family reunion.  It was a good activity to do between fetching beers from the kegs for the adults and learning racial slurs and epithets that my parents would then have to remind me not to repeat when they sat me down for my post-reunion debriefing.  Anyways, I'm hacking away at the handful of balls I'd been entrusted with, probably scuffed, chewed and sliced up beyond the point they should be used for real golf.  I'd lose one ball in some tall grass, hook one into the woods, and continue doing so until I had no balls left.

"Dad, I lost all the balls."

"No, you didn't.  You didn't lose anything.  You just didn't look hard enough."

That phrase has scarred me for life.  I can't stand losing things.  Losing an object (which is matter and can not be truly destroyed) equals complete abject failure.  Sometimes it's just petty, insignificant things.  Sometimes, it's really important sh__.  They're all treated with equal weight and respect for the situation that I myself have created.

Fast forward oh so many decades. 

This past Saturday, Turd (Todd?  TP?  dunno know his real name) sent me a text at 7:02AM to let me know that he was on his way to scoop me up for a trip to the WNC.  I was not expecting his text so early, as Turd Time is very close to Dr Mike Time, which while being late according to Dick Time, it at least tends to be predictable.  This then sent me into scramble mode, as I had yet to have finish my coffee, enjoy a bountiful morning constitutional, or pack my messenger bag with gear.   By "pack," I mean grab the many assorted clothing options, knee pads, helmet, shoes, data acquisition device, mountain pizza, and what have you that I strewn all over the floor the night before.  I refuse to put it in the bag until the last moment or even stick them in tidy piles because I need to see each and every one of these items at the last possible moment before walking out the door so that I know they exist in space and time.  This will not stop me from wanting to touch my shoes and helmet one last time whilst in the car because they might have magically vanished, fallen out on walk out from my front door, or teleported to another dimension.  The last thing I meant to grab was my money clip, which should be on the shitty end table The Pie bought in 1991.  

It was not there (the money, not the shitty end table that was most certainly there).

Turd was well on his way, and the clock was ticking, and my teeth weren't brushed yet and... I went into full berserker mode.  Mantle, dresser, kitchen, dining room... look out the window.  Turd's here.  Dammit.  The trail is hot.  My memory of last night's events are as fresh as they ever will be.  The Pie is asleep.  The mountains are calling.  I reluctantly hop in the car physically, but my mind is scouring every nook and cranny of the house.

Turd and I talked as we scooted down the highway, but my mind was still back at home.  The Pie finally woke up and started texting me back right about the same time that I lost cell signal.  All I could confirm is that she couldn't find it, and there were no charges on the card that we didn't make.  I was confident that it traveled home the night before, as I did my usual anal-compulsive loading of my sling bag before I left work.  I could solidly remember picking my Pandora channel before tucking my phone away next to my money clip, zipping the pocket shut, checking the zipper on the elevator, and once again as I unlocked my bike.

I probably had a few back-to-back minutes on the ride when I totally forgot my conundrum, but they were few and far between.  When I got home, The Pie and her outta town friend Deb were about to go walk over to Brawley's to get a beer, but I couldn't join them until I found my precious.

Flashback to walking in the door Friday evening.

I was planning on cooking, but The Pie was already eating, so... I grab my running shoes and head out the door for a run.  Yeth, I'm running again.  Anything to avoid getting the trainer back outta the closet.  Running might be stupid, but how can I resist heading out to the greenway in the dark and shuffling past the super-effervescent-this-time-of-year poop plant?   Run, shower, cook dinner (anyways), gather my cold weather riding gear and uncover my Honda Fit of Rage and make it accessible because I thought I was driving.  I do the latter of these activities intermittently between sets of my old man exercises while watching Seth Meyers Correction Corner on YouTube.  I was admittedly trying to do too much all at once, and I can remember at one point having three very dissimilar objects in my hand at the same time and thinking, "this is not a good idea."

So, check under all the furniture, inside every cupboard that I opened while cooking (is mushrooms, Brussel sprouts, and onions a "meal?"), inside the folded up car cover and the closet where I keep it, inside the Honda Fit of Rage (and next to it), the kitchen and bathroom garbage (all the way to the bottom), tip the recycle bin over and crawl inside wearing a headlamp, flip pillows and cushions, on top of the fridge... I'm grasping at all the straws.  I have not looked hard enough yet.  That's what my dad woulda said, anyways.

Go into The Pie's office... did I even go in here?

Well, that is where the bike I decided to ride lives, so start looking in the dumbest of places.  I didn't feed the dog, but mebbe it's in the bag?  Nope.  Obvs.

Then something strikes me.  The bag of random computer cables that I've been too lazy to run back up to the attic isn't sitting in plain view next to the giant filing cabinet anymore.  I know I didn't up and get motivated... but I did pick it up and hide it from where our out-of-town guest wouldn't be subjected to the horror of my apathy in physical form.  Look down in its new hiding spot.... and of course my money clip is in the bag of cables.  Of course.

I don't think this story really has a point.  

Never give up on your dreams... even if it's just finding something.

Bursting your balloons

Sorry not sorry for the disconnect.  I checked out for a bit.  Work has been sorta stressful and life has been life.  

We went to Florida.  That was nice.

Dump the luggage, walk to the beach.

Christmas hits different in Florida.

Long story behind the SS Dickbutt we saw washed up on the beach.  Long and also mebbe sad, but the guy did have "boat money."

I don't know how much money is "boat money," but since I don't have a boat, I assume it's more than I have.  Mebbe boat money comes after second car money.  Dunno.

Pie's big night out to see the Christmas-afied lifeguard chairs and such.  We're Dillens, and when we're on vacation, we walk everywhere.

I'd skipped supper before we went out, thinking I'd grab something on our travels.  I was excite when I saw a vending machine, disappoint when I saw the contents.  I'm assuming a Bag of Dicks tastes like it sounds.

The rest of the images are in not much of any order at all. 

I rode out towards the naval base on one of my Sad Dad™ rides.  I'd seen it from the other side of the river way long ago on a past trip to Amelia Island, and it wasn't very visible from this side as well.  I could see the top of some ship of death, but that's about it.

Comforting to know that there is a heaven for Pies, especially since we celebrated Thanksgiving by doing our wills.  I bet everyone does that.  Such a morbid conversation on a holiday.

"How much do you really wanna live, Pie?  I mean really, really wanna?  Like laugh at fart jokes or live plugged into a wall socket levels of enjoyment?  Where's the threshold and sign here and here and here and... "

One of my Sad Dad™ rides, I headed to Dutton Island Preserve hoping to find some under-biking worthy dirt.  I mighta been over-biked.

I like dirt on my vacations, even if it's just Florida dirt.  The trails on my first ride outta the front door of our place we stayed at was Kathryn Abbey Hanna Park (KAHP from here on out).  I thought it was gonna be an easy ride (logistically).  It was not.
 

I took a much longer Sad Dad™ ride down to Guana River Wildlife Management Area.  The keyword there was "Wildlife."  At the first entrance, there was nobody there to collect my $1, but at the secondary entrance, there was a man there to warn me that there was hunting going on in the area.  

"What are they hunting?"

"Mostly small game."

"I don't feel small."

*no reaction*

"Thanks."

I ended up getting all turned around trying to get out of the forest in my own particular.... ummm.... idiom.  The old road that the sky robots had told me was there wasn't, so I ended out jumping a gate elsewhere to get out.  The signs did say that users should use the official entrances, but since I was exiting, I think I'm okay.

I've worked for a law firm for almost twelve years, so I'm pretty much an attorney, right?

Gads.  I hate on-trail, forced selfies, but I felt like I should mark my existence here.  I'd already officially checked myself outta the trails (and taken off my knee pad), but I was passing one more trail that I'd already ridden on my way out yet another unofficial exit from yet another park... mostly because getting in here officially was an ass-to-elbow adventure, and my now planned way out only meant going down the beach a half mile or so.  I also needed to pee and doing so on the beach seemed less buenos.

I went back for one more since the first one sucked.  It only sucked slightly less tho.

What was odd about KAHP is that the black trails were only black because they were more twisty and slower than the blue trails.  Mebbe there were 30% more roots?  This was the only thing I thought was sketchy, but if you've ever ridden Alafia or Balm Boyette, you know Florida has "real black" trails, so I don't judge.  We have trails in Charlotte that are black because they're more difficult than what you would expect in the rest of the area, so any confusion is mine own.

Literally, dunno.  Walk around Jacksonville Beach after enjoying the half-off specials at the Surfer Happy (3) Hour(s) as much as possible and see what ends up on your roll.

There was one refreshing dirt ribbon at Dutton that didn't dip below swamp levels.  No idea if it's a real trail, but kudos whoever bothered to build it.

Sad Dad halts the ride on a Sad Dad™ to take a picture of a mural to seem "cultured" and "in touch."  Fails, prolly.

You should trust Google maps when they tell you to cycle ass-to-elbow to get somewhere in Florida.  The most direct route that I could see that wasn't suggested was through here.  The park is literally on the other side of this fence.  Then when I rerouted to get to the real entrance going ass-to-belly button, I found myself in front of a gated community I could not get through.  Dammit.  You win this time, Florida (and almost every time).

Also, and not disparaging Florida or Floridians, but if I found out that 95% of flat-earthers lived here, I'd believe it.  On my longest ride of 47 miles, I only had 46 feet (recorded) of climbing.  I've never ridden so far in a straight line except at La Ruta, and I have to say that Florida road riders must have taints of steel.  It felt like riding in a Zwift world, except the sound track is mostly nail guns and F-450s.

If I didn't like Florida, I wouldn't be going there for what seems like every single year.

I did get to Pisgah once while I was on my blerhg sabbatical.  It was my first time back since slicing my knee open on September 9th.  We rode some leafy chunk gnar, and that probably wasn't the best way to dip my toe back in the water.  Also, I'm more confident on my Vassago Meatplow V.9 Radimus in the slow technical business, but I chose the baby that had been sitting in the corner the longest.  My bad.  I gotta get my thousand yard stare back ASAP.

So, not a consistent return to writing and such, but making sure the blerhg's not ded... mostly because it hasn't had its living will notarized yet.