The Beast

The Beast is currently the main moniker I use when I refer to my rad new mountain bike, the Yeti 575. The reference is easy, low-hanging-fruit easy, but since I was in the mood for low hanging fruit when I decided to name my beloved, it seemed fitting.



But that's on the surface and there is something deeper than just calling my bike the Beast because it's a Yeti. I am also referring to the beast in my belly that bellows when I can't ride for whatever reason, or the animalistic, voracious happiness I feel when I'm on the side of a mountain on my new shiny toy. I realize it's a toy, in fact, I think it's my mid-life crisis toy.



If it's perfectly acceptable for middle-aged men to purchase new sports cars and bone girls half their age when they feel the fingers of mortality wrap around their turkey wattles, I see no reason why I can't do the exact same thing, except with a bike. and not really bone girls half my age, but rather, hang out with cool ladies of all ages who feel the same way about their bikes as I do about mine.

High! I'm back!

Sorry for the MIA.

There is a shitload to write about but my brain is incapable of organizing my thoughts into a legible, coherent stream as of late. Why? I wondered that too, but my brain is not capable of organizing my thoughts into a legible, coherent stream as of late.

But here is something interesting (at least to me, probably not to you). I did something(s)particularly creepy (to me) and I'm still not sure why I did it.

I painted my finger nails. Yes, its true, you heard me right. But want to hear something worse? I also dyed my hair, plucked my eyebrows and mustache (yes, I know but I got sick and tired of being mistaken for Picasso's portrait of Frida Kahlo), whitened my teeth, exfoliated my skin and a couple of other things that I can't remember anymore. The stupid thing is, aside from concealing the silver hairs on my head, which I was cited by the sheriff's department to cover up because apparently, the reflective nature of my metallic hair was blinding people on the 134 freeway, causing a few major accidents) none of the work and time I put into my physical specimen made a damn difference. We are all suckers for the promise of eternal youth in a bottle. I hate the promises and the youth. I have decided to grow old gracefully. Well, as gracefully as I am capable of, which doesn't say much except that I'm growing old and now thinking about it more.

With all that said, being 40, so far, has been really quite awesome. I started the first day of my new decade on the right foot. I got out of a dead end relationship on June 29, one day before all coupons used to expire. Yay me! Something I've noticed is whenever I get out of a relationship, I am always relieved, upbeat and happy. After some jubilant reflection, I do believe I have become addicted to the feeling of breaking up and that I only engage in relationships just so I can feel happy once it's over. Is that odd? Probably. Do I care? I probably should but I don't, I'm still riding the Summer of 2010 breakup high.