Sometimes your fears fall burning to the ground and sometimes they singe your taint hairs...In the event that any of you out there in bikey-land don't quite understand the catharsis that can be gained from a chilled, leaf-strewn night on the trails (Swope in this case) I cannot stress strenuously enough the amount of joy you are denying yourselves. Last night I joined some old-school mt. bike neighbors of mine for their inaugural foray into the wilds of after-dark single track spanking, and the results were staggering: not five minutes went buy without yelps of either pain or elation; not only did the rocks welcome our wheels with open arms, the leaves, thick as the layers of Honey Boo Boo's folds, provided a cushion of near mattress-like softness....did I just use 'softness' in a sentence? For fuck's sake, someone get me a beer and a dope slap.
And, since Harvey Keitel is not available to clean up my car after a messy night of blatant male prostitution, I am readying myself to again hit the trails - BuRP for the love of Gaia - and the mega-piles of tree detritus that adumbrates the steaming remains of horse fecal matter...equestrians on the forest floor to be sure. Or, since daddy is always in need of a new bike, I might cruise the tennis court parking lot around noon in order to steepen my cash flow for the month...
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