The Adventures of Captain Cuntwat and Princess Boner Ghost: A Tyrannosaurus for your Thesaurus.

Kill Creek, day 2...

I find it quite improbable that, after 4 months of silence in the blogosphere, this fucking trashy-ass, dipshit, trailer-park of the mind was still viewed over 500 times last month. Now, I hear you say, 'that's a pittance, there are Catholic priests with sticky fingers who have more fans than that' - and I could not even to begin to confess the truth that lies therein. However, as depression and subsequent physiological injury can attest to, and manifest from, former then latter, and in reverse at any given moment, the virtual catharsis that results from being wired into the social media universe sometimes must supersede actually getting pickled enough to convince myself to type more than 100 characters in a given evening. Not sure why, in the grand scheme of things, that my blogging has fallen off the cliff over the last year or so; many nights of waning, pathetic analysis aside, it more than likely comes down to having a son with whom I am having a blast watching old X-Files episodes etc. - 12 years old now - and the subsequent prolonging of an actual 'bedtime'. That, and being back in the band scene for the last 13 months, give or take - both of which are rewarding in the 'responsible human being' branch of evolutionary science. Satre be damned.
With that said - all throwaway gibberish - the mt. bike is still the ultimate sanity savior, the balm of Gilead, a Hebrew translation that resources the 'hill of testimony'. As is blatantly evidenced in my every breath, religion is ahistorical poison and I have been an avowed Atheist since I was 14; this is not a soapbox on which to brag, but simply a mixed martial-arts metaphor, a backdoor idiom to explain that the Dirt Church is the ultimate place of worship, the cathedral of my vigor, the temple of the Gawds of levity - and gravity to be sure.
So, though much has transpired over that last 4 months in the arena of the mountain bike-cycle, this story begins, essentially, with our lack of winter here in the central flyover states and the vast deficit of moisture that has come with our record heat. Trails are being built with a bionic speed factor in KC these days and at this point it would be nearly impossible to hit all the systems in one week, unless you are a skinny fucks like Lurch or The Silent Killer who ride *458 miles a day and whose combined weight is less than one of my Colonel Sanders thighs. But, the Princess of Boners decided to put it upon himself, faced with 8 days off of work, to ride at least 5 straight days, putting in 2 hours minimum per day. Again, I hear the pity-choir singing out in unison 'you stupid old fuck, with your nuclear knee and hacked-to-death-back, that's child's play' and they would be exalted on high to be sure; however this is a feat that I have not accomplished since my 20's and, beings as how our volatile climate almost never allows our clay-based trails to stay rideable for more than *32 minutes at a time, the option isn't even available for proper discourse. So, when the long-range forecast showed a roughly 10 day window of dryness overlapping with my time off, the devious diagram was hatched to get in the most hours of riding I've had since my right knee was wired/screwed back together at the end of September.
The itinerant 'goal' was to ride the first 3 days here in KC, then head down to NW Arkansas to hit a couple places that I've yet to ride, the first being Lincoln Lake -7 miles of old trails around a gorgeous small lake about 45 minutes WSW of Fayetteville recently opened to mt. bikes - and the newly-opened Bentonville system Coler, the centerpiece being the gravity/slopestyle hub that fans out into incredible terrain, some of which is bowel-clearing #rockybukake of the first order. Short story long, all went quite according to plan and 5 days/over 15 hours went down like Melania on Ivanka.
Saturday was to be a rest day with the family and Sunday was the Blvd. Brewing 'fun ride' - a road event that is slower than a turtle on quaaludes and a 12 pack of Miller Lite; perfect for a 70 degree day in late February with my son. A recovery ride as the Yams of the world would say....but I got greedy.

Perry Lake KS, Lake Perry, where I died my 10th life

Unforeseen was the Gawd's anger at my myriad fortunes, the euphoria brought on by the pure opium that is manifested in 5.5 inches of travel on 27.5x3.25 tires.
A hole in the fabric of the PUNiverse opened and a window of 5 hours shown through my Saturday afternoon like a festered tick bite on my taint...or was that just El Blanco Miguel agreeing to ride for 3 hours at Lake Perry KS?
Perry is between Lawrence and Topeka, north of I70, and is one of my old stomping grounds: windblown, thick forest that is steep and rocky with beautiful vistas of the lake and inlet streams; technical at times but worth the effort in the end; not my favorite place to ride, but with friends is a blast. I knew within 10 minutes after leaving the parking lot with 3 other super-fast-fucks that I was in no shape - after my long week of 'training' - to be back on the bike; just not my day to be the oldest by a decade, and fattest by *200lbs. I did the loop in its entirety (save for the mile keyhole loop at the trail's northernmost point) and was dead to rights. Urethra Franklin suggested a quick stop at Free State for a beer on the way home and by Satan, it might have been the best barley-pop I ever did done seen. That night my blues/rock band had a show and the wifey and I eventually made it home wherein I went to near-coma b.a.c. and passed out.
Sunday came around at 10 a.m. and we were meeting my parents for lunch and the trading of the progeny, so I went down to my shop to get our Fatbikes ready for their intended purpose: riding 10 or so miles on pavement with a bunch of roadies with factory reflectors still adorning their Trek hybrids.
'And then it happened'...It was a dark and stormy night.
I fucking fucked the fuckety fucker up.
The worst back blow-out in over 10 years changing out a set of fucking pedals.
6 straight days of 99% horizontal ice/heat packs have followed.
No bikes, no work, just Netflix and Chill with my sexy Cuntwat self. Finally, I am able to sit at this very pooter and type for about 15 minutes at a time, getting up to make sure my lower back is still attached to my pelvic region - a region that in 2002 saw a massive surgery for a bulged-disc and nerve damage; a roaring success all in all that has allowed me a very high quality of life if I just am semi-cognizant of over-stressing. Which I had done with the 6th consecutive day: Perry, Die in a Fire.
Today is the Urban Dirty race series #2 out at Cliff Drive/Kessler park that I am of course missing, but will limp around on foot and fart in the general direction of David HasselShoff as often as is humanly possible, a small token of redemption for my painkiller-drowned soul. May the Farce be with me.