I put a new seatpost on the Ti bike and knocked out a surprisingly speedy seven miles through the neighborhoods surrounding Redhawk golf course. Plenty of false flats to keep my leaden legs and flaccid heart honest. I'm warming up to the bicycle-as-lifesaver slowly, and watching the Tour de France has certainly helped. If these juiced-up freaks can plow through 2,300 miles in three weeks, I've no excuse for failing to log the 12 hours per week Grant Peterson prescribes for men of my station. I've done it before and I can do it again.
Speaking of drugs, I re-read Andre Agassi's autobiography this weekend.
Agassi's revelations about meth, failed marriage and crippling quest for perfection come rapid fire and sound sincere, and his photographic memories of time on the court have inspired me to take my own weak game more seriously. I don't know what that means, but several friends have shown interest in playing, so I'm going to give it a shot. In a different lifetime I played 20 hours of tennis per week. If only Robbie Bacon were here right now… I might still have a backhand. As it stands, all I've got is a quiver of nice loaner rackets, a lackluster first serve and a mild case of tennis elbow. I'll take it.
Tomorrow I'm selling my Synchrowave 200 welder to my friend Jason at Sacred Steel. The man is a metal crafter without a welder, and I am a bike-building hack with more equipment than talent. The same situation I face on the tennis court. Jason has promised to finish the copper chopper tank he's building for my Spartankiller this month, and I can't wait to get back on this project.
After I deliver the welder tomorrow morning, I'm going to wrap up the three-day weekend with a trip to dog beach. Willis has earned it.
Happy birthday, America.
1 comment:
I wish we were neighbors. Imagine THAT! Nice new look. I approve.
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