Ever have one of those days when your head is so far up your ass that you need a Plexiglas belly button to see where you’re going?
I was supposed to do some road cycling through the Air Force Academy with Big Bill McBeef and our mutual friend Deb at 11 a.m. today. I also had a physical-therapy session scheduled at 10 a.m. No sweat, right? Until it turns out that PT was actually at 10:30, so as I’m on the way home I get the word from Herself that Bill and Deb are already at El Rancho del Perro Loco and wondering where the hell am I.
I’m already feeling like an eejit so I tell Herself to cut ’em loose, as their original plan before some stupid fat bastard horned in was to hook up with some other folks along the way and I didn’t want to make them any later than I already had. Naturally, I arrive to find McBeef insistent on getting me out of the house and on the road, come hell or high water. Deb has gone on ahead. We are to chase her down like the Mad Dogs we once were. Time is of the essence. So I rocket around the rancho, hit the inhaler, dredge up bits of kit, snag the bike and off we go.
McBeef has been riding a ton and is keen to take his revenge on me for beating him like once in some nameless race 15 years ago, so he gives it the afterburners and in short order I am flapping in his backwash like a poorly stowed wind jacket, wondering if it’s possible to puke my nuts through my nostrils.
We sweep up Deb at Woodman Road and proceed through the infernal-combustion hell that is northeastern Bibleburg to the Academy, where I realize about a kilometer shy of the south gate that in the rush to get out the door I neglected to grab my driver’s license in order to prove to the guards that I am not a bicycle bomber from Lower Spaminacanistan despite the oddly bulky nature of my black-and-red garb, the keening, incomprehensible sounds issuing from my wind-chapped lips and the steaming blood fountaining from my eyes, ears and various other orifices.
And thus, with a feeble wave of one palsied hand followed by a burp with a lump in it and a tepid dribble down one flabby, unshorn thigh, I turned around to wobble homeward, braving the twin terrors of Academy Boulevard and Woodman Road alone.
Tonight Big Bill McBeef snickers into a wineglass as I gobble Advil like M&Ms and beg the cats for an introduction to Satan so that we may negotiate the fair market value of a battered 1954 soul with some very high mileage indeed, just not lately.
C’mon, Nick, make it 15 years ago, just for a couple of days. Say, anybody ever tell you you look a lot like Tom Waits?
