Camembert, Swiss or Roquefort

I Blame Xeno

It has now been a year since I began blathering on here and I want to say that I am very disappointed.  I thought that by now Trailer Park Cyclist the Movie would have come out and George Clooney would be accepting his Oscar and thanking me profusely for writing such wonderful tripe that all he had to do was say the lines and stand back.  Furthermore,  I am sorry to say that Disney has turned down the chance to option Pirates of the Carribbean:  The Return of the Trailer Park Cyclist.  Johnny called last night at 3 am weeping and apologizing and obviously drunk saying how “sorry he was” and “are we still friends?” and begging me not to expose his ties to Scientology.

Well,  I am a liberal and a live-and-let-live kind of guy but I gotta tell ya;  I only have so much patience with these Euro-dwelling dweebs and George and Johnny better tighten up their act or there will be no more Uncle Bill’s Legendary Backcountry Gator Sauce winging its way across the universe to their humble trailer park chateaux.

I Got You, Babe(s)

But meanwhile, I got you guys to bolster and encourage my efforts and correct my spelling, grammar and syntax.  (What is syntax, anyway?  Do I have to pay it?  The only syn I feel guilty of is resentment towards Disney and the Scientologists but how much can the IRS charge for that, I wonder?  Plenty, no doubt.)

All this nonsensical rambling has most likely caused those of you who are still awake to think to yourselves  “He obviously hasn’t been riding.”

They Call Me the Streak

Hah!  Wrong!  I got in fifty miles yesterday and it only took me four and a half hours to do it.  In my day I was a Builder of Eateries and one of those eateries was the Outback Steakhouse.  So I was reading in the newspaper that there was a new Outback going up at the Daytona Airport.  I got a little excited because it has been a long while since last I milked the Corporate Cow and I am ready, fit and able to dive into the creamery and once again squeeze out some cheese.  So I saddled up the Schwinn,  strapped on my Goodwill Messenger Bag and headed North.

Aeolus,  Aeolus, What Did I Ever Do To You?

The wind was wacky.  I live within a mile of the Atlantic Ocean and you would think that the trusty Trade Winds would give us some kind of steady breeze but they do not;  I think the Trade Winds got traded down to the minors and what we got now is this very professional and very powerful Wind that is also eccentric and insane.

While I pedaled North on Old US One I was getting a headwind, then a cross-wind, then a header again.  As I crossed the new Spruce Creek Bridge I noticed the tide was running really fast, running out through the bridge as though that creek water was as freaked out by the wind as I was and just wanted to get out to sea and catch its breath.

Motordrome

There is this Big Race Track in Daytona where they apparently have some kind of automobile events from time to time.  The Daytona Airport is there, also; and airports and race tracks were designed with the firm structural philosophy that bicycles do not exist. These places are laid out in such a fashion that vast quantities of cars and overweight, impatient people (who are not from around here) can screech around very rapidly and distractedly while they rush to a place where they will be treated rudely and forced to wait in long lines and pay way too much for beer.

TPC Gets Political

I know this because I was there and I saw it.  I am regionally embarrassed to say, however, that the high speed lanes at the Daytona Airport were vastly empty and I had them all to myself and even did some lazy sine wave sweep riding on the way to the terminal.  What the hell is going on?  Do I have to run for President and get this mess all straightened out?  My recent disappointment with Hollywood has me looking towards Washington…

So anyway, I rode all over the Daytona Airport and wherever that stoopid Outback is being installed, it must be underground.  This is the second time I have gone off in search of the Gig That Will Fix-It and found nothing.  But at least I got in some miles.

Airports Are Big

The whole time this was going on I was riding in big two and three mile loops.  That is how these airport roads are laid out.  And the wind may have been from the same direction the entire time for all I knew but I was getting these great little boosts and getting excited with my 21 mph speedo’meter readings then suddenly I would be slapped in the face and groaning along at 10 mph.

There’s No Road Like Home

Finally,  I said to hell with it and blasted my way back to trusty old US One and headed south.  The wind by this time was fairly clean, blowing mostly from the southwest and the southeast and sometimes from the north and then in from outer space,  with occasional hard 12 knot blasts head-on.  It did not matter;  there are beer stores on this ride home; it is only 15 miles or so and I know where those beer stores are and I can even tell you the varying temperatures of the coolers in those stores and it was going to be alright.  I was having fun. Disappointment is only a temporary thing for those who strive to endeavor and I am already planning my return trip.  I am going to find that Outback job and get me some Camembert, Swiss or Roquefort out of it or I’ll know why not.

And So…

Me and the Schwinn pushed, forced, struggled and shoved our way on home.  We drank (drunk/drinked/partook of) beer and we endeavored to persevere and when we got home Daisy and Toby were there at the gate with dog smiles and dog kisses and I was still strong. I still felt pretty damned strong and I like to think I could have done it all again.  But I am saving my strength for a trip to the South of France.  That’s right, George and Johnny,  I’m coming.  I’m going to get this mess straightened out and I don’t want to hear any lame-ass Disney/Euro/Hollywood excuses.  It ain’t American.



Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Political Headquarters
#59