Listen here.
So, I had a nasty tumble off my bike on Tuesday -- at, get this, Martin Luther King Park -- and I was marginally concussed I guess, because I had a helluva hat-stretching headache, and that kind of all-over-the-body toxic ache from some sort of primordial fight-or-flee chemical reaction, and like a goddam idiot I wasn't wearing a helmet, but like a cat who actually did take gymnastics and sucked at it for five years, I at least learned how to take a fall to prevent premature death, to somehow instinctively land on my metaphoric feet, or at least not bash my brains out, but still rattle the noggin good and hard. I'm not sure why I'm telling you this, other than to explain the Tourettic outbursts that you might see here now and again, and then the long periods of radio silence, and I'm hoping to get back to more of a bike-centered tumble-log that so many of you like and miss, rather than the whole Ambrose Bierce put on, but I can't promise you won't see some more endless ruminations on my own navel posing as "short stories" or some other nonsense. The story of how I crashed is kinda funny/tragic, since I ended up in bed at about 10 PM and missed out on all the excitement and hoopla and justified pride surrounding the re-election of our incumbent bike company -- yes, Trek gets to stay in the White House -- and I didn't realize how delighted I'd be about this, not for Trek's sake nor for cyclists' sake but for everyone-in-the-whole-damn-world's sake, but I am hoping maybe W. leaves behind one of his Fuel 100s for the new guy, and maybe we get him one of those styling Major Taylor kits to boot.