Mesomasic: Hung Over or Lost

So the story goes something like this. It was Saturday night, my good ol’ boy Bill (he doesn’t ride --- he tore his ACL years ago while participating in the most contemptible of pastimes, softball) calls me up. He’s say that were going to go to a bar with this chick he works with that he’s been trying to fix me up with. So I ask him what her deal is. He says she pretty nice and the only possible negative is that she has a thick Long Island accent. Well, I’m a big man (and very lonely), so I tell Billy that I just might be able to overlook such shortcomings and that I would be honored to meet her.

Billy comes over my house around 8 pm, with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. He tells me that he just talked to this chick and that she said she was finishing doing her laundry and would call us in about 45 minutes. So I pour us a couple of gin and tonics (and yes, perhaps Bombay Sapphire is too fine of a gin to waste in an G & T, but that’s all we had). Billy and I start shooting the sheit. W then had another G & T, and lo and behold, an hour had passed by, and still no call from this Long Island native. I thought it was odd, so I was careful to take note of it.

Another G&T was poured and drank, and again, no call. This time, I verbalized to Bill my concern that indeed, we have not been called. Bill attempted to allay my concerns by placing a phone to this woman. The phone rang many times; Bill was only able to leave a voice mail.

At this time, I’ll be honest; I was thinking that I was blown off. Bill, perhaps sensing my concerns, then made me another G & T. So I drank it. Then I had another. By this time, 11 pm, neither of us could hide from the truth: I was blown off in a very bad way. So I had another G & T. But there was no more Tonic. So I used grapefruit juice to mix my gin with instead. Bill, ever the wiser, did not join me this time.

Feeling the effects of the alcohol and the blow-off, I then told Bill "I don’t think I’ll be making my ride tomorrow."

He asks "at what time?"

I said "I have to leave at 9 am."

Bill then nodded his head in cautious acknowledgment as if too say, "How could you even think about riding tomorrow, you stupid lush."

I nodded my head in a shameful agreement to Bill’s tacit communication.

Bill then left. And I was alone in a dark house, with a buzz, a pathetic shell of a man.

But then I started thinking: This might sound crazy, but if I drank a gallon of water before I went to bed, I’d be able to ride tomorrow. So I did it. I drank two two-liter pitchers of water. I really did. After imbibing this large quantity and feeling mighty bloated, I was still able to announce to my bewildered dog, "I will ride tomorrow!"

Now that I discarded my maudlin sense of failure, I still would have to get some sleep. But the sleep didn’t go so well. Besides having to get up every 20 minutes to eliminate the above-mentioned two gallons of water, my head was pounding. When 6 am rolled around, I started thinking…I will not be able to make this ride. Then it was 7 am, and I felt worse. But then I started thinking, what the hell am I going to tell Sweet and Low? (New nickname for Matt P. --- he broke his Fisher, now he needs a Sugar substitute) I asked myself "the truth?" No way, I can’t tell Sweet N Low (SNL) that I am pathetically hung over. And I couldn’t lie to him --- I’d be hung over and a coward. I was deliberating what to do and then I decided on this. I’d get up to walk my dog. Hopefully, I said to myself "while walking him around, you’ll reinjure your ankle and then you’ll have a legitimate excuse not to make the ride."

So I take my dog for a walk. But my injury attempts weren’t going so well. So I took matters into my own hands. I’m jumping up and down on my ankle, trying to injure it (Normally, this would have been quite a sight for my 80-year-old neighbors, but they have become accustomed to my bizarre antics). But my ankle still wouldn’t twist. It was mocking me, this ankle of mine. Every day it is weaker than 2% beer. But today, the day I need it to be tweaked, it won’t bend for me.

After a half hour of walking my dog and trying deliberately to injure myself, I’m back home. And you know what? I’m starting to think that I don’t need to injure myself. I think I can make this ride. So I grab my crap together and head up Mesomasic way.

I was even on time. As I pulled into the parking lot, SNL says to me, "Dude, I didn’t think you were going to make it."

I then tell him the story about the Long Island girl who blew me off, the way too many G & T’s, the gallon of water I drank, and the deliberate attempts to injure my ankle.

He then said, "You look like a mess."

I thanked SNL for his candid honestly and then told him to go screw himself.

So the crew there was Ed (he must have a nickname, ne c’est pas?), T, Focker and SNL. We started rolling out. I couldn’t believe I’m actually riding. Uphill, no less. And I’m not doing all that bad. We get to the top of Clark Hill and then we head down the single track.

Then bad news, T gets a twig in her derailleur and snaps the thing in two. She is in total denial, and then after realizing the gravity of the situation she softly said "I think I’m going to cry." Poor T. Even her hanger was ruined. Her day was over, and she tried to make the best of it. She said she’d go home and get on her road bike. We left T there to walk out alone. But you know what, as we were climbing up the dirt road, I swore I could hear a woman cry.

So now it’s down to me, Focker, SNL, and Ed. We head on to the white trail with the funny little plastic markings. I’m struggling a little bit, but not doing that bad, considering my condition. Focker is all p-d off, as his Iron Horse is all tweak out. He even says to me "go ahead, I’ll only slow you down." Ha!

We get to a turn-off on the white, and Ed wants to take off. I think he just wants to go home and practice his trials moves --- he was all stoked form the previous day’s Red Bull challenge. So Ed takes a right. We go straight.

SNL seeks reassurance from me that I’m not going to wimp out and finish our long ride as I promised. I suck down a GU and tell him that I’m not done yet. So we head out to Cobalt: Where there’s lots of climbing to make lots of pain.

On to the Blue Trail. There’s mucho climbing and we see some quads riding on this sacred blue trail. I was wondering if they were going stop their quads, and get off to tell us that mountain biking was prohibited the blue trail. I then thought if they said that I respond by telling them there is great quad riding on the Blue Trail at People’s State Forrest. They should really check it out.

Focker then starts talking about the new trail. So we go to try to find it. Focker and SNL then try tagging me with a new knick name, but honestly, I can’t remember what it was or the circumstances it involved (although I do remember that it was really lame).

So right, we’re looking for the new trail, then Focker is like, "Well, it was dark out, but I swear, it was like, over here."

So we’re chasing around and the next thing you know, we’re back at the cars. Focker places a call to Puke to get the coordinates of the new trail beamed directly to his brain, but Pukemaster did not answer his phone (He was probably dumping garbage at Tyler Mill). I said after this four-hour ride, I had enough. Focker and SNL weren’t done yet. They left to try to find the new trail.

Did they ever find the new trail? Well, that’s a good question. I’d like to think they have. But much time has passed and they’ve never been heard from again.

But more recently, I’ve gone back there. And I did happen to come across a camera with the initials SNL inscribed on it. I took the roll of film to be developed. Now the picture quality isn’t so good, but I swear I can make out Focker on his Iron Horse and he’s standing next to sign that says "New Trail."

I doubt this mystery will ever be solved, but one mystery that was solved was the girl from Long Island. Turns out, the laundry machine in her apartment building broke and it took her four hours for her to do her laundry. She swears she would have called but her cell phone battery was drained and her landline was dead and all she had on her were Italian Lire for the pay phone and she couldn’t use them in the pay phones because they only take quarters, not Italian Lire, and she couldn’t call collect because she had laryngitis. But she sounded really sweet (heavy accent and all), as her laryngitis cleared up real nice. I decided to give her a second chance. I’m really looking forward to our next (and first) date. She says that I should get all dressed up real special-like and wait for her at the bar --- she’ll meet me there.

Ratings (0-10, 10 the highest):

Ankle Inflammation : 4.3

The "Shakes" : 0 ( I don’t need nothing to get "straight" ---- thank the lord)

Mixability : 8 (quite sociable)

Bouquet : 2 (overpowering and acrid)

Post-Ride couch time : 10

This Recap is dedicated to the memory of Focker and Sweet and low