T minus whenever it feels right

bonus points to anyone who can name the song from which the title of this blog is derived.

Tuesday, July 10th is blast off. Wheels will be inflated, chains will be lubed, calves and quads will be stretched and supple.

And, at some point, not unlike Andy Gibb when he declined to join his brothers with the Bee Gees (fellas, wouldn't "Night Diarrhea and Upset Stomach" be a better title for a song than "Night Fever?" No? Well, fuck you, Barry! I'm going solo!), I may decide to splinter off from the group and pursue the rest of the ride alone.

This has nothing to do with Ross or Julie.

Whenever I tell people I'm riding to Oregon, everyone says "Thank God you're going with people." Though I know none of you have bad intentions, what you are inadvertently telling me is that I'm incapable of doing this on my own. I know I give off the impression of being sort of a naive and bumbling goofball, whose ineptitude, while amusing, prevents me from being successful independently. This impression is self inflicted; I do poke fun at my failures quite a bit and usually defer to others in a group. So people assume that my lack of training or planning means I'll get murdered by the Amish in Lancaster after pulling a hammie. Possible, I guess.

I know you are all just looking out for me. But, what you're really doing is questioning my heart and assuming that my brute determination is NOT enough to make it to the end.

Well, you know what? That's what they said about Jesus. "Oh, Jesus," the Phillistines would say, "You can't rise from the dead. Have you been training? What route are you taking from Hell to Heaven? Is Peter going with you?" And Jesus gave all of mankind the ultimate middle finger in the form of a resurrection. So I think that proves my point, Q.E.D.

Also, I may split off because my reasons for this ride are probably different from Ross and Julie's and may, in fact, be incompatible with theirs. This is just a guess because, to be honest, I can't really explain why I want to do this ride. Maybe the hours of mindless peddling will give me time to express myself more eloquently.

But, as best as I can explain it for now, part of the reason I'm biking is to suffer. To feel actual, physical pain. To feel deep, horrible loneliness. To feel interminable boredom. That way, when I'm about to bitch to someone about a girl breaking my heart, I can remember what my legs felt like on the eighth hour of day peddling uphill, and remember that as real pain. And when I am with friends, I'll remember real loneliness and won't take their company for granted. And when there's nothing on TV, I'll remember flat, monotonous stretches of the country and remember what real boredom was like.

Life has been so cushy for me the last three years in Boston, as reflected by my waistline. See Figure 1.

Figure 1.
(this is where an awful picture of my sorry, fat ass in bike shorts would be if I was willing to take the time to figure out how to post pics. For now, visualize one hundred eighty pounds of kielbasa squeezed together with saran wrap)

As I was saying, life has been cushy for me and I haven't had to suffer, and yet, I still find things about which to complain. But, if I can face all that physical discomfort and solitude and boredom and still be OK, I think I'll be a more appreciative, less whiny Armin once I touch the Pacific.

But, you see how it might be hard to be lonely and bored and scared with Ross and Julie right by my side? Then again, both of them have been talking big about their cheesecake eating prowess and it would be ever so fun to referee for them at the Old Country Buffet to see who really is the better competative cheesecake eater. So for now, I guess this pokey puppy will stick with the pack.