Dear, Asphalt. You are fucking boring.

So, it’s been well over a year since I wrote Mt. Shredward. Why the long absence? Is anyone asking? No. So no need to answer. More important is that over the last year there’s been no absence of dirt mixed with in my eye boogers. My cherished night rides have been happening regularly. My crew and I even did a week in Moab. I’m happy to report that the trip didn’t just live up to the hype that is mountain biking in Moab, it pooped in Hype’s brown lunch bag and then gave it a red and weltty mushroom print with its John Holmes when Hype had the audacity to complain about its caca covered Lay’s and carrot sticks. The trip was that beyond expectations.

Yes, my riding life has been good.

But unfortunately, goddammit, because of a recent injury, the trail and I are having some time apart. My right elbow was already giving me some trouble thanks to a playing-with-my-daughter injury. Then a flight over my Monkey Bar, courtesy a baby head that was taller than I anticipated, finished off my beer levitator, rendering it pretty fucked, medically speaking. Bad baby head. You’re a bad bad baby head. I landed right hand first and knew immediately that this was no usual header. Boy was I right. For a couple weeks I couldn’t ride, period. Handlebar position elicited a chorus of pops and hitches. Bad news. But fortunately there has been progress and I can at least ride again.

But I’m still limited. I don’t dare ride anywhere that is going to jack hammer my still tender joint. I certainly ain’t ready to ride anywhere where there’s a risk of me bailing. So I’ve had to look into options.

I’ve never had much of an interest in road riding. But I’m even less interest in not riding at all. After tiring of riding up a paved (but challengingly steep) two-lane hiking/biking trail and fire road above my place in San Bruno, I decided to venture out with my old converted-for-the-city Gary Fisher Tassajara and do some road riding. At the time of the crash I was in the best riding shape of my life. At 39 years of age, I’m pretty stoked about that and have no interest in taking a step back. So I drove down the San Francisco Bay Area peninsula (a beautiful area) and found some asphalt.

Meh, I say to you, road riding. Double meh.

I have riding buddies who mountain bike and road ride both, and every time a call goes out on the crew email list asking if anyone is into a road ride, I think, “Really? But, we live close to so much sick mountain biking. Why?” Then I think, “Okay, guess I can’t cast aspersions until I’ve done some road riding myself.” But now that I’ve done some road riding myself I gotta say my “Huh?” level has gone up even more. Holy shit is pavement ever boring. It’s like being given the choice of spending the night with an 85 pound woman who has no need to own a bra or getting crazy with 135 pounds of womanly heaven and saying, “Gimme the boney flat one.”

Mountain biking’s got curves, man. It’s soft and hard at the same time. Nasty, but oh so sweet. Goddamn do I miss her so. I need to call Tim Tebow and get him to dip a knee into the grass and ask the baby JC for my elbow to heal faster. Daddy needs to get dirty.

Sigh.

I try to be one of those guys who learns from every experience, no matter how lame: don’t touch hot pans. It hurts. So what have I learned from my current injured state? All it’s done really is reinforced what I already knew in my boner: Mountain biking is best thing going on two wheels and that asphalt is ass.

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