Fuxed, Redux...

Did it again.

Yeah.

Just fucked myself for the second time in as many months. And once again, I managed somehow to avoid the sort of elaborate contortions that might otherwise make the endeavor less…uh…attractive. (No, that’s not really the word I’m looking for.) And this time I did it without the dubious benefit of a high BAC.

You see, there was not much time for thought. Let me explain…

This morning at work, I received a rather urgent email from the Outlaw asking me in no uncertain terms whether I’d like to join his merry ménage of masochistic miscreants to form a 4-man fixed gear/rigid team for the 24 Hours of Big Bear race in West Virginia this weekend.

That’s this weekend. As in the day after the day after tomorrow. Seventy-two already-fleeting hours from this very moment. Last time I made such a commitment, I had six days notice; this time, it’s three. And, because registration ends at midnight tonight, and because waiting till 11:58 p.m. to give myself time to talk myself out of it meant that the Outlaw et al. wouldn’t have time to beg, cajole, blackmail, or otherwise strong-arm some other fool into the role, I said yes¹.

Never mind the fact that these guys are desperate, dispense with the likelihood that I’m their last shot, perish the thought that the little electronic invitation, so nondescript in its subject line, was an afterthought.

It doesn’t matter now.

The fix is in.

Photo by D. Ross.

1. My first response was to tip the spot over to Dave B., who shared camp with me at Lodi and also rode the race on a fixed rigid. Dave and I had been toying with the idea of fielding a single speed team for Big Bear, but some last minute freelance work on Dave’s end and an inexplicable and lingering malaise on mine meant that scheme would never become manifest. Then I suggested the Disco Cowboy. Alas, he, too, has another commitment.

Bastards.