Ursa Magna and Diluvian Depression...

"Why do I keep fuckin' up?"
—Neil Young, "Fuckin' Up"

Okay, so if you're local to the DC area, you have a pretty damn good idea of what the weather is doing this very moment, what it did yesterday, what it's going to do tomorrow, and what it will do for the remainder of the week and possibly the remainder of the month. The word—the epithet, to be precise—for Spring this year is "rain," as in precipitation, spelled N-O-D-I-R-T-R-I-D-E-S-F-O-R-Y-O-U, or, more succinctly and poetically, F-U-C-K-M-E. And yes, all caps.

Look, I bike to work every day, come what may, been doing it now for almost three years, proud of it—righteous even. I pedal through it all, pat me on the back, everything a bored child could imagine, rainsleetsnowhailicesmogfoghellfirebrimstonetreacleabsinthe and a pint and a pinch more. You name it, if it falls from the sky or leaks from a car's ass, I'm out in it, on the fixie, rolling through it, wearing it wherever it sticks, sucking it in, every work day, not one missed, dedicated, committed, resigned. You get the picture.

But when the odds run this way, when the bad streak stretches, when things begin to look deliberate, when coincidence and fate join forces and begin to take on the shape of evil, willful intent, well, even the Metrobuses—daily scourges of the inner-city cyclist—begin to look cozy and inviting. It's enough to drive one utterly batshit, this interminable water torture. I'm not going to break, but goddammit, I am going to bitch and moan my share. Someone or thing somewhere needs to get its hands on Tlaloc and give him a swift kick in the ass. And then another (this time like you mean it).

Enough already. The joke is wearing thin, and with it my patience. Have we a deal, oh most inscrutable Lady Nature? Huh?

Bah!

Okay, down to the point. In four short, rain-ridden days, it's on...the Twenty-four Hours of Big Bear. Last year it rained just before the event, and this year looks like—surprise!—a repeater. Let me take a moment to celebrate this good fortune:

yay.

Word is that the team coordinators have been working to reroute early sections of the course to avoid the numerous tar-pit-like mud bogs that blistered the trail last year and sucked at one's tires like a two-bit strumpet angling for early retirement. I applaud their laudable efforts and wish them luck. Well, whatever luck is left after I wish it on myself. I'm riding it fixed again this year. The Outlaw approached me at a MORE party several months back and mentioned it. Having already put down my share of beer at the time, and with a freshly uncapped cold one in my hand still breathing a vapor trail, I smiled and said "hell yeah." It was an exchange eerily reminiscent of the one last year that started this team. And again I find myself at this time in less than stellar form. I think I've ridden dirt three times this year—laziness and la lluvia sharing equal blame. Last year, upon finishing the race, both RickyD and I said "never again" to racing it fixed. Rick stuck to his guns.

Damn. I gotta stop drinking. Ah well, whatever transpires, it'll be blog food, if nothing else. And Pan knows I need that.

All of which brings me around to tonight. The rain outside my window is all punched out now and sits slumped in the corner of the ragged ring that is the metro area, gathering strength for Round 12. It's going to come out swinging in the morning, about the time I throw a leg over the top tube. I'll be ready for it, the fucker. But for now, I'm in the process of busting down the single style of the Monkey and building it up fixed, a nice Founder's Red's Rye PA standing nearby as silent witness, beads of condensation forming on the pint glass like tears of sympathy as I pull the rotor on the rear wheel and replace it with a brand new TomiCOG. It's going to take more than a newly designed team jersey to get me through this.

Full report when it's all said and done. In the meantime, I'm going to keep telling myself this is going to be fun...