SANTEE OFF-ROAD TRYASPIRIN
Once again I have been force fed an entire can of “Whupass”. For a guy doesn’t like the taste, it’s getting to be a regular part of my diet. A smart man would learn not to go where this is the only thing on the menu. A smart man would be drinking fine Scotch and smoking Cuban cigars. “Smart man” is not an accusation that is ever cast in my direction. For edification, the Urban Dictionary defines it as follows:
WHUPASS - a source of destructive power accessible to an aggressor; usually referred to as a quantity of whupass (as in a can of… or a bucket of)
To have my dogged mediocrity showcased in such a public spectacle should be enough to curb this nasty habit. Sadly, it will not. I own goats with better judgment. Instead of bipedal locomotion and an opposable thumb, I might just as well have horns growing from my head. At least then I wouldn’t be able to wear that ridiculous bike helmet.
It began even before the race. If my legs were a designer color they would be “catfish-belly” white. Two cute young co-eds had volunteered to help out. As I stood there freezing in my running shorts, a skinny, shrunken old man with taped ankles, I heard one girl say to the other, “Get a load of that one…he’s my favorite.” You know things are off to a bad start when you invite ridicule through your mere presence. Then the gun sounded; or siren. It is all kind of vague. Things began to deteriorate rapidly as I struggled to step carefully around the many buckets of Whupass.
After the run I looked out to see four or five boats on the water ahead of me. I harbored serious misgivings about competing in a boat I had never paddled. Then magical things began to happen. Halfway to the turnaround I actually passed all of the frat boys. The college punks were losing their minds. Grandpa was serving up his own mess of Whupass! Old age and treachery began demolishing youthful exuberance as the Geezerjock took first place by means of technological superiority. I had a better boat! Old men cheered. Children sang. Ladies wept. I got out of the boat and couldn’t walk.
For three miles I rode my little bike in a state of surreal bliss. It was as if I was the only one in the race. Nobody in sight, ahead or behind. Just me and my gigantic helmet that had to be skillfully maneuvered in any crosswind above five knots. Then that familiar taste filled my mouth as Junior came out of nowhere and passed me with his own ideas about the menu. Not sure if he had a better bike but there was no question about the motor. I wanted to say something clever and destroy him psychologically but I could only manage a croaking noise. As I emptied my tank in desperate pursuit he jettisoned whole canisters of Whupass.
There is always next year. I just realized the horizontal crossbar on my bike is hollow. It could probably hold a couple of pounds of solid chemical propellant. A good machine shop could turn out a small rocket nozzle. I saw something like this once in Popular Mechanics….
by Rick Carter aka The Crazy Old Guy from the Race who is now my hero.
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