A crisp cool day. A fair weather wind blew through my clean shaven head. The parking lot….fluffy runs up to me. Mount my ride, off I go.
Switchbacks switchbacks switchbacks up up up on the red trail I do ride. Beagle friends dressed like French fries. Cameo much a glow, their mother a tough foe.
Soon I realize my pig and whistle meatloaf is a brewing, but up up up I go. Slither here slither there, I must go. Upon ridge I ride, bare skinned trees around me grow. I’m visible on the ridge I fear and I don’t won’t to expose my hairy rear I must scale down; number 2 is soon to. I find my nook I found I find my cranny. It is here I will deposit my mud skinned Irish stow. A sense of relief a sense of pleasure I added to the hither forever.
I ride up and pull up my layer upon layer and layer and layer… I look back and see up up up. I must return to red cannonball trail. One step two step a third step I slip my helmet hits granite before you know it my Irish gravy meat greets me. There I lie upon the brown fold leaves of today.
I’ve slipped you see and must scale this granite mass and avoid and what’s come out of my ass. I’m 48 you see and ew ew I cannot get up. Lower back spasms and brown pools of pain. I must get up you see.
The stink is stink the stank is stank and next me to lies all I despise……..
