Sweet, baby Jesus.
I’ve been a busy beaver the past week or so.
If there is one thing this mild winter has been good for it is garage nights and maintenance. The KTM has never been torn down and I am the third owner since 2005. Based on everything I have seen to date the two dudes before me took care of her but seemingly didn’t go much farther with maintenance beyond standard oil changes. Now, I’ve never torn a motor down before but decided to go for it because not only was she due but it would be a learning experience as well.
With liquid courage coursing through my veins I decided to get the ball rolling and I have to say it escalated quickly. The project is probably half way through and a full write up will come shortly.
Here I am doing complex math computations in my mind regarding sprocket diameter and tooth count for the KTM rear hub when The Hotness rounds the corner to say hello.
Mind you it is past her bedtime and I had Señor Johnson in my hand mid bladder leak.
She’s damn lucky I didn’t piss all over the bathroom but I have to admit I stopped mid-stream.
You ever try stopping mid-stream? ‘Tis a feat paramount to nuclear fission.
Sometimes people just know that you need to see their smiling faces.
After a fine evening talking guitars and hanging with the guys I roll on home far past sunset only to find my third best buddy waiting for me in the driveway.
Gigantor Toad dropped a sweet fist bump on me as I walked past and I can’t help but feel good about the fire and brimstone he is delivering on the eight legged ass bags that haunt our acres.
Carry on, Gigantor Toad, for I love thine holiest of work.
I’m pretty sure the entire county heard my yell.
I was outside minding my own business and installing a bathroom exhaust fan vent in the soffit when I was viciously attacked…again.
I went to put down a little silicone around the window trim when Big Momma came screaming out of the flowers at my face from about four inches away. By the way I yelled “SHIT!” and jumped back anyone watching would’ve thought there was a rattlesnake, at least.
After telling Cooper to stop being a weenie (I was trying to pass the buck) because, “it was only a little house finch”, I went in for inspection.
Big Momma watched me and Cooper from the telephone wire close by while I counted the eggs. I replaced the foliage just the way I had found it and moved along to my next project but I can’t wait to show Lil’ Man! It’ll be fun to check in on them daily to see when they hatch and how they grow.
Also, what a good protector Big Momma is! I was literally above her nest using a drill and saw for about twenty minutes and she didn’t abandon her eggs. Sawdust was even floating down around them. I guess my ugly mug from inches away was the breaking point for her!
Nature is amazing and I love experiencing it.
Henceforth you may refer to me as Lord Beef.
I’m just shy of 6’4″ and weigh 215 pounds currently. Well, currently and “recently” since I have been 215 for half a year now. Ok so let’s just call it three quarters of a year. Whatever.
I spent most of my growing years as what most people would call a “string bean”. No matter what I ate or did I couldn’t seem to bust on past 170 pounds so I just figured shit was what it was. Life went on as it tends to do and here I am in present time at 215 pounds.
I started lifting in a soft core fashion a few years ago and I saw an increase in muscle mass so I know I’m not all fat. Hell, I’m not even fat. If you saw me on the street you wouldn’t get all wide eyed and go slack jawed as I sauntered past! But that brings me to my point.
According to the National Institute of Health my BMI is 26.2 and that falls smack dab in the middle of the “overweight” statistic. If I drop 170 pounds into the calculator my stats register on the “normal” statistic. Now I can guarantee with 100% certainty that if one could see my 170lb. version hot stepping down the avenue next to my current 215lb. self there wouldn’t be anyone getting moist over the skinnier option.
All said and done the BMI calculator is a bunch of shit. It doesn’t account for muscle ratio vs. chub ratio so fuck it. Why feel bad about myself over a generic and shit calculator?
Can someone come up with an equation to factor an accurate method to measure general weight health? It’s 2016!
Sometimes even Modern Men get depressed and, by golly, it has been quite the week.
Fuck it, I can’t even build this story up. My beloved Triumph Speed Triple, Tammy Mother Fuckin’ Lou, fell. Thanks to a trailer/strap mishap she fell over/off the trailer while I was pulling onto the road to head to my first track day. Never mind the fact that she has been trailered to and fro for many miles in the past year including the nearly eight hours north to Cleveland, Ohio (FUCK YEAH, CAVS!!!!!!).
I met up with my buddy, Rick James, so we could trailer together to Mid-Ohio Sports Car Course for our first track day and this shit happened. I spent a solid two days as depressed as can be but at the end of the day it was a turd sandwich that apparently nobody saw coming. Rick James feels it was a sign and we should count our blessings since the Ol’ Girl saved us from a bigger mishap.
We were able to reschedule our outing for the end of August so I guess we’ll just have to wait to rip it up until then.
In the meanwhile I will set aside a corner of the garage so I can make a shrine to The Parts Who Are No Longer With Us. Spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch. Pour one out for my homies. Light the funeral pyre.
From the ashes will arise a Speed Triple reborn.