Our Diss Comm Was Bobulated, or 'How Things Fall Apart, Yet Stay Intact, Mostly'
Recognize the addiction, and embrace it...
Went to bed knowing full well I'd failed. Failed to purchase the caffeinated beverage of awakenings, that is, but told myself that a caffeine tablet would do the trick. 'Drink water, pop a 200 mg tab, you'll be fine!'
But no: remembered the Tetley box representing a prior fail. I'd failed to even remove the plastic, and when I checked the best before, it claimed 'sometime last year'. Bah, tea lasts FOREVER, they're required to stamp that bullshit on there by law!
So yeah, I had tea, double strong 2 bag 1 cup orange pekoe tea.
Speaking of fail...that. Groggy mofo a full hour later, wishing he'd just followed his plan. The caffeine pill followed the breakfast bowl into the gullet, and began to make itself known around the time Hugh, looking svelte and stylish, appeared at 'Bucks.
We'd about given up on Pooh appearing, and began to pedal away when suddenly...bzzzzzzzz there he was! He nixed my intended roll toward Scott, and led us down 64th, despite my protestation that Wade was sans would-be companions. The cliched bulb went off above his head, so we u-turned and Sunwooded ourselves back on course.
We'd only just started down Sunwood when Pooh exclaimed, 'hey, where's yer helmet!', and I realized why Hugh had appeared so dashing at the cafe. Earflapped fuzzy black cap felt so 'helmety' he'd ridden off as was.
The three imbeciles made haste to be on time to the barn, and were. A chilly norwester, promised by Environment Canada to dwindle and switch to a slightly warmer sou'wester, was still in effect. Pooh smashed away off the front down Hornby, El Gritto tucked in behind me as best he could, and I worried the pace was too hot for the codgerly crew behind.
But that was nothing. From nowhere, Boo and Noodles popped up and sliced, diced, and flambeed the bunch. This wasn't their intent, and I was fully onboard with the idea that they were simply joining the codgers ride. 'We'll regroup', I thought, and in fact we all were one onto Ladner Trunk.
Left onto 80th, and it was clear we were no longer one. We were 5, with the original 'Buckian dolts clinging doggedly to the BooNoodley engine. It's possible I have this wrong, but I was too busy staring at a wind-buffeted rear wheel to spend much time looking back. A regroupmente ensued courtesy of the flag dude and road construction, followed shortly thereafter by an unshipping of the mates at the Boundary Bay Airport, which hosted no codgers but could have, thus halting the dutiful.
We, of course, knew nothing of this: it was survival of the dimmest, and I was happy to not enact my standard role of withering at the front for reasons known only to nobody. Boo mashed along Gnat Alley and the heap of fermenting discards, low on eagles today because they've found something even more vile to feast upon, perhaps.
A glance back revealed a gap that yawning could not cover. Several thousand yawns, minimum, so we rode on after a brief discussion and a moment of guilt. Boo and Noodles abandoned us, taking the short route to Petra's, leaving we three to push on through the reservation and up English Bluff. Pooh proved he's left debilitating illness behind by grinding out a solid 300 watts astride his Picci, leaving me to prove I was still a dolt on a 'Bolt by coming to the front and teaching my lazy legs a lesson.
Goodness, this is a long one.
Petra's wasn't terribly busy, which suited us well, knowing the others would soon follow and would likely want shelter from that awful gleaming yellow ball in that strangely coloured sky.
Splendidly vibrant and passionate conversations erupted once the full crew had assembled, your author ranting on about Heathkits and good fortune for far too long.
The diminished triad fled the scene whilst the major group played on, and discovered the wind had indeed shifted. Not to our advantage, of course...no, that would be too easy, trite, predictable. Full-on cross-headwind from the other direction. Of COURSE it was!
I claimed to be on my last legs, and actually thought I was, allowing Pooh and Hugh to bear the brunt of this cross. Hugh took the lead along Ladner Trunk, cleverly guttering us into the lane of fast moving trucks and distracted drivers, who were no doubt googling 'how long until coroner virus kills me?' on their phones.
In fairness, there were very few vehicles of any description on that stretch, leading me to wonder if personal lock-downs were in effect for the fearful many. I moved up on the windward side approaching Hornby, figuring I could die of exhaustion at my own hand that way. Hugh had saved an injection of watts for Hornby's final stretch, and ripped past an attacking Pooh for the 'win'.
It was quite excellent. I was pretty done, and said so, yet clung leechily like the stubborn bonehead I am up the #10 hill, to praise from Pooh, and pantings from Hugh.
Arrived home feeling quite chipper if modestly thrashed, started the laundry, opened the brewskis, and began to tap out this novella.
Who was there? Damned if I can recall, but I'll try:
Hugh
Pooh
Boo
Noodles
Joe
Ed
Teresa
Road Grit Dave
Bob
and the self-described Poet-Anarchist penning this piece. Apologies in advance to anyone who was sitting beside me that I've neglected to mention. It was that kinda ride.