Mus uni non fidit antro

First off, some recent scientific reporting that Explains some of us. I'm just damned pleased to know it's not just modern day Homo sapiens who engage in strange and immoral behaviour.

Following on from my last missive, CTB contacted me, and while expressing some doubt, felt that The Evil Homo moniker was still mine. Although he did applaud Mikeal roundly for his demonstration of cul de sac stupidity.

My ongoing use of the windtrainer is starting to seriously stress me, I have worked out a virtual play list to get me through these sessions of hell, I've also found that I struggle to watch DVDs while performing efforts, so it's all pretty much music based boredom relief. I could divulge the playlist, but I have a sneaking suspicion that most readers eye's will glaze over and those that don't, will mark me off as a heretic, so instead I'll just leave you to imagine the worst.

My regular road bike, the one not subjected to the indignity of being saddled stationery is looking very forlorn. I'm thinking that if the weather plays it's part then I may drive out to the New Lynn velodrome and entertain a few laps, that way I can more easily judge my readiness to re-enter riding in the outside world, with minimal risk. I know this runs counter to the lack of bodily disregard that I displayed in the first instance, and that landed me the broken thing, but being as profoundly right-handed as I am, this injury is causing me no end of inconvenience.

However, not all has been bad in my life, on Friday night, several of us, and our assorted male offspring went to the Auckland Domain to watch the special stage of the Rally of New Zealand. It was an excellent spectacle and well worth attending. Below is a very short video clip that captures some of the noise and speed that I witnessed.

Il Falco

The length of time between last post and this one is a reflection in the difficulty I have typing accurately with my left hand. Actually, my left-handed typing speed and accuracy is purely symptomatic of a variety of life's tasks that are slow and challenging for me, due to my inability to land a jump out of the bowl (saucer would be a better description) pictured above.

Pictured also is the offending cycle with the rider, who can jump and land things.

CTB disclosed his name for foolishness, it came from two people mishearing a comment of his, and stuck from there. The rules for the recipient are as follows:-
They must crash by themselves and through their own ineptness.
The name stays with them until they can find a suitable new recipient.
The name that CTB came up with was The Evil Homo. This came about when he was riding with DB and Gael. He mentioned about descending like Il Falco from Como (Paolo Salvodelli, who was reknowned for his descending prowess), somehow the others misheard this and instead heard CTB announce that he was descending like an Evil Homo. Much laughter ensued.

Given some stiff competition a couple of weeks a go from Mikeal, Junior and Del Woodford, I was a little confident that my crash might not quite be the ultimate bicycle handling debarcle and that I may avoid the pain and ignominy of the title. On reflection I ranked as a deserved winner.

However I am saved, by quite some margin in fact. I'm fortunate that by the time I'm back on the road, the new owner of the title will be used to wearing it and will be looking to pass it on.

Last week, I endured Mikeal enquiring as to how I was coping using my non-dominant hand for lavatory purposes. I had to file a daily wipe report. On Friday night Doris came and took the Spawn of my Loins and myself in to the Auckland Domain to see the archival Anzac film footage being screened on the outside of the War Memorial Musuem. As we drove, she asked if I'd heard about Mikeal's accident with a Nifty Fifty. No, I replied, it was news to me.

What transpired is last Tuesday (the very week that he is giving me grief about showing off and being useless) Mikeal had a friend visit (would that be the two of them in the masturbatorium?), said friend had a Nifty Fifty. Mikeal jumped on this and made to ride up their cul de sac. The mighty 50cc engine was too much for him, and he wheelied it, lost control and then lost his dignity and a reasonable amount of skin of elbows, hips, and hands. All less than fifty metres from his front door. On a Nifty Fifty no less.

He kept this a secret, and I suspect that he was hoping his wounds would heal and he'd be able to avoid humiliation. Unfortunately, not so.

The honorific is all yours Mikeal, thanks for saving me.