explain why I am pissed (or is that pist?)

Several years ago, and this one is easier to estimate, some of the facts may be blurred or confused as life has gone through some changes. But it was the weekend before the wedding and this year was our fourth anniversary, well last year in October 2003, so that means 1999 I was in Moab Utah racing the granny gear 24 hour event out there. I was teamed up with a fireman from Idaho and a well traveled east coaster who had been out in california for so long that the east coast was almost all washed out of him....well almost. The fourth rider on our clydesdale team was the only racer I had not raced with before, well, had not raced with on the same team...as I met him in California at the 24 Hours of Donner Pass where we camped and raced along side of each other. This racer, Greg, had never been considered as a race partner before, it had nothing to do with speed or personality. Greg was plenty fast as well as way cool to ride and hang with, but he was definitely not a clydesdale.....he was not even a clydesdale for his height. The race team was put together on short notice, and not knowing anyone in Utah, well, not knowing any fast fun clydesdales ready to race, it made more sense to ride with someone we knew. And Kurt the well traveled san franciso kid, well....39 years young, had been spending a fair amount in Downieville riding and hanging with Downieville local/shop owner/shuttle bus runner/and fast riding dad aka greg. We all came out to the race days early. It was a party. Kurt had traveled from SF with his pigtail wearing girlfriend and seasoned 24 hour racer, Michelle. While Aaron drove in from from Idaho picking me up in his little japanesse truck at the Salt Lake City airport. Aaron's dog Auger rode on my lap, there was a third passanger, but not sure if he slept or rode in the back of flatbed. But once his presence was know.....HIS PRESENCE WAS KNOWN. This kid was pumped. He was riding and racing some Cezch frame as a single speed.
It was quite a gathering. Great riding and great friends. Good times all the way down to the food. Whether we were going out for pasta or hanging in at the camp ground.....

We were all having so much fun. The race was important, but a good deal of it was background noise. Had we been taking it seriously, well, we would have been freaking out. All the shopping for certain parts or shoes, hanging out while the pumped single speeder from Boise trades forks with me, as the Judy SL was not just blown out, but it was not Clydesdale worth. This kid, Jake, which was his full name much like Cher or Madonna go by one name. Picture him. Hold that image. And think fast and fun! Okay
You got him. In the right situation he is awesome....and riding/racing/and hanging is the right situation.

enough with this wandering rant
seems that this cloudy glass of Annis is going to my head

the circular story was supposed to be leading down a path of a shot gun start in Moab Utah, riders running to their bikes leaving behind them a cloud of dust....a cloud of dust and one lone rider tailing behind. Trailing behind moving on one leg with the aid of crutches. This image was supposed to be carried from the deserts of Utah to the wooded mountains of West Virginia. Where in these lush green woods of West Virginia, where the trail was a path of slick rocks and slick roots, separated by mud, deep mud. The roots had gone beyond slick from moisture, enough riders/racers had crossed the roots to tear off the semi textured bark, leaving behind the pale white/green inner rooted.
While off the bike lugging my knobby wheeled bike through a textbook hike-a-bike section I gained ground on another rider. Riding the unridable previously described terrain. I marched with long strides moving faster on foot than I could mounted on the bike crashing every 3 feet and then remounting again.
As I get closer the image becomes more clear.
The racer is riding with one leg.
He is slow and precise, more cross country than trials, moving forward all the time.
When he crashed it was like Q-bert bounding around on his spring like body. USing his bike to stabalize his balance and hanging on till the last second, never wanting to dismount his bike.
We spoke as strangers on night laps often do.
What amazed me was not his miracular riding, but his positive attitude. I am healthy and whole, yet I am not this positive.
Actually I am pissed!
Why am I pissed?
What is my damage? Where does this anger stem from? I am too old to be PUNK ROCK! Actually it is not 1977, so the time does not all anyone to be punk rock, even the mall rat walking out of the salon with his green mohawk as his mother pays the cashier and tips the stylist, even that kid does not get to be punk.
I travel with him and we exchange tales, well, I probe him with questions.

And he delivers answers.
The talk goes from the classic mountainbiker exchange as we discussed our bikes of choice. Two bikes ranked very similarly.
The Rocky mountain bikzzard and Voodoo Bizango...equally rated steel hardtails.
I learn from his words that he works for Voodoo and lost his leg in a motorcycle accident.
No Whinning.
No Complaints.
No Excuses.
Just the facts.
He did not give anyone the finger.
why am I pist? why do I give the world the finger?
with all that I have
why do I wake up angry?

enough with this rant
that is where it was supposed to go
but the path to get there was so long
that I lost the energy and focus to direct my idea

but maybe I need to wake up each morning and borrow the copeing techniques of Stewart Smally
because....I am good enough....and I like myself and my family likes me
even my dogs like me

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