The Death Of Summer And The Glory Of All…
Article By: Jimmy Frizzell
Originally Published In The December 2016 Issue Of Cycle Source Magazine
Patient zero has graciously bestowed upon me some form of disease contracted upon the hallowed floors of the toddler labor camp his mother and I have enrolled him in in hopes to brighten his vast future through the pursuit of quality knock off hand bags. But as I sit here, skillfully hunting and pecking my way towards literary genius, my nose and every other orifice in my head cascades pale green slime to the rhythmic heart beat felt in the bowels of my sinus cavities. Such a wondrous natural delight could only be the introduction to the end of the summer season and as the pumpkin spice bullshit invades every morsel of edible insanity the reality lies in the calendar; fall is finally f#@king here. It’s a rare occasion when I’m fully capable of total recall. I find myself basking in the glory of the overall experience as opposed to the nit picking details of a fine tuned memory. My wife would choose to label the phenomenon as selective memory, but for arguments sake I choose to call it, the inept tendency to leave mental room for more important shit. That being said and with the Nyquil glazing the frontal lobes of a previously abused decadent mind source I still remember the exact moment that I was done with summer. Months had gone into the planning of a temporary reprieve from corporate blue collar slavery. The planets had aligned ever so slightly for ten days of gallivanting in two wheeled solitude. For the first time in a long time I was able to just put shit on the back burner and let the miles blend into a healthy trance of therapy. After accompanying George, the Brother for a few hundred miles down to BMR I was able to break off with the female gate keeper for a little jaunt down the Blue Ridge Parkway for a husband wife sanity check. After a three day 800 plus mile excursion she was once again free of me. I was sent off to ‘Smoke Out’ to act like a retarded man child for the annual “get it out of your system so you stop talking about you god damn bike” weekend. Smoke Out once again failed to remotely disappoint and left me leaving the hotel with 2100 miles under my belt and a 700-mile day ahead of me. My size 16 over compensating feet started to feel the pressure of folding over the pegs and I was forced to switch from sneakers to my 1914s. As the temperature started to peak and the sun appeared, summer started to lose its thrill. Sunday mornings are probably some of the best times to hit the road. While god fearing America rights all their wrongs in the confines of sacred debauchery the rest of the tax paying troglodytes are elbow deep in a losing battle with cranial dehydration.