I'd like to think that Chirper isn't dead but somewhere right now enjoying a better chicken life. You see, as we all could have predicted, I had to kill one of the chickens that had fallen sick. We have/had four and they all seemed to be going along pretty well. I want basically nothing to do with these things, but when Chirper broke it's foot and ultimately needed to be separated from the other chickens that were slowly trying to peck it to death, I was tapped by the wifeage to do the ceremonial neck wringing. I might seem like a bad ass, but killing animals is pretty low on my list of enjoyments. So I drank me some wine and then, trying my best not to think about it, I picked up Chirper by the head, walked her outside as she flapped and writhed, and then I gave her a couple of quick twirls one way and then a couple of twirls the other way, and she was done. Except for the few spasms and twitches that totally freaked me out. I chucked her into the garbage can and tried like hell to think about something else. The next morning, my daughter was first on the scene to discover Chirper was gone. I told her that I put her out on the front lawn to get some "air" and she flew away. My wife then backed me up by saying that Chirper died. The tears came but the kids got over it pretty quickly and went out back to check on the other three. I'm not going to lie to you, being a chicken farmer is no fairytale. Anyway, hope you are well and I hope I don't have to wring any necks soon.

Johnny GoFast

What a sweet trade. So I'm sitting there with some buddies of mine at the bar on Friday night when in walks this dude with a sweet Pabst Blue Ribbon beer distributor shirt on. I'm not a big shopper. I've never walked into a store and saw the perfect anything and proclaimed, "I just have to have that." But when this guy walked in wearing that shirt, all my alarm bells went off. I couldn't focus on anything other than the shirt. Luckily, I was wearing a pretty decent soccer jersey that I had scored some years before, and some people liked it. I was very lukewarm on the shirt, but knew that it had trade value. So I got up and moved over to the guy and introduced myself. His name was Rob and I could tell that he'd been drinking. I wanted to come up with a slow work plan to get the shirt, start off making some idle chit/chat and then ease into it, but I'm not all that subtle.

Me: Hey man, I just love that shirt.

Rob: Well I like yours.

At this point I could hardly contain myself and I circled in for the kill.

Me: Would you want to trade?

With that, he started unbuttoning and I could barely contain myself. I pulled off my soccer jersey and offered it to him as he offered me his shirt. He then asked me if I was sure and I said, "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

It was kind of weird watching him move about the bar with my shirt on and my buddies were a little out of sorts when I came back wearing somebody else's shirt, but I was all smiles. As I left, I asked him one more time whether he was still okay with the trade. He asked me if I was still okay with it and I said I was. He said we still had a deal. It was then that the wifeage came into my head. She was still reeling from my last trip downtown where I'd gotten a ride home from a divorced 47 year old mother of three. How would she respond when I came through the door wearing someone else's shirt? Luckily, she laughed when I told her the story and now my shirt hangs proudly in my living room for all to marvel. At least I think it does. She may have moved it into the garage with all my other hard fought for "treasures." Hope you are well. Tomorrow we reach in to the mail bag and weigh in on how "Project Johnny" is going. Stay tuned and well.

Johnny GoFast

So I used to be a big fan of Shane Litzenberger. I met him a few years ago on one of those Thursday night throw downs up Mt. Diablo. Anything sub 25 minutes to the Junction is considered decent and Shane would routinely cough up something in the 21's. Hell, he can go sub 50 up to the summit while cracking jokes. Anyway, before I knew any of this, I was hammering along up the mountain in a little pack that was chasing him. He had broken off the front and none of us could respond. He kept giving us the look back and it really started to bug. I vowed that day that I would beat him the following week. I'd show up fresh, well tapered and give him some of my rear tire to chew on. He crushed me again. It was then that I started my investigation and discovered his climbing prowess and it was then that I discovered he's got legs the size of people. Later we became teammates and I got to know him a little bit. A fly fisherman that also rides is a good thing to come by. He's talented on the bike and the more you get to know him, the more you rout for him.

Anyway, that was then. He moved off to Boise and based on the photo above, I no longer have a man crush on him. I mean, look at that dorkfest. I didn't think anyone could give triathletes a run for their money when it came to total geekdom, but guys having a "trainer festival" comes pretty damn close. I'm sure he was winning or putting up the most impressive watt numbers, but who outside of that room could he possibly tell or would possibly care? Oh how the mighty have fallen. The king is dead. I'm now accepting applications for new hero worship. Griff, yours goes right to the bottom of the pile.

Johnny GoFast

Swimming is so damn boring. I guess that's why they call it swimming and not skiing or mountain biking or porno. It does afford you a lot of time to think. That is when you're not thinking about how damn boring swimming is. Anyway, Project Johnny is now in full swing. I've had a great week getting the body moving again. Slow rides, even slower swims, with the diet squarely in check (did I mention that I haven't had a Diet Pepsi in five weeks?) I've got cool thoughts running through my head again. There may be even a glimmer of a smile in there now and again.

So back before I was fully entrenched in Project Johnny, I was first and foremost on a downward spiral to hell. I was drinking and eating and chewing my way to happiness, but that road, as we all know, is like pitching coal on a dead end line. But you do get to see how the other half live.

On Saturday night, I found myself downtown with my brother and a crew our buddies and we threw some back at Eliot's. At the witching hour, they made their way to the local Denny's like a bunch of acne'd up teenagers while I made my way over to Menar's with my divorced friend. Menar's is a bar in the center of the Golden Ghetto (also known as Danville) and it's the haps for those working on finding love in all the wrong places. They had a funk band playing and they were good (please note: author is extremely white and wouldn't know a good funk band from a bad one but he was eighteen sheets to the wind). I got myself my nineteenth beer and made my way over to the corner to watch them play while my cohort plied his wares with the ladies. So I'm movin' and groovin' and singing with the band "we've got the funk" while I squarely point at myself with my outstretched hand while simultaneously pointing at the band as if to suggest that they're with me, when this girl sidles up next to me and asks me point plank if I'm married. Subtle, no doubt, I counter with "yes...happily" and then I hit her with the trifecta and show her my wedding ring. She mumbled something, but I had already turned back to the band and continued gyrating my white ass along with the music. To my shock and horror, she was undeterred and started dancing near me (wifeage: please note that at no time did she dance with me). So the lights come on and my buddy comes walking up with some chick who turns out to be the wingwoman of the girl that was dancing near me. At that point I was knee deep in danger as the full court press was on. Every one knows that you need to attack the full court press so I asked them for a ride home. My buddy laughed and I burped or maybe hiccuped. Luckily, they were sober enough to drive us (I think) and they got us most of the way home before they threw us out. Turns out there was a cop/sobriety check point right before my street on the boulevard so they bailed down a side street and let us out.

The next morning the wifeage was not happy to learn that I had gotten a ride home from a 47 year old divorced mother of three. "But I did come home," I replied. It was at this point that something blunt hit me atop the head and I crawled back to my room to sleep off the bad decisions that I made throughout the month of May. Anyway, thought you'd like to know.

Johnny GoFast

So I jumped in the pool yesterday for the first time in five years. Back before the bike, I was a swimmer. I started when I moved back from Minnesota in '95. It's great as an exercise, but it can get pretty monotonous. When I started getting a little more serious about riding/racing, I gave up on the swimming. It was nice to go back yesterday and see some of the old guard I used to go back and forth with. When I started, I was pretty slow and I worked my way through a lot of the lanes as I improved. Along the way, I met a lot of pretty cool people and a lot of them are still at it.

So the upshot is that I'm way out of shape. But the process has begun and I look forward to a few months of base in an effort to get back to speed on the bike. I'll be doing some cross training (swimming/running/weight lifting) in addition to some long lonely miles on the bike. I'm ready. Back in college, I would return to campus after a summer of debauchery and it would be the same thing. Back then, I could go pretty hard for a couple of weeks and I'd be back to where I left off. Griff used to call it the Two Week Miracle. Doesn't happen like that anymore. But three months from now, things will certainly be different. Catch you rollin'.

Johnny GoFast