Though I've never been in a fight in my life, I think if I played hockey for money, I'd be the enforcer. It's fun to have your teammates back when they've been disrespected. As a parent however, I leave the heavy lifting to the wifeage. Which isn't fair to some degree, but I think she has a greater ability to grasp the magnitude of the situation and stay madder longer. Which is required when hammering on the little ones. Case in point: yesterday I received a call from the wifeage informing me that the boy was sent to the Principal's office. My heart actually skipped a beat as I hearkened back to my day as an elementary school student and for all the things that got me plopped down in front of the principal. Although he never really seemed to be a "pal". The wifeage was less than impressed when I say, "oh, what a seminal moment in our parenting career. I've been waiting for this." Almost a little too emphatically as she could sense my pride in the irreverence of my boy. "Um...he hit a little girl over the head with his lunchbox," she said. I was ripped from my fantasy of my boy wailing on the playground bully and only really heard the word "girl" and "lunchbox". "I'm sorry," I said. "Did you say he hit a girl with his lunchbox?," now totally crushed. Turns out some girl called him a "barf brain" (high marks for quality of name calling) and the boy let fly. The wifeage, upon being mortified with the recap from the teacher, restrained herself from physically pummelling the boy with the aforementioned lunchbox and instead, went the more sedate route of grounding him to his room. He was let out to have dinner with the girl and me while the wifeage retired to the office to get some work done. 30 minutes later she came out to the kitchen to find us fully engaged in a game of charades with me on the ground acting like a dog while the kids giggled and shouted out answers. The wifeage seeing the boy having fun and not somber and remorseful for his misdeed, brought a frighteningly quick end to the game by shouting, "he's being a hot dog." And with that, both were dispatched to their rooms where they were to PJ-ify, brush their teeth and get in bed. And then she lowered the boom on me for producing fun to an otherwise priveledgeless prisoner/kid. At which point I said, "I forgot and besides...you're the heavy." Which got me banished. Her fury hath no quarter. Anyway, hope you are well.

Johnny GoFast

So that's a fairly good representation of the GoFast household at any given moment in time. The wifeage is forever cleaning up after the kiddiewinks and me. So last night, as she slaved over a hot stove getting the dinner ready, she gave me very explicit instructions to get into the family room and get cracking on cleaning the room up. With the aide of the kids, of course. It had been a long day at the rock pile and I really wasn't all that interested in doing or even supervising the clean up routine. So I got a pillow off the couch and got down on the floor. The kids know that this is the universal signal for the game "Thrash Daddy" to commence. But they're a reverent little bunch and Mama's word is gospel, so I had to coax them into the event. Thrash Daddy is a basically anything goes game where we wrestle, steamroll, tickle, lift, and throw each other about. The only real rules are that there is no biting, no stomping on Daddy in any way, and the game is over if there are any tears. So the kids are sitting there knowing that they're supposed to be cleaning per Mama's instructions and I impart, "if we make it sound like we're cleaning and not playing Thrash Daddy, she'll be none the wiser." With that it was on. They both jumped on me and I flung them about. They did their best to stymie their giggles as I said random things like, "fold that blanket" and "be sure to put the caps on the pens." At one point I had the boy aloft while he balanced on my hands. The girl got up on my legs and I told her that I was going to fling her up in the air. I wanted her to do one forward roll and then land on Jackson's shoulders. She got quiet and then said she didn't think she could pull it off but that she'd try. So I flung my legs and Jackson braced but at the apex of the swing, Maile hung on to my legs like her life depended on it. And of course they both giggled. So I told Maile that we'd have to try again and again until we got it down because, with the downturn in the economy and everything, we might have to join the circus and this would be a fantastic stunt that people would come from all over to see. Alas, we never pulled it off and of course the giggles became too noticeably loud and the hammer fell and we scrambled like scared chickens and quickly straightened out the room and then went to the table for dinner. All while suppressing a devilish little smile. And I'm going to go home and do it again tonight. Hope you are all well.

Johnny GoFast

In a post today on Velonews, they reported that the professional bike racing team Barloworld had a bunch of their bikes stolen. What the article did not go on to say is that all their helmets, apparently, were stolen as well. Perhaps these guys are so pro that they never fall. That's how they do.

In a completely unrelated story, my bike has not been stolen. Neglected...yes, stolen...no. But I knew it was time to start riding again when I found the following slipped under my door one morning:

Dear Johnny,
Don't you think this has gone on too long? I was cool about the whole cyclocross thing this fall but never in my wildest dreams did I think you'd go from riding the bike to riding the couch. What happened to you? Have you looked in the mirror lately? Sometimes, late at night when I'm bored out of my mind in that cold dark garage of yours, I sneak into the laundry room just to chat up your cycling clothes. I thought there was a possibility that you were riding something that you kept at the office. Or maybe (gasp) you were doing those club type spin classes. Your kits had the same response: no Johnny. One particularly disturbing night while I quietly conferred with your outfits, a pair of your pants weighed in. Turns out they're not happy, Johnny. In particular, your buttons are on the verge of rebelling. The seat of your pants tried to jump on the complaint wagon, but the button stopped them with a, "oh please! You have no idea how close I am to letting go. I feel like I'm holding an avalanche back. And if I do let go, I'm afraid that as I hurl through the air that I may accidentally pierce the skin of some poor passerby, or worse, hit them in the temple and kill them. That's a lot to think about when he squeezes me through the button hole." Any way, your ski pants, they can be so haughty, informed us that our days are through. Is it true, Johnny? Are we done for, because if so, just e-Bay us now and take the misery of neglect off our collective consciousnesses. I speak for all of the bikes in the garage, and I don't even like any of them. Please Johnny, get riding again.


Sincerely,

Your Road Bike


So you see, you all are in a far better place than I am what with the Blog getting on me and the bikes conferring with the clothing about my lack of discipline lately. And not to be lead around by the inanimate, but Project Johnny 2.0 is underway. I finally threw the leg over on Tuesday and the diet is in full swing too. I've got a ways to go before the button isn't at defcon 1 so stand clear. Anyway, hope you are well.


Johnny GoFast

Blog: What the hell?!?

Me: I'm sorry? (Me frantically looking around convinced that I heard something but I don't immediately see anyone.) Is somebody talking to me?

Blog: It's me, your so called Blog. We used to have such a good thing going. What happened?

Me: (Not sure if I need to be having an out loud conversation with my Blog.) Um...I don't know. Just haven't been in the mood, I guess. And what should I call you? Would you prefer Beatsgriff or Beat or something?

Blog: Blog is fine. Seriously, you need to get your shit together.

Me: C'mon man, watch your language...this is kind of a family thing.

Blog: (In a mostly mocking tone) Oh I'm sorry, could you please post something soon? I really enjoy it when you use me as your forum to disseminate your daily happenings.

Me: Seriously, you need to watch your language. My Aunt Judy reads now and again and I don't want her tuning in to see words like "shit" and "disseminate". She's far too proper for that sort of thing.

Blog: (Now totally annoyed) Disseminate, you moron, means to scatter or spread. In this case to scatter or spread your now increasingly inane thoughts.

Me: Oh.

Blog: You've had so much happening lately and yet you haven't showed up at all. Not one post in the month of January with all that skiing and beer drinking and trips to Dallas and time off the bike. I really don't get you.

Me: C'mon just stop it now. You're starting to sound like the wifeage and she complains about too much attention on this thing. I promise to be better but I certainly don't want to be brow beat by the likes of you.

Blog: Well who do you like to get brow beat by and maybe we can get them engaged in this discussion.

Me: I don't think there is any call for that sort of intervention. I'll get cracking soon. Besides, I got a real interesting letter from my bike recently and I want to get that posted along with my response. And I need to report on Project Johnny 2.0 once that gets underway. But for now, just relax and enjoy your time off.

Blog: Talk is cheap and a dead blog is pretty lame. Get cracking monkey boy or I'll...

Me: You'll what?

Blog: I'll take this thing over and start making crap up like you have a Facebook page or something.

Me: I do have a Facebook page.

Blog: I knew it! You haven't touched me in months and don't really look at me the way you used to. What am I supposed to do...sit idly by while you have this wild interlude with your Facebook page? I've tried everything to keep your attention but, (now openly sobbing) I just can't stop time I guess.

Me: Oh stop! I'm committed to this thing and I'd be nowhere with out you. And besides, I don't really get the whole Facebook thing. I signed up initially because I wanted to e-mail a block of photos to some friends. And then it just blossomed from there and now I have like 20 friends or something. I can break it off if you want me to, but it's you that I love. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings.

Blog: I think we should go to counseling. Perhaps a professional can get us to connect again.

Me: If it would make you feel better, I'd be open but seriously, I think we can get through this thing on our own.

Blog: (Still whimpering) I hope so.

Me: (Mostly under my breath) Gee whiz...who needs this crap?