AND THERE I WAS, UNDER A CANOPY OF TREES, GETTING DROPPED BY A DUDE ON A FATBIKE BLASTING DANCE MUSIC.
po. “You say you don’t like asses ’cause I fart and break your glasses …”
It’s a crude and funny and wonderful song, but it gets old pretty quick. Like, immediately. I tried dislodging it from my head by singing “Wichita Lineman” for a while, but no luck. It was stuck and stuck good. The climb seemed endless and Method Man was growling “this is where her poop comes out” over and over. That’ll kill a personal KOM attempt stone-dead right there. And then, just like that, delivered by the least likely of messengers: salvation. Amy, Amber Rose and Method Man left in search of other auditory victims, shaken out by the fuzz and thump of the speaker in the backpack of the dreadlocked guy on the fatbike.
They rolled past me like I was standing still, and a few minutes later I was left with blissful silence. By the time I reached the intersection at the top of the climb they’d already rolled on and there was nobody in sight. A light fog had yet to burn off, and as I turned right and dumped through the gears into the descent, my inner jukebox selected the last thing it had heard and sent me down the hill. “Fzzzzt fzzzzt
fzz fzzzzt …”