Ride Boldly Ride, The Shade Replied

In my short time here in DC, I've discovered that among the Mormon community, there are a few events that generate enough buzz to reach the ears of even the most socially inept hermits like myself. I know (or at least am on close enough terms with) so few people that I don't get invited to the regular parties where the cool kids hang out. So when I hear of these bigger events, I will generally try to go and make fond memories. Or at least send the cool kids home with someone to make fun of. Just like summer camp, right? Well when I managed to get on the email list for Dutch Bike Dutch this year, I trembled in anticipation of the mirth and merriment that lay in store.

Dutch Bike Dutch has become an annual event, started by a couple of aggressively charitable and considerate young ladies to raise some walking-around money for orphans somewhere. I'm glad I got to contribute for some pinatas and Jarritos for the childrenz, but if I'm being honest, I didn't really pay attention to exactly what the funds were for. Call me passively charitable. It was a good cause, I'm sure. Anyway, DC is only about a two hour drive from Lancaster County, PA, home to Dutch Amish country. It's beautiful farm land with rolling hills, so it makes for some good cycling. As a result, in the spring, carloads of DC Mormon singles haul their bikes up to Pennsylvania to do rides varying in distance from 15 miles to 50 miles.

I chose to go for the 30-mile ride. Never mind that I hadn't been on a bike since I was 14. I was fit as a fiddle and ready to rock. Or to fiddle if needs be. So I rented a high-priced carbon fiber road bike to really allow me to fly. But to simply ride a bike would be too mundane. The occasion demanded more spice, more verve. So I decided to make my thrilling return to cycling in heroic fashion. As a luchadore.



I thought there was a chance that others would be making the ride in costumes of some sort as well. I mean, who wouldn't want to raise some Amish pulses with a bit of bravado? I was wrong. So very wrong. The closest anyone came was Colton in his $2 Incredible Hulk riding jersey. Ugliest shirt ever, but I applaud the showmanship. And he one-upped me by doing the 50-miler. Two claps for you and the chef lady, Colton.



Anyway, the video will fill in the visual blanks for you. How was it riding 30 miles after a 16-year absence from the sport? Pros and cons both, I'd say. The biggest con was those padded biking shorts. Mercy me, I felt like I was walking around with a maxi pad attached to my gooch with rubber cement. Extremely uncomfortable for a man. Not in a wedgie way, but in a turn-and-cough way. Another con, when I attempted to dismount my bike after 30 miles, I had the spaghetti legs real bad. I almost had to fall over sideways so I could roll away from it, because I didn't have the strength to lift my leg over the bar. Pros, you really do feel like you're flying sometimes. When you crest a hill and hit the downslope and drop the gear, the road slips away beneath you as your cape flaps in the wind. It's quite a rush. It builds hella leg strength in your quads. Boy howdy. And it's a peaceful way to take in the countryside and get some exercise while doing it. I will have to be sure to beg onto the invite list for next year.

And now, a short film (footage compliments of V Slice. Edited by yours truly.)

How To Make Sexxy Time Less Sexy

I always get a bit of a chuckle when I read edicts issued by religious authorities about how to have healthy sex. I can appreciate the desire of those authorities to provide advice based within the structure of an individual's moral foundation on how to control the more primal animal instincts. They are generally good-natured attempts to get the faith's adherents to give proper weight to the issues surrounding the act. But these puritanical directives always come off awkward and oblivious to the humor they hide in plain sight. You can imagine my delight when I read this article in the Daily Mail talking about the special prayer issued for Catholics to read before unleashing their inner beast. An excerpt from the article:

Roman Catholic couples are being encouraged to pray together before they have sex. A book published by a prominent Church group invites those setting out on married life to recite the specially-composed Prayer Before Making Love.

It is aimed at 'purifying their intentions' so that the act is not about selfishness or hedonism.

The prayer, which appears in the Prayer Book for Spouses, implores God 'to place within us love that truly gives, tenderness that truly unites, self-offering that tells the truth and does not deceive, forgiveness that truly receives, loving physical union that welcomes.'

It adds: 'Open our hearts to you, to each other and to the goodness of your will. Cover our poverty in the richness of your mercy and forgiveness. Clothe us in true dignity and take to yourself our shared aspirations, for your glory, for ever and ever.' 

Man. It's funny and sad at the same time. I'm by no means trying to single out the Catholic church here, because heaven knows my own faith makes its share of ham-handed proclomations on makin' good whoopy. But when it comes down to getting down, the last thing I want to do is stop the train to ask forgiveness that my wife and I are about to totally ravish one another. Philosophizing about sex is fine, but come on, to every thing there is a season. Making God an integral part of your relationship is good, but praying for dignity, mercy and forgiveness kinda loses its meaning when you're wearing nothing but a cape and firefighter boots, doesn't it? Do we have to get off the kitchen table first or can we just read this on the fly? Are we supposed to memorize it or am I gonna have to add an extra pouch to my tool belt?
No, my pre-coital petition would take a little different form. It would be something more like, "Lord, I'm here knocking on the very door of creation, and if you'll just let me focus for a few minutes and do this thing right, I promise we'll work you in here before all the shootin's done and the smoke clears."
Of Course, I'm probably not the best person to consult on this. My perspective is obviously skewed, and perhaps more than a bit fantasized. As a practicing Mormon, I follow the commandment to keep my naughty bits under lock-and-key until some mythical keymaster called a "spouse" appears to unlock my special purpose. At this point I'm like a dog who's been cooped up inside all day waiting for my master to come home and take me to the park to play frisbee. I sit at the window watching the other dogs frolic in the grass, thinking every car that goes by could be my master arriving to play. In reality, when the keymaster does arrive, she'll probably take me for a quick duty walk around the block before Survivor comes on. Whatever. So long as she doesn't read me a prayer before she puts my leash on, who cares. I'm walkin', man.

First, Let Us Pray

And the Lion Shall Lie Down With the Lamb

Last year's election was a first for our nation. We elected Abdir Ben Salaam al-Obama to be our first Muslim president. Wait, no, that's not right. He is our first domesticated terrorist president, right? No? He's the first president to openly hate white people? No? First black president?

That's right. Now I remember. This was to be a moment of transcendence, a turning point in the history of the world, when all whites and blacks and browns would beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nations would no longer lift up swords against one another, nor would they learn war anymore. At exactly 11 AM on January 20th, 2009, our new socialist overlord would begin a 1,000-year reign of peace and prosperity never before experienced on Earth or any of its tributary solar systems.

Well, boys and girls, that’s one party I wasn’t about to miss. And my brother, The Nuge, had the decency to come to DC to share in the inauguration festivities in January.  On Monday the 19^th, we worked in a road trip to NYC, Tyson’s first. It was a one day trip, so we didn't have time to see much. But that was just a diversion, a palate cleanser for the real event on the 20th. To hear the jokers on the TV tell it, the trains going into town would be jammed to capacity starting around 3 AM with people trying to get down to the National Mall. Naturally, we felt pressured to leave the house by 5 AM in order to get down and stake out our spot for history.

Stupid TV! Not only were the trains not filled to capacity, we even got seats on the train. Good thing, too, because it was the last time we would sit down until about three o'clock that afternoon.

Mirthful Pre-dawn Smile

We managed to get spots on the Mall right at the red brick Smithsonian castle, and we got there before dawn. Which was good because if we'd waited until the sun actually came up, we would never have experienced the 20-degree pre-dawn temperatures. Once the sun came out, it was almost too warm at 28 degrees. So there was that added bonus for the early birds that listened to the TV.

Other than that, it was pretty uneventful from six until about ten.   We stood around freezing and making occasional attempts at awkward conversation with those around us.  It was such a diverse crowd, all races and ethnicities waiting for the stroke of noon when we would magically scale all cultural barriers and be able to talk to each other. Some made early attempts to figure it out on their own.  I wanted to say, “Look, man, just sit back and relax.  In a few more hours, we’ll have a black/white president.  This conversation will go so much smoother and you’ll look far less ridiculous. ” But I didn’t. Watching the bespectacled white guy in his twenties with the Dave Matthews patch on his backpack trying to make conversation with the black lady in the purple floor-length leather overcoat with gold teeth was just too entertaining.  And it was the only way to keep my mind off the ache of my frozen feet.

Great View of the Speech

Finally, at 11 AM, Lord Zenu descended the Capitol steps on Aslan and knighted Sir Barry the new King of Job Creation and Economic Gravy. I cheered, because I like gravy, economic or otherwise. And from the sound of the crowd, I wasn't alone. I was excited to dab up some gravy with a loaf of unity bread with my new brothers and sisters. The One gave a speech, we cheered again, yada-yada-yada. You saw all that on TV.

What you didn’t see was the Bataan Death March out of there.  The exit strategy for this event had to have been planned by Paul Bremer.  The two nearest subway stations out of there were closed. You couldn’t just walk north into Chinatown, because the north side of the Mall was barricaded for the parade later that afternoon, and the nearest functioning subway station had a two hour line around the block.  So we walked all the way up behind the Capitol, past the Supreme Court building, and into Chinatown, arriving around two o’clock and waiting an hour for a table at the first restaurant we could get in.  The upside to all the walking was that I regained circulation in my feet.  The bad news was that they were not happy with me, and throbbed for days afterward.  Was it worth it?  Absolutely.  The people were all remarkably well behaved considering the crappy weather/transportation/food situations we all dealt with together.  How could I live in DC for such a moment and not go? Having my brother there to share the experience made it that much better. You're the ballz, Nuge.