demonic-AL

AL imparts a "NO SHIT!!??" moment for his listeners

Today, at the factory, Al had a moment that will go down in infamy. I was in my cubicle, meeting with several of the worker-interns that I am charged with caring for. I was reading through the file of one young intern, a young woman of about 20, and making some suggestions to her for improvement. She made a burping sound. I looked up involuntarily but noticed nothing so I continued. She did it again. This time I looked at her and she seemed to be pained. I wondered, "this bitch dyspeptic?" She then made some strange mewling sound and put her hand up to her face. She burped more and her face began to expand. Suddely smoke spewed from her ears and her head began to turn a full 180 degrees. A demonic voice came from her, it screamed, "the sow is mine!"

And then it happened. The demon bitch fouled Al's office. She began to spew projectile vomit like a firehose on full blast being held by a four year old.



All I can say about the experience is this. It was horrid. I handled myself well though: I pulled up my feet and jumped up on the desk like a chick running from a mouse. I managed not to shriek. Instead, in a deep voice I said, "I cast you out unclean spirit in the name of Jesus Christ!"


Later on:

After leaving the factory (and showering with brillo and lye soap), I began my current fav work out: an hour spin (yes, yes,very gay, I know, and fuck all you haters). After my spin, I threw on my run kicks and grabbed the jog stroller. I did a 4 mile course that leads me past my daughter's school. All was staged perfectly so that I could pick her up "on the run," as they say. But I must say this:

I can't stand the way our neighborhoods and schools have gotten. You can't believe, first of all, how difficult it is to navigate the sidewalks with a jogger around here. It is clear that these sidewalks were NEVER for actual walkers / joggers. They are broken every 1/4 mile by telephone poles that make going into the street necessary. Cars are parked on the sidewalk all over the place and no enforcement to stop this goes on. At the school, one gets looks like "what the fuck is wrong with this guy" and requests like "please don't leave the stroller in front." Fred and I were discussing the whole kids riding bikes to school or walking thing the other day. Let's just say this: it ain't happening. It isn't safe, schools don't want it 'cause their lawyers have advised against it, and parents seem programmed to think that transport other than by car is odd and inappropriate. What the fuck has happened?

Al Is A Zit

Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, Al.

Fix the blog.

memori-AL

Cum On.......

comparab-AL ?

So I got myself a Lemond Revmaster a little while back. I ripped that shit saddle that comes with it off and immediately replaced it. I spun off the shit peds and put on my Speedplays. And HOT DAMN! I love it!

I do a lot of indoor biking--late at night or while the kids are coloring on the floor near me or when the weather is crappy. I probably get more miles indoor than outdoor, this time of year. I've never really liked my Kurt Kinetic Trainer. I know it is a good trainer, but I just don't love how loud it is. And you can't stand up and really work on it.

The revmaster is silent...or near to it. And you can beat it. I stand on it and really dig in...no worries. Plus it takes up less room than bike/trainer. And it is direct drive, so it rides like a fixie. In my mind this will be good for my "stroke."

I've been doing these nice duathlons: I spin for an hour then burn out a 5k. Great workout. Should keep me up for next season. But here's my question: how come more bike people don't ride these? I hear about trainers and rollers. I never hear a true blue biker talk about his/her spin bike. Why? Are these activities not comparable?

And while we're on the topic of comparability...I was channel surfing while spinning this morning. I saw this poofta on Regis and Kelly.

Ok, now maybe I'm crazy, but I am starting to believe in reincarnation. Is it me?

USGP Trenton

No time to write something clever and soft and fluffy, so just some random weekend pics.

OK, quick story. Horner was getting freakin' grief from the crowd on Sunday. All in good fun and jest, of course. Pro boy was seriously struggling in the rain and mud and off-camber slop. Most of the race he was bunched in tight off the back with his goon squad and taking the opportunity now and then to sit up and hurl some pointed comments back at the crowd. Fun stuff this cross.

Hard Men

Moveitfred has gathered inspiration from his compatriots these last couple of days.




Tales of epic runs and intestinal implosions.















Breaking and entering into Browntown.







All-night rambles through rugged countryside with men.

























Browbeating back The Man.





These are hard men








Doing hard work.














Moveitfred, drawing energy from these stories of great resolve and honor, broke open a sweaty track workout amid biting wind and rain over at the university track last night and just returned from a harsh cross ride out in the raw elements today.

A toast to the hard men.



Moveitfred is busy packing up for the USGP because, as we all know, there is no tastier way to spend a lovely fall weekend than a couple of days in Trenton, New Jersey.

Things just keeping getting worse!

This evening Heywood Jablome met with the fellas for another night ride somewhere in the canyon. This whole riding at night is supposed to be enjoyable, fun and exhilarating, right? Well things were going marvelous for Wood on the fast swooping decent. Then the bottom of the canyon was reached and it was time to scale the other side.

For those of you who have never ridden with Wood, he is not typically the fastest climber in the bunch. Nor is he the slowest, usually. Tonight was the exception. When the trail ascended upwards to the heavens, Heywood was no where to be found. Left breathing the trail dust of others, he just could not get his legs to work. The more miles the group climbed, the worse things got for our pal as the lactic acid kept building. “Both brakes must be locked up or somebody hooked a tow rope to me and I am hauling a car up this hill,” Heywood thought. He stopped, dismounted, and inspected the bicycle for some flaw causing this disaster. NOPE! Perfect working condition. No tow rope either. How demoralizing this ride is turning out to be for Wood. The group was kind enough to wait for him at the top before they proceeded downward.

Trying to get his confidence back, Heywood was going to lead the group down to the bottom. This is one part of riding he loves and always feels very at ease with. While riding at night, signs can be hard to see because of the lack of light. Apparently Wood took a wrong turn and the group followed. Soon they found themselves on a fire road face to face with a pair of headlights shinning at them while on State Park property. Out of the vehicle stepped a State Park Ranger who began to yell. He then lectured them about the hours of operation for this park, illegal trails for mountain bikers, blah, blah, blah. Next he wanted to know everybody’s name. Wood answered politely “Heywood Jablome.”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY,” the park ranger asked in a stern voice.
“I said HEYWOOD JABLOME,” Wood replied.
The ranger ordered the entire group to continue riding except for Wood. As the group rode on, the ranger introduced himself as Dick Gozinya and asked for Wood’s phone number. “Maybe we can go get a drink someone,” the ranger said in a very sweet voice.

Fearing some scene from Deliverance was going to be reenacted here shortly, Heywood leaped onto his steed and rode away with new found speed. Where on earth did the ranger brew this crazy idea that Wood was interested?

When Heywood arrived home, he told his beautiful wife about his lack of climbing abilities on the trail tonight. She said, “at least you were not the last one up the hill, or were you?”

A few more nights like this and Wood will be making the drive to BALCO laboratories for some help.

fec-AL

AL IS FULL OF SHIT








It's been a tough couple of weeks for me, folks. My daughter has had walking pneumonia. I was sick for a bit. And I'm in the process of moving. A wee bit of stress, over here.

Last night, I was rushing home at about 6. I had not eaten lunch and was starving. I had a 7 miler on tap. (As an aside, I fucking hate running in the dark. I have a 1 mile loop around my house on a well lit set of blocks that I do at night. I feel like a frickin' gerbil on a Habitrail.) I knew that banging out a 7 with no food in the system was impossible. What to do...

As I sat in traffic, the flashing neon of a local Kosher deli called to me. I'm a big fan of grilled frankfurters, but I rarely eat them. (They're artery clogging rolls of assholes, armpits, and nitrites.) The call was too strong, though. I slammed my rig in park and went in for two dogs with kraut and mustard. Moments later, I was motoring home, changing into my running duds as I drove.

I ran in the house and dropped my bags, kissed the wife and kiddies and headed out the door into the darkness.

3 miles out the rolling and tumbling started in my belly. 4 miles out I was cramping and clinching. By mile 5 I was duck walking and praying for a dark alley or any ill lit spot. At 5.25 it was shit or be beshat. (Now most of you know that I've got "issues." You'd think I'd know better than to down 2 coneys before poundin' out the miles.)

In the near distance was the glow of a Getty sign. Hope sprang eternal. Squeezing for all I was worth and sweating like an H addict out of skag, I waddled into the station. CLOSED! GARRRRRRRR! There was no choice though. I was in CODE BROWN. I struggled around the side and tried the Men's. LOCKED! DOHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! Fuck it. I put my shoulder to the door. It popped open. And the foul receptec-AL called to me.

Al fouled the small stall in grand fashion. Think Dirty Bomb.

It's amazing, isn't it, how alive one feels after that? Singers and film makers have celebrated how nearly dying can make one so alive. How come no one sings about almost shitting him/herself? Might go something like this:

"Browntown"
by Al Bangorhard

I'm wide awake and so alive
Spewed my scat like chow

Take me deep out past the lights
Nothing dims these stars
Nothing

Let me feel the passing of solid waste
Just tip me 'til I capsize
I've been waiting for my whole life
To be broken, open, filth erased

Let me feel the passing of solid waste
Just tip me 'til I capsize
I've been waiting for my whole life
To be open wide

I'm wide awake and so alive
Ringing like a bell
Tell me this is paradise
And not someplace I fell

Let me feel the passing of solid waste
Just tip me 'til I capsize
I've been waiting for my whole life
To be broken, open, filth erased

Let me feel the passing of solid waste
'Cause I'm dying on the inside
Just take me to Browntown
'Til I'm open wide

So wide
So go
I'm wide awake and so alive, alive, alive

Let me feel the passing of solid waste
Just tip me 'til I capsize
I've been waiting for my whole life
To be broken, open, filth erased

Let me feel the passing of solid waste
'Cause I'm dying on the inside
Just take me to Browntown
'Til I'm open wide

pleasurab-AL

Barry Bonds indicted on perjury, obstruction charges

By PAUL ELIAS, Associated Press Writer
Barry Bonds, baseball's home run king, was indicted for perjury and obstruction of justice Thursday and could face prison instead of the Hall of Fame for telling a federal grand jury he did not knowingly use performance-enhancing drugs.

The indictment, culminating a four-year investigation into steroid use by elite athletes, charged Bonds with four counts of perjury and one of obstruction of justice. If convicted, he could be sentenced to a maximum of 30 years in prison.

Shortly after the indictment was handed up, Bonds' personal trainer, Greg Anderson, was ordered released after spending most of the past year in prison for refusing to testify against his longtime friend.

"During the criminal investigation, evidence was obtained including positive tests for the presence of anabolic steroids and other performance enhancing substances for Bonds and other athletes," the indictment said.

In August, when the 43-year-old Bonds passed Hank Aaron to become baseball's career home run leader, he flatly rejected any suggestion that this milestone was stained by steroids.

"This record is not tainted at all. At all. Period," Bonds said.

Bonds finished the year with 762 homers, seven more than Aaron, and is currently a free agent. In 2001, he set the season record with 73 home runs.

Late in the season, the San Francisco Giants told the seven-time National League MVP they didn't want him back next year.

Bonds could not immediately be reached for comment. One of his attorneys, John Burris, didn't know of the indictment before being alerted by The Associated Press and said he would call Bonds to notify him.

"I'm surprised," Burris said, "but there's been an effort to get Barry for a long time. I'm curious what evidence they have now they didn't have before."

Bonds' defense attorney, Mike Rains, declined comment because he hadn't seen a copy of the indictment.

"However, it goes without saying that we look forward to rebutting these unsupported charges in court," Rains said. "We will no doubt have more specific comments in the very near future once we have had the opportunity to actually see this indictment that took so long to generate."

Bonds is scheduled to appear in U.S. District Court in San Francisco on Dec. 7.

Bonds has never been identified by Major League Baseball as testing positive for steroids.

AP - Nov 15, 6:10 pm EST More Photos

"I have yet to see the details of this indictment and while everyone in America is considered innocent until proven guilty, I take this indictment very seriously and will follow its progress closely," commissioner Bud Selig said.

Union head Donald Fehr said he was "saddened" to learn of Bonds' indictment.

"However, we must remember, as the U.S. Attorney stated in his press release today, that an indictment contains only allegations, and in this country every defendant, including Barry Bonds, is entitled to the presumption of innocence unless and until such time as he is proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."

The White House weighed in, too.

"The president is very disappointed to hear this," Bush spokesman Tony Fratto said. "As this case is now in the criminal justice system, we will refrain from any further specific comments about it. But clearly this is a sad day for baseball."

Bush, who once owned the Texas Rangers, called Bonds to congratulate him in August when the Giants' outfielder broke the home run mark. "You've always been a great hitter and you broke a great record," Bush said at the time.

Former Senate Majority Leader George Mitchell, who is investigating drug use in baseball, declined comment. So did Hall of Fame vice president Jeff Idelson.

Bonds was charged in the indictment with lying when he said he didn't knowingly take steroids given to him by Anderson. Bonds is also charged with lying that Anderson never injected him with steroids.

"Greg wouldn't do that," Bonds testified in December 2003 when asked if Anderson ever gave him any drugs that needed to be injected. "He knows I'm against that stuff."

Anderson's attorney, Mark Geragos, said the trainer didn't cooperate with the grand jury that indicted Bonds.

"This indictment came out of left field," Geragos said. "Frankly I'm aghast. It looks like the government misled me and Greg as well, saying this case couldn't go forward without him."

Prosecutors promised Bonds they wouldn't charge him with any drug-related counts if he testified truthfully. But according to the indictment, Bonds repeatedly denied taking any steroids or performance-enhancing drugs despite evidence to the contrary.

AP - Nov 15, 5:55 pm EST More Photos

For instance, investigators seized a so-called "doping calendar" labeled "BB" during a raid of Anderson's house.

"He could know other BBs," Bonds replied when shown the calendar during his testimony.

Asked directly if Anderson supplied him with steroids, Bonds answered: "Not that I know of." Bonds even denied taking steroids when he was shown documents revealing a positive steroids test for a player named Barry B.

Bonds said at the end of the 2003 season, Anderson rubbed some cream on his arm that the trainer said would help him recover. Anderson also gave him something he called "flax seed oil," Bonds said.

Bonds then testified that prior to the 2003 season, he never took anything supplied by Anderson -- which the indictment alleges was a lie because the doping calendars seized from Anderson's house were dated 2001.

Bonds became the highest-profile figure caught up in the government investigation, launched in 2002, with the raid of the Bay Area Laboratory Co-Operative (BALCO) -- the Burlingame-based supplements lab that was the center of a steroids distribution ring.

Bonds has long been shadowed by allegations that he used performance-enhancing drugs. The son of former big league star Bobby Bonds, Barry broke into the majors with the Pittsburgh Pirates in 1986 as a lithe, base-stealing outfielder.

By the late 1990s, he'd bulked up to more than 240 pounds -- his head, in particular, becoming noticeably bigger. His physical growth was accompanied by a remarkable power surge.

Speculation of his impending indictment had mounted for more than a year.

Associated Press Writer Chris Weber in Los Angeles contributed to this report.

Bean Team

Question:

Is it bad that Moveitfred is currently finishing off his second pot of caffeinated beverage today all by himself? Not second cup but second pot. Drinking alone. Feels good. (and, damn, is the piss pungent)

_____ 1. Yes, bad.

_____ 2. No, fine.

Who turned off the lights?

A few months back Heywood ordered a night light for his mountain bike from a company located right here in the golden state of California. The company, Niterider. The light, Trinewt. The first impression, AWSOME!

The light just arrived at Auburn bike works (the BEST bike shop around) last week. Apparently, backorders from Niterider are common this time of year and Heywood’s experience was similar. Heywood was itching to hit the trails and witness first hand what the big hoopla was about riding after the sun has set.

Victory Velo (the second best bike shop around) holds group night rides every Thursday evening at 6:00pm. The Chef, Big Cat, and the Wood all decided to strut there substance with all the other hooligans. In all, there were 12 riders with balls big enough to tackle the most technical singletrack in these parts.

Getting used to riding in the dark with a large spot light mounted on the helmet takes a little time. The dust kicked up by other riders acts like fog, diminishing the effectiveness of the light. The lack of depth perception allows rocks to quietly sneak up on unsuspecting riders turning the most basic trail into a challenging adventure. Also, the lack of light hides the snipers in the trees who shot Heywood’s front tire out causing him to go over the bars leading with his large head. The whole experience is so freaking fun it is hard to put into words. The group put in about 12 miles on the trail and 5 on the road. Mostly singletrack following the raging river below. You can bet your bottom dollar Heywood will be back again next Thursday with lights shining. There were a few casualties on the ride. One guy had to cut out early; his mom was calling him home. Another had a broken rear derailleur. Fucker snapped clean off. Only problem is the group was dead smack in the middle. 6 mile walk either direction. Wood never has seen so many full-grown men terrified of the night. The guy was quaking in his boots when the thought of walking back alone crossed his mind. Finally, he convinced the Soldier to accompany him and fend off any wild cats they may encounter. Huh, pussies, just cats guys.

And by the way, the Chef rocked this ride. Despite being out of his element when away from the kitchen, he tore it up. All it took in his words was a little synthetic courage (shin/knee pads, elbow pads, chest pad, maxi-pad with wings). Strong work!

So the light worked marvelously. Very bright. Charges in about 4 hours and can last over 7 hours. Wood tried the light on his helmet but wants to try mounting to the handlebars. How many days until Thursday?

P.S. CrankBrothers replaced Heywood’s Candy SL broken pedals, no questions asked. They were back at Casa de Wood in less than a week from the day he shipped them. That is good customer service if you ask him!

Compton Gonna Jack Yo Shit

Straight outta Compton, another crazy ass nigga

More punks I smoke, yo, my rep gets bigger

I'm a bad motherfucker and you know this

But the pussy ass niggaz don't show this

But I don't give a fuck, I'ma make my snaps

If not from the records, from jackin the cops

Just like burglary, the definition is 'jackin'

And when illegally armed it's called 'packin'

Shoot a motherfucker in a minute

I find a good piece o' pussy, I go up in it

So if you're at a show in the front row

I'm a call you a bitch or dirty-ass ho

You'll probably get mad like a bitch is supposed to

But that shows me, slut, you're composed to

a crazy muthafucker from tha street

Attitude legit cause I'm tearin up shit

MC Ren controls the automatic

For any dumb muthafucker that starts static

Not the right hand cause I'm the hand itself

every time I pull a AK off the shelf

The security is maximum and that's a law

R-E-N spells Ren but I'm raw

See, coz I'm the motherfuckin villain

The definition is clear, you're the witness of a killin

that's takin place without a clue

And once you're on the scope, your ass is through

Look, you might take it as a trip

but a nigga like Ren is on a gangsta tip

Straight outta Compton...

Yo, yo, yo...check it, Boyzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

Ain't nobody, nobody bus the shit out dirty like

Compton!

Please, Help Al

A message to the two readers of this blog:

Please help Al.

This is Al's current road ride:

What is wrong with this picture? Need we start a list?

Listen, forget the list. Al needs your assistance. It's as if his perception of two-wheeled travel on paved roads has taken on a wretched habit of low-grade crack, grape suckers, and crispy fried chicken. Let us all pull our collective experience together and help Al refocus his stellar athletic prowess into an acceptable presentation in the elite world of road cycling. Let's help Al back into the fold.

Step one: Al needs a new bicycle. What should he get?

Happy Story!

Happy Story!

Sad Story

Al's taking a break from his witty little title thing ("unbelievab-AL") to report on this one.

Today, at the Olympic Men's Marathon Team Trials, Robert Shay, 28, dropped dead. Shay collapsed about 5.5 miles into the race in front of the Central Park Boathouse. Shay was a tremendously talented runner. Here's a blurb on Shay:

Shay was a favorite going into the 2004 trials but was hampered by a hamstring strain and finished 23rd. He was the 2003 U.S. marathon champion and was third at this year's U.S. 25K championships. He also won the U.S. half marathon in 2003 and 2004. He was the NCAA 10,000-meter champion in 2001, the first national individual title in track for Notre Dame.

Shay was the U.S. 20,000-meters (20K) road racing champion in 2004, making him a four-time national champion.

There has not been a report yet on the cause of his collapse. But this is a terrible thing, and I just wanted to post this bit on it.

More on Shay here.

Calling Damone

Al is the man who can hook your ass up for any show in the NY metro area. The dude lives and breathes the arena life. Back when Moveitfred was a young lass he used to drop his wad now and again on some passing fancy of a concert.

Some highlights from Moveitfred's concertized youth include Van Halen and Red Hot Chili Peppers at LA's small, rat-infested Troubadour nightclub, being in on a private show by R.E.M before they hit it big, braving the Long Beach Arena to see The Time and Prince as prolly the only white dude in the audience, and sitting next to Valerie Bertinelli at an Elton John show back before she got fat and we, ahem, knew about Sir John.

The lowlight of Moveitfred's concert past was likely the stirring combination of Christopher Cross and Fleetwood Mac at the Hollywood Bowl. Jeeeezus, what was Moveitfred thinking. Had to have been some surf-infested blond involved in that equation somehow.

Anyway, back on point. Al continues to pound out the concert scene to the tune (pun intended) of two or three shows a week. You name it, Al's got the seats and a lighter at the ready.

Al can also hook a brother up with any ticket in town.

So Moveitfred is making a public plea to Al. Can you hook a brother up with some tix? Moveitfred ain't talking about some reunion of aging 80's rockers, he needs some seats for the next wave, the new thing, the up-and-coming.

Moveitfred needs tix to Hannah Montana, bro. Daughter is busting Moveitfred's chops to go. It's the rage. This is bigger than Moveitfred. Every freakin' pre-teen girl has got to witness this Billy Ray Cyrus spawn. Please, help a bicoastal out, man. It's the least you can do.

Fredtastic-AL

In which AL explains what a DOUCHE Fred is


If you are like me, you've been waiting and wondering "where, oh where, can poor Fred's post be; oh where, oh where can it be?" I mean, Fred wow-ed us with his prowess at the Halloween Party where he wined 'em and dined 'em and even woo-ed 'em a bit.




Fred told us how his unparalelled party performance led to Craigmeur permission for this last Sunday. Logically, we were waiting for his stunning sideline pics and thrilling color commentary. But nothing... we waited. And still nothing...we waited.

Finally, I could wait no more. I approached the legend and asked the age old question, "what the fuck Fred?" Fred told a tale of terror, horror, and mayhem. Lock up your children folks, and drape your shawls tight about you. This one's a doosy. (By the way, how the fuck does one spell "doosy?")


The wind poured across the brutal steppes of New Jersey, driving snow and sleet mercilessly down upon our hero. (Ok, this was an out of season ski mountain and it was sunny and cool, but go with me.) Fred pulled his trusty steed out of the stall (Yanked the Zank outta the Yak rack) and set out to explore the wild wilderness that was the Craigmeur course.

As Fred motored through a practice loop, he made a startling discovery: the course would call for riders to transition from the upper mountain to a lower section by navigating class 5 rapids, crossing a chasm akin to the Grand Canyon, and braving several South Central backstreets (gats a-blazin'). Fearless Fred propelled himself over downed trees and glacial erratics, past crackheads and slowly cranking crossers. At some point he felt a rumbling from deep within the earth. It was a quake, and Fred's keen senses could tell it was a big one. He careened down the trembling terra (not so) firma trying to find stable ground. But there, ahead of him! A damsel in distress. She'd fallen during dismount and was still clipped in with one foot. The earth was open before her and the land fell away towards the open maw. She would certainly be swallowed. Brave Fred flung himself into the hole, spreading his 7 foot 7 inch frame across the opening. The maiden used our bony buddy as a ladder and climbed to freedom. But the ground grabbed up our Fred. He was chewed up by mud and gravel (and even some concrete). She dug to save him, but it was too late. He lay, broken and battered, the victim of an act of god.



In the end, Fred would rise from the ashes like the Phoenix.


But a painful bruise on his vulva would keep him from racing.

Sniff. Hang tough brother. We're with you.

Hell on Earth

Well the Family Fred Halloween Bash hit the fan last night and went off without major tragedy or loss of life.

The guest list included nearly 100 of the most preeminent adults and children in the greater Long Island region. In other words a fucking mob scene here at La Casa de Fred.

The forecast called for heavy rain which would have added to the disaster of upwards of 50 candy-amped kids tearing through the house. Luckily the Gods were gracious once again this year and kept the precipitation to an on/off again drizzle. Kids stayed outside and some of the drunk parents were even able to coax up a huge bonfire with the help of a can of lighter fluid. This gave the kids a chance to chase each other around the yard with burning sticks. Nothing but good, clean fun here at Party Fred.

About half way through the evening one of the hotcake moms in attendance began invading Moveitfred's egg space with a slurred dialog about whether or not Moveitfred ever imaged his life turning out "this way"--suburban address, packed house of other minivan families and kids, soup, men holding wine glasses, a "craft table" out back. In other words, a complete catastrophe. (Moveitfred thinks there were ulterior motives to this intimate exchange, but that's for another time).

Here's the thing. First off, Moveitfred jacked off big time for about the first 30 years of his life. This current situation, Moveitfred believes, is simply a swinging of the pendulum. Nothing to stress about. It's all a big game of balance, man. Next, Moveitfred has learned there are ways to negotiate these tragedies. Last night was a perfect example.

See all this, Moveitfred means ALL this, got Moveitfred on the wife's good side. Moveitfred was a Host-fucking-Master last night. He served cheese and crackers, led packs of kids through the Haunted Room of Death, introduced Dr. Igor Von Choppingblock and his blood-soaked skit of horror, replenished the soup, circulated the estate with idle chit-chat bullshit, even...poured wine.

So long about midnight as the freds were helping the last of the tottering, drunk parents find their kids Moveitfred's wife embraced Moveitfred with heartfelt thanks for all his help. That's when Moveitfred pounced:

"Gee, thanks honey. Say, y'know how the kids have soccer all day on Sunday? Is there a chance you can handle it, cause, y'see, there's this cross race in Jersey...."

Moveitfred scored the big win on that one. He got the ok, roared into the office, powered up the Gateway, and sneaked in with his reg just before the deadline for the Craigmeur on Sunday. Nice.

Red Shorts

Please help Moveitfred. These same red Oakley mt bike shorts keep coming up on one of those Quick-buy-it-now-cause-we're-gonna-put-another-piece-of-shit-up-for-sale-in-about-three-minutes single item web deal sites.

Please vote and help Moveitfred decide:

____ 1. These shorts rock. Nobody wears cranapple red--Moveitfred will be peeling chicks off his svelte physique wearing these.

____ 2. I've seen you, Moveitfred, and these shorts, although dapper-dandy, are not you. Wait until the same model comes out in Madrid Stone or Morning Eggplant.

____ 3. These shorts are ugly as hell, but who cares when you're out in the woods.

____ 4. Moveitfred is an idiot. These shorts are stupid. Why do I waste my time coming to this blog?

Cold Titties

Moveitfred got out on the cross bike for a couple of hard workouts these last two days. A little cool out there, huh? Finally some fall weather here in the NE.

Yesterday Moveitfred did an epic three hours. Charged some hills, rode over to the local beach and plowed through the sand for a spell, then visited ghetto cross course and did a final 40-minutes of redlining. Got rained on several times, and by the end of it all Moveitfred noticed a perceptible chill in his frontal region.

Moveitfred is very sensitive, and even the slightest drop in core temperature is cause for alarm.

But Moveitfred went home and had some warm tea and split pea soup, and although he suffers from a mild tingle in his throat today he thinks he will be OK.

Hey, thanks for reading.

This Is Some Scary Shit

Moveitfred Is Ready To Kill Someone

Out here in Suburban Hell there seems to be this new fucking annoying holiday trend going on.

Ghosting.

Yes, that's a verb. To begin, how fucking annoying is that?

For those of you lucky enough not to know, here's how it works:

Some fucking cheery family gets together and fills a bucket with candy and other annoying shit. Then they print out/photocopy the same fucking note that everyone else seems to be using. Says something clever like "Boo! You've been Ghosted! Now it's time for you to Ghost two other families in the neighborhood!" They tape the note to the bucket, put on dark clothes, creep around the fucking neighborhood and up to your door, drop the bucket on the front step, ring the bell, and run like hell.

Family fred has been "Ghosted" the last two nights.

Time to set the traps and put an end to this crap.

patriotic-AL

Al Discusses the Olympic Marathon Trials and a Sunday Race

2 Sundays from now is the NYC marathon. As part of the marathon weekend, the Olympic Team Trials for the Men's Marathon will be run on Saturday through NYC. Al will be in attendance. This promises to be an awesome event with many of the world's best marathoners in attendance.

Al will be out there yelling. "Go USA!"


This week has been a good week for me with running. I worried I might not recover well from last Sunday's race. But I feel good. I've put in about 30 miles this week. Tomorrow, I'm running a 5 mile race with the LIRRC again. I'll show up early and take a 5 mile run for warm up. Then I'll race the 5. I'll see how I feel, but I plan to run 7s. Maybe I'll push a little faster. Play it by ear.



AL UPDATE:

I ran a 34:55 for the 5 miler. So I paced out at 6:59, almost precisely what I was looking for. All my miles were about 7s, no great variation. I finished about 12th or so (yeah, yeah...not a large field and no real elite runners. And fuck you.) :)

Weekend Plans

Crossers from around the globe are once again converging at the center of the universe (the East Coast) for a weekend of racing at Granogue and Wissahickon.

Not Moveitfred.

He promised the Mrs. he would devote the entire weekend to prepping the house for the annual La Casa de Fred holiday Halloween bash next Friday (replete with spooky music, haunted environments of blood and gore, and soup) for the upwards of 500 guests or howeverthehell many people the Mrs. invited THIS YEAR.

(the white space is for you to draw your own picture)

Get this. The Mrs. flipped the freak out when Moveitfred expressed a desire to just go to some little neighborhood race in Jersey on Sunday morning. JUST Sunday morning. NOT the entire weekend in DE and PA. Holy craps.

OK, aight. So Moveitfred will stay home and mow and clean and assemble and bake (yes, Moveitfred bakes one wicked-ass apple pie, dogs). Cross On brothers and sisters.

Moveitfred understands Al is buying a new house this weekend. Here is a picture. Needs some updating, but overall a good snag in Moveitfred's mind.

Moveitfred understands Heywood is on yet another vacation. How's things in Frisco, Wood? Get to that restaurant in The Castro you like so much?

Tacky to Nasty

Heywood arrived home after a long 48 hours at work, eager to hit the trails for a few hours. The weather forecast called for a possibility of rain but if one were to look out the window you could not tell. Clear skies, crisp cool air, and the smell fall. What a glorious day it appeared to be! So Wood lubed the chain, filled the Camelbak, pumped the tires up to 42 lbs and started riding to the trailhead.

The terrain conditions started out superb. Kinda tacky from the rain Auburn received a few days prior. Heywood was able to take most turns at a pace much faster than normal. The tough technical descent, no problem. The climb along the Confluence Trail which usually requires a dab or two, aced it. So far this ride was flawless in the eyes of Woods. While approaching the top of the climb, a few small drops started to fall from the heavens but he was able to make it to the top and hit the first few double jumps before the cats and dogs came out to play.

Someone with a Doppler radar decided it would be funny to put a red colored storm cell right over the trail Heywood Jablome was riding. The trail started getting real sloppy and mud was flying all over the place. When looking down, Wood realized he had the wrong tires on. The WTB 2.55 LT is great in the hardpack but gum up pretty darn fast when things get swampy. Not the tire of choice in wet conditions. With this tire in the front, traction was very hard to come by. While attempting to ride up an off camber rock with a drop off the side when whamo! The front wheel slid off the rock and down the little drop. Wood broke his fall with his ass/hip area and came sliding to a stop. When he looked down he noticed to things:
His new Smarty SL Crank Brothers pedal had snapped.
Wood’s shin appeared to have a grapefruit mounted on it.

This disappointed Wood to no end. Shouldn’t pedals be able to take more than one big crash before breaking into a thousand pieces? Second, why was there a large fruit on his leg?

Wood managed to limp his way to the Chef’s house where Mrs. Chef gave him some counseling that will probably do no good. The Chef eased Wood’s pain with milk and cookies and things are all good.

A few of Moveitfred's favorite things

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens

Red, white, and blue USPS packages from E-Richie tied up with tape and filled with all kinds of cool shit

These are a few of Moveitfred's favorite things