I'm a Lion-hearted Motherfu**er

(Language warning- this means you, Grandma.)

For the listening:


Prologue
Three weeks ago we were in Santa Eulalia, Peru, arguing that hip hop is dead (Nas said it is) and that Rock Music is Jesus Christ.

Two weeks ago I was in New York, Latin America capitol proper. Dude on the subway says my NY Mets has to be respected in NY, but the Yankees are Winners, chocolate milk hangover cure, Bronx Bombers, #1 for-evah.

One week ago... in and out of love with Julie Doiron- 20 intense minutes in Eugene, Oregon, USA.

And so, this weekend, I traveled from Eugene to Portland to Pacific City to Portland to Eugene, Oregon, within 48 hours. I was sick for all of the trip- the 105 miles on bike between Portland and Pacific City.



Chapter One: What this Story Isn't and the First 60 Miles
This is not a story about how tough and macho I am. It is a story about foolishness. It is a story of friendship and how, like Ringo Starr, I get by with a little help from my friends.

Really this is the story of how I have the heart of a motherfucking Lion.

Here's what happened: we got on our bikes, me and three of the the rose city's finest. We started in Portland and headed west toward the Oregon Coast- this is an organized ride called Reach the Beach.



We peddled for hours and ate terrible food. Then I got a flat tire. Rather than fixing it, I stared at my trembling hands and contemplated my fever. JC was gracious enough to lend me a tube and fix my tire. Somehow we had peddled for 60 miles. We kept going, myself a little slower than the rest.

Chapter Two: Man vs. Hisself
My dear friends waited for me. I rode right past them in my feverish frenzy. Then I had to survive the last 45 miles by myself.

I started this marathon by singing Silver Jews songs to myself, kind of like when Baby Jessica sang Winnie-the-Pooh songs to survive all those hours in the well. Yes, it was exactly like that.

When I exhausted my catalog of Silver Jews ditties, my brain put Eye of the Tiger on repeat. Except that it doesn't know any of the lyrics to the song, so it kept skipping: Eye of the tiger, eye of the tiger, eye of the tiger. Then I thought, fuck it, I'm not afraid of tigers or their eyes. I eat tiger eyes for breakfast.

I'm a lion.

No, I'm not a lion. I have a beard, which is only kind of like a mane. But I do have a heart, like a lion. I am lion-hearted. But I am also a mean motherfucker. I am a lion-hearted motherfucker.

I AM A LION-HEARTED MOTHERFUCKER.

Chapter Three: U-Turns and Finish Lines
Oh hell yes I Reached the Beach. I sailed across the finish line and into the ocean. The people clapped and cheered at my astonishing finish, hip-hip-hurray! I lifted my bicycle above my head and then floated my helmet out to sea. I danced and sang, "I own that ride, those hills, this beach!"

Except none of that happened. I finished the ride and fell off of my bike. I changed, ate three mouthfuls of pasta and found my bus to return to Portland. My companions arrived just in time to join me. Instead of congratulating their finish, I asked where they had been.



Eplilogue: This Story is More than a Pretext for Foul Language; or Is It?
I'm not afraid to admit that I like bad things. I always have an always will. When I say bad, I mean things that other people don't like, for good reason. I like bad apartments, bad neighborhoods, bad music, bad food, bad drink. I like Peru. I like riding 105 miles with the flu for the sheer misery. Oh, and I love bad words.