Brent Lesley, Atrisco Land Grant, New Mexico. Once upon a time, maybe 20 years ago or so, there was this race. It was an unscheduled event, composed randomly and spontaneously during a street party. Might have been one of those dare things; hard to say these many years later. The gals in attendance, wives and girlfriends and friends of friends, were quick to support the race idea and encouraged the all-male field enthusiastically. The rules were simple: (1) strip, and (2) race around the block. It was an uneven start. Some jumped the gun, as it were, unfairly leaving the more hesitant competitors behind. Others seemed intent on, let's say, stretching the race preparations in a manner that appeared, well, almost boastful. At least one of the racers was a late entry, uncertain as to venue and given to pause by the dubious character of the race organizers. Soon enough, though, the entire field made its way on to the course and, one by one, disappeared from view at the far end of the block. Moments passed and, behold, the leader slowly materialized from the dark. The sound of his return made clear he was worked, huffing and puffing and, no doubt, sweating alcohol mightily. But, by golly, here he came down the straight-away, cheered and proud of accomplishment with his eye on the prize (whatever that was). Then, at the finish, there was a great commotion of flashing light and laughter. Damn! the spectators had brought cameras! The leader instinctively threw down his hands to cover those parts best shielded from a discerning public. And so it was with each competitor, as evidenced later: a startling surprise followed by a frantic effort to hide the goods. The response continued until, at last, the late-entry guy arrived at the finish. Again, the cameras flashed, only this time the hands covered face, instead. Hmm. At the moment of truth, what's best revealed?
Our host on this web site juxtaposes the roadie vs. dirty on one of his blog entries with clear examples of each. With that fine lead-in, it makes sense to add those-that-reach-down to the roadie column, while those-that-reach-up offers an excellent view of the dirty mindset. Think about it in the context of this Mesa Verde event. MV is nothing if not a dirty race. Now, look at Kokopelli, the MV mascot, out there riding and airing the hills, flappin' and slappin'. No swag, plenty of wag. Check him out on the MV homepage. You think that prideful dude would cover flute or face? Come on.
We're 10 days away from Team ALS SUCKS rolling out its (mostly) dirty cast on the Phil's World track at Mesa Verde. Doug, Rob, Jeff, Brent throwing down with 800 others. Should be fun, will be fun. We're looking forward to it.
Please excuse the bit of irreverence that accompanies this post. (That, too, apparently, is a trait that marks the lowly dirty, or, at least, it's debased element, of which there are only a few.) ALS sucks, no doubt. It blows me away that so little is known about this messed-up disease. In the circle that surrounds my circle, 3 others I know through friends or family have been diagnosed. By my calculation, that's way more than a six degrees of separation kind of thing. I'll state the obvious: we?re all impacted by ALS. It's a disease that hollers loud for some level of understanding and explanation, not to mention an effective treatment plan.
And, now, here's my pal, Doug, tackling it head-on. Doug is a man of supreme quality. He makes the world better. His family makes the world better. I wish we, collectively, could make him better.
ALS sucks. Really.
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