Booty Time

Being at least a pitch off the ground,...the second coming into the station,.... conversation inversely related to the difficulty of the climb,...an occupied mind,..."Booty", one of us would say, as the other was still peering upward, the organization of the rack showing the level of strain and the amount of oxygen getting into the blood and brain,... slings clipped onto the sharp end's harness, with cams, nuts and Lowe Balls grouped by size on the opposite side,...a glance, a breath and upward we go.
But other times,...well,...what a cluster f**k,...an easy climb,... a groping fest of tickling and teasing. "Do I kneed you" one would say, squeezing the knee, as the belayer jumps off the wall, testing the direction of the anchor,..."Do I rib you?" as a rigid finger is poked directly between the skinny bones and the belayer jerks, testing the anchor in the opposite direction,...."Do I earitate you?" again testing the patience of a partner of whom you are trusting with your life as you shove a wet pastey finger in their ear,...."Do I get in your hair?" as the belay station has now become an all out brawl, completely tested in all directions.
Still, at every belay, one of us would make a lame attempt to get serious about the next lead while talking about the good brew stashed in the shade of a small cave hidden several hundred feet below, waiting for us at the end of the rap. Our momentum would always wane. Those were the days. And now,...
Booty time consists of deciding what weight lycra to apply,...locating that lost knee warmer, finding shorts that aren't exposing the chamois, a chamois that hasn't been worn more than three times in a row, the winter time Lakes, the 70's styled lime green reflecting jacket, and a water bottle with or without living organisms inside. Does the bike work? Do I have a tube, a phone, an Ipod, a tail light? Did I charge the headlight? What's the temp? Oh shit,...a head wind,...at 20 mph. Legs move,...
All is forgotten except those big yellow buses with drivers that get payed from the same employer as me, coming within inches of my elbows. But as one driver told me a while ago,..."I work for Carroll County Public Schools",..."I pay my taxes",... well shiiiittt,... what the hell am I doing out here then??? Because I ride a bike, I must not have a job and therefore not pay taxes. Damn all of you clown suit wearing, unemployed, non-tax paying, two-wheeled mofo's!
Tomorrow will be a shock to the system. A return to the bike, a sub freezing temp, and no clue were everything is. There is no choice,... the car is parked outside of the school, far away from home. This should be fun.