Malahatma Gone-di

The Malahat is not all that. It’s more like Mala-hain’t-all-that, but enough with the word plays. Squirrel and I conquered that devil highway, plus the extra jaunt to the ferry, in about seven hours. That seems like a long time, but without some kind of rocket booster Squirrel has to walk up every hill, while I ride alongside at a snail’s squirrel’s pace. We covered roughly 75 km without incident. I had to stop a few times to tighten things up (Karkharoth was ill-prepared for the journey), but other than that it went smooth as can be. I didn’t even find it all that difficult. I know I could keep that pace up all the way over the Rockies, and I can’t wait to see Squirrel bomb those hills. The only pressing problem I noticed is brake pads. I went through about 2/3 of my pads in one day, slowing down constantly to stay with the board. I don’t have much back brake left for my day to day riding, and we already know what happens when I use the front. I might look into remedying that.

It was dark and miserable when we finally got back to the Rock, so we stopped in at a little party to warm up, and warm up we did. I find I get tipsy fast after riding 70 km. When everybody went to the bar, Squirrel and I ripped home to get ready for another night of partying, and that was when we had our first incident. Squirrel, in a long looping corner onto my road, through a bunch of wet leaves and pine needles, took a bit of a spill. He jumped up quick, cursing, and hopped back on his board. I was equal parts laughing and wincing. It looked like it hurt. When we got to my place he took off his jacket to find blood dripping out, and a piece of skin that was no longer a part of him. I almost ralfed when he exclaimed, “This is skin!” and held it up for me to see.

It was an epic day, from starting out still drunk from the night before, to getting home a little drunk (and Squirrel a little bloody), with a little 70 km trek in between. We proved we can get a lot of traveling done in a day (considering we didn’t start until noon), so Canada shouldn’t be a problem. We proved that my field dressing skills need a little improvement (Squirrel told me today that his bed was all bloody when he woke up). And we proved that eating at every Subway you see is a good way to keep fueled up for an adventure (do I hear sponsorship?). This was just the first of many training runs, and was a great confidence booster to do it sans problemes. I don’t imagine they’ll all go as smoothly (especially at the rate I burn up brake pads), but I’m ready to face anything now, except maybe that charging bear.

The Long Road

I late May, 2008, two men will embark on what could prove to be the most ambitious, rigorous, and rewarding adventure of their lives. They will be tackling the third longest highway in the world, the Trans Canada. These two crazy bastards will be traversing near to 8000 km (which is about 7991 miles now that Canada has passed the US in the markets), one on a board, the other on a bike (towing all the supplies by the way), using only the power packed into their considerable frames. They’re going to show the world that the only fuels we really need to get around can be found in trail mix, and the occasional Red Bull. They’ll show everybody that muscle is still the ultimate power, and a little stamina doesn’t hurt either.

The introductions: The mind behind trip, the man who conceptualized this crazy expedition, the one who will be careening down miles of mountainside on a longboard with no way to slow down, is known in most parts, as Squirrel. And the biker? The ox? The tugboat for this voyage? The one who will most likely be towing that lazy boarder bastard across much of the Prairies? That, my friends, would be me. When Squirrel asked, I enthusiastically agreed to join him (it was at a keg party and afterward I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to un-agree, so here I am) and most likely get naked for no reason in every Province (sorry Territories, nobody wants to get naked in you). There’s still a little trepidation in me, it’s a long way across this country, but somebody who knows me very well recently told me, “You are one of the most stubborn people I know. You can do this” and I believe her.

I’ll be spending the next eight months training as if for the Olympics, but the only thing I’ll need around my neck at the finish line is the arms of my beloved Chimpit, and maybe a warm Magic Bag. I’ll probably want a cold beer too, something local please. Come May I really will resemble the Behemoth, and no longer in mini. The long months of arduous training will hone my thighs into fleshy lightning bolts. Each revolution of my pedals will be a blast of raw energy. If it could somehow be harnessed I should be able to heat six homes for an entire winter (west coast) with a single stroke. These are the legs that will carry me over 8000 km, over mountain passes, across long, seemingly never ending flatlands, through forests (there are still forests here, right?) and farmlands, around Great Lakes and lesser ponds, dodging moose, muskrat, and perhaps the occasional wolf pack. These are the legs that will help me outrun charging bear, and rutting elk. These legs will break land speed records…if I can convince Squirrel to pull the trailer once in a while. The training officially starts in two days.

This Saturday we take on the Malahat, a 60 km (or 59 mile) highway with a summit of 1,156 ft. This is not a simple training run. This is the widow maker of Island highways. 1 in 5 pedestrians attempting to journey over the Malahat are never seen nor heard from again. Just last week a biker with 37 mosquito bites was hit by a truck while being eaten alive by a bear. This is why we have decided to attack it, because if we can beat the Malahat, we can beat any damn thing. If there are no new posts here by Monday don’t worry about a rescue party. The turkey vultures will sort things out.

Donations to help us achieve our goal will be accepted both in cash and check format. Just make it out to Huntley Smith, and send to: REDACTED Anything would be welcome; money, trail mix, Red Bull, spandex (not used thank you), even grocery store coupons. Anything you can think of that might help. Many thanks.

Hauntings

I am still haunted by my chicken-hearted decision not to pass that biker two days ago. I really could have had him. The cars weren’t very close. A quick arm signal, and I could have shot out of his slipstream and stormed down the hill, leaving him as but a speck in my mirror, but no. I chose instead to reach the bottom of the hill in second place, with my brakes half on so I wouldn’t slam into his back tire. Because I lost my immortality, philosophically, the night before, I wimped out. I’m a little ashamed of myself, but I’ve decided to face my failings, so I have compiled a short list of other things that still haunt me in order to face them as well:

- Having a rat tail in elementary school

- Yelling to get off the Salt and Pepper Shaker

- Challenge Cup Semi-Final, 1999

- Being so insecure when I was in school. Totally could have scored more (I know I know, that could be related to the rat tail)

- The time I didn’t make a move on that girl in the backseat of my parents’ car after she told me she’d always wanted to do it in the backseat of a car, and described in detail exactly how.

- Not getting dreadlocks in Belize

- Jumping off a one story building and trying to run in midair

- Every day I worked on a drilling rig (not including the Toneberg era)

- Those pork ribs I ate two days ago

Immortal Rebuttal

This past weekend I found myself defending my claims of immortality on a couple of occasions. Saturday night, out with some friends, I had quite a lengthy debate on the matter. I employed the Socratic Method, while my esteemed opposition countered with her theory that all living things are mortal things, therefore immortality can not exist. I cited historical cases of common beliefs which were then disproven, including Copernicus’s heliocentric assertions which flew in the face of the widely accepted geocentric views. Heliocentrism was eventually proven (after much Inquisitioning), thus my position was, “Is it not therefore possible for immortality to exist and we just don’t know it yet?” There was a well spoken rebuttal, but I ended the debate with a statement that silenced the table; “It’s true that immortality may not exist, but nothing exists if it is not yet conceived.” My opposition conceded the point, and we continued our pitchers over far lighter conversation.

Last night I found myself once again defending my position, this time against a prodigious pupil of mine. I quickly learned that a new opponent often brings a fresh perspective, and that sometimes the student teaches the professor. I restated my argument for the possibility of immortality, and The Breeze countered with the statement that immortality can not be proven, therefore cannot exist. Only mortality can be proven, and to do that one must die. To prove immortality one would have to live forever, and because forever is eternal, immortality can never be proven with any finality. By that rationale only mortality can exist. I was forced to concede the point.

I now have to retract my claims of immortality, until I can come up with a reasonable argument to refute this new one. It is a bitter pill, if you will, because I was very much enjoying my immortal status. The realization of probable mortality is sobering, and on my ride home from work today, after breaking land speed records to catch some fruity spandex bike guy so I could rocket past him on a hill, I actually refrained from passing him because I could see cars approaching in my mirror. It was extremely humbling, and difficult, to rein in Karkharoth before he swallowed the biker whole. He nearly bit a chunk out of the guy’s back tire in his fury. I hope to offer a new argument to the ongoing debate soon, so that I may ride again with reckless abandon.

On an unrelated note, I wrote most of this blog at work today, while I was standing around waiting for somebody, so it is my first paying gig, not counting Grand Prize Contest Winnings.

Making Headway

This is just a quick blurb blog to let everybody know that as of tonight, according to Brain Challenge, I am at 40% Brain Capacity. Watch for my first book, entitled, Brain Rubble, The End of Intellect in Modern Society

A World Gone Hobbes

Thomas Hobbes believed that “the right of each to all things” eternally ties Man to conflict, because we will always compete for what we want and need. He wrote, “The condition of man...is a condition of war of everyone against everyone” and that could not be truer today. As populations rise and resources dwindle, the need to seize what’s left grows direr by the day. There is a Great Posturing going on amongst the world’s powers. All the usual suspects are flexing their muscles:

Russia’s testing of “The Father of all Bombs”; http://www.reuters.com/article/worldNews/idUSL1155952320070912?feedType=RSS&feedName=worldNews&rpc=22&sp=true

Israel’s “covert” strikes whenever and wherever they choose;
http://observer.guardian.co.uk/world/story/0,,2170188,00.html

North Korea’s obsession with nuclear power;
http://www.fas.org/nuke/guide/dprk/nuke/index.html

And what can be said about the US that hasn’t been said thousands of times (just not in the mainstream press)? Their strategies are beginning to sound like a Tom Clancy novel; http://www.abovetopsecret.com/forum/thread302187/pg1

It all smells of a worldwide conflict escalating out of control. Is it life imitating art, or vice versa, when the real world looks a lot like the ultimate game of Risk? Is it a harbinger of impending doom? Everybody is gearing up for something, but what? Is it to be the War that ends all Wars? Whatever is happening, it looks like my wish for a human free planet could be on the horizon, if there still is a horizon when this thing goes down. Maybe all those people buying fallout shelters during the Cold War weren’t crazy after all. They were just sixty years ahead of their time.

Not So Funny, Midlife Crisis

It occurred to me that I may not be as funny as I think. I really do think I’m exceedingly funny. I sometimes write stand-up routines, tape myself doing them, and then watch them on my TV as though I were on the Comedy Network. Sometimes I dress as a woman and tape myself so I can boo later, and complain that female comedians just aren’t funny. This amuses me. Today, as I was twoing at work, I was thinking about my sense of humour, and just how funny it is. It occurred to me that it might not be as funny to everybody else, so I left myself an hilarious memo on my phone to remind myself to write about it. So funny. Anyway, I was thinking about all the ribbing I give people, like when I bust Ted Nugent’s balls about having old, well, balls, or when I bug Chimpit about having a cute little baby chimp head, although that is always from a place of endearment. It struck me that they may not find these things as humourous as I do, just like I don’t think it’s all that funny when somebody points out that I have a short torso. Well you know what else has a short torso? A giraffe. And nobody F’s with a full grown giraffe, except lions, but only in rare cases. It would have to be the Achilles of lions. A real king of the jungle type. Again I digress. I guess the moral is that we should all think we’re the funniest people around, because if we can’t make ourselves laugh, we might as well go crawl under a porch.

Another thing occurred to me. I still love all the things I loved when I was a kid. Space, dinosaurs, milkshakes, cartoons (though I would never have been allowed to watch the ones I watch now). I hold them all dear. Could this be:

A) Because I genuinely love them

B) A midlife crisis, or

C) A sign of my immaturity

I like to think it’s a little from column A, and a little from column B. No, maybe not B. Mostly A and C. Probably a little from B though. Wait, that was in list format. Forget about columns. Just look at the list and read A and C, and then read B, but with your eyes all squinty so you don’t really see it very well.

Doppleganger

They say everybody has a twin somewhere, a doppelganger if you will, but how many out there have actually seen their's? I can’t imagine how weird it would be to come face to face with my exact double (though there have been times I‘ve wished I had a stunt double). Sure, I’ve been told I look a lot like Brad Pitt, Hugh Jackman, and a young James Dean. I was even once likened to the Behemoth, in mini, but those are just vague comparisons. They’re not the real thing. What I’m talking about is an exact replica.

Now, I have never met a physical twin, but I have met somebody who seems to be exactly like me, aphysically, and I find that even weirder. The deeper one delves into another’s psyche, the more unique that person should appear to become, right? How we develop psychologically is a measure of our experiences, and no two people can share the same experiences, unless they never leave each other’s sides. Even then though, their individual physical brain development would cause differences in the way those experiences were perceived and catalogued, ergo, we should all be quite different once we get to the core of ourselves, but apparently this isn’t always the case. The person in question and I have seemingly similar upbringings, schooling in some ways, and, shall I say, parental input, but until recently never crossed paths, and thus could not have cross contaminated each other’s development. How then do our psyches appear to be so alike? Where’s a famous Swiss psychologist when you need one?

This is one of the few questions I’ve posed that I do not already have an answer for. Perhaps my blog is the guilty pleasure of a budding young psychologist on the lookout for a case study (good choice by the way). If so, I submit myself to your prodding, in the name of science, so that we may delve together into the How’s and Why’s of the human mind, and maybe discover what really makes us who we are, and how different are we all really?

This Whole Brain Thing

Let me first say that I am not one of those people who sit on public transit with their faces buried in a tiny little screen playing Tetris or Texas Hold ‘Em. Those people suck. I listen to my iPod, it’s different. I did however, at a weak moment, download a game for my phone (I even paid six dollars), but this particular game is different. It’s a brain game. Brain Challenge, to be exact. It consists of exercises for the brain that one can use to improve their overall “Brain Capacity”.

(Sidebar: Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe “capacity” can be used synonymously with “potential”, and I don’t think “potential” is something that can be improved by playing video games, regardless of how educational they may be. I don’t think “potential” is limitless. I think it is the limit. I think if you reach your potential, you have nowhere left to go. I’ve always believed this, so have never tried to reach mine).

Sidebar aside, this new game is great. It breaks the brain down into four categories; Logic, Math, Memory, and Visual. There are numerous exercises under each category, each working a different aspect of the brain. My results have been interesting, not at all what I expected. Logic (which I associate with Problem Solving) is actually my lowest score, so I think there must be something wrong with those particular exercises, a glitch perhaps, where the scores are reversed. Math is next, which I thought would be my lowest, because growing up I always concentrated on Words, leaving numbers to those who lack imagination. My second highest score is in Visual, which is essentially Logic of the Eyes. And my best score, by a long shot, is Memory. This is most perplexing, because I have a terrible memory. I once almost died (pre-immortality realization) when I nearly choked on a bite of hot dog that I forgot to swallow. When I was a superhero on Planet Nakahi I forgot to get up early and stop Admiral Wheke from detonating the Tupuhi and destroying said planet. I had to move to Earth because every Tangata became a mutant Ngata. Needless to say,

So far, after playing the game for a month, I’m at thirty-three percent Brain Capacity. I’m not sure what that means exactly, but I do know that if they’re telling me that I am currently only using thirty-three percent of my brain’s potential then I am a god damn genius in the making, pardon my French. Seriously though, watch out. At just fifty percent Brain Capacity I’ll be going around claiming Ken Wilbur is a moron and crackpot, at seventy percent I’ll be world renowned as the leading expert in pretty much everything, and at ninety? At ninety percent Brain Capacity I will likely have a frontal lobe the size of the grill of a 1950 Buick Roadmaster. I will be unstoppable.

The Sound of Silence

I'd like to get some of those nature tapes. You know, the ones with birds singing, or the ocean. Another really good one would be silence, because if there was ever a noise that was bugging you, like somebody trying to tell you about their day, or your dog whining to be let in, you could just crank up the silence and drown it out.

All Hail, Karkharoth

My new bike has a moniker, and it is pure evil. It has been christened Karkharoth, “the Red Maw”, after the mad Wolf of Angband, Sleepless Guardian of the gates of Angband, slayer of Huan the Wolfhound, and Beren Erchamion, Lord of Dorthonian. Karkharoth was born of the race of Draugluin, Werewolf of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. He was raised by Melkor, Lord of Darkness, feasting solely on the living flesh of Man and Elf. When Karkharoth swallowed the Silmaril (along with Beren’s hand), it burned in his stomach like a Divine Habanero. He was driven mad with the pain and laid waste to Beleriand, slaughtering everything in his path. His name alone struck Fear in the stoutest of warriors.

A fitting name for a bike mad enough to Fearlessly dart in front of speeding cars and chase backhoes like a ravenous beast. A fitting name also, because I am obsessed with wolves, and when I ride, I ride like a rabid wolf, growling and snarling, pushing myself past the brink of exhaustion. I've always believed that if I were a wolf, I would be an animal.

Militant Pacifism

Again, the world is cyclic. Something old becomes something new, and something profound I wrote a long time ago becomes poignant again today. It’s just another example on a perpetual list of how things never change, and probably never will.

For your viewing pleasure, back in the spotlight, Militant Pacifism:

When it comes down to it, I'm a pacifist. I'm not confrontational, I'm not a fighter, and I'm opposed to war. Sure, I get angry and want to lash out sometimes, but the complexity of my psyche is not what is in question right now. What is in question is the validity of violence and war in our society. It's out of hand. Gangs, teamsters, pirates on the Seven Seas, violence is everywhere, and there is always a war being fought somewhere for some odd reason. It's as if our society can't function properly without conflict. It has run so rampant that we're even starting wars in the name of peace. Now I don't know about you, but I don't think starting a war where there wasn't a war is doing anything for peace. Capiche? What makes it even more nonsensical is that there is always overwhelming outcry against it, which unerringly dies out due to the obvious lack of acknowledgement by the powers that be. I believe something drastic must be done. I believe we need to get out and put a stop to the violence using the only thing that pirates, warmongers, and schoolyard bullies will understand. Counter-violence. We need to usher in an era of militant pacifism that will bring the violent to their knees. We need to put down our placards and pick up our pistols. We need to run through the streets with pitchforks and torches, killing and maiming all the violent and degenerate members of our society before they do the same to us. We need to seek out the rapists, molesters, thieves, and government officials before they completely destroy society with their despicable beliefs. We need to force pacifism down their throats until they understand that we won't put up with hostility any longer. The sooner they see that we're serious about making our world a place free of fear, the sooner they'll fear us and join us in our dream of a violence-free society, or die trying to get in our way. This war on war shall have a name. It shall be called, The War on War, and pacifists around the world will flock to our banner. So put down your pens and pick up your pikes, put down your microphones and replace them with machine guns, drop your axes and arm yourself with AK's, or if you don't own an AK, an axe will do just fine. It is time for us to come out of our homes and fight for our right for peace. It's time to make war on war for peace, for peace, because we just can't take it any longer.

Híppos Mélas

I have a shiny new bike. It’s a metallic gold (not brown!) two-wheeled mayhem machine powered by Fury. When I ride the world stops, or at least it seems stopped as I race past, bending the space-time continuum, my legs pumping like Thumper jacking off on Methamphetamine. Hold on to your toupees. At that speed if you hit something you won’t even slow down, like a katana slicing neatly through a man’s jugular. At that speed a helmet is only a hindrance, catching the wind as it whips past and pulling you back like a parachute attached to your head. I prefer to go au naturel, only wearing a headband to keep my mane in check. Helmets are no good to immortals anyway. If somehow I do hit something able to withstand my skull smashing into it with the force of a comet plowing into a small moon, I do have a contingency plan. Any subsequent coma would be short lived, as I’m confident that my considerable experience with insomnia would pull me through. I’ll just say I was finally taking a nap, could somebody put some water on?

I don’t have all the necessary accessories for my new bike yet; banana seat, streamers, onkly donk spoke thingies, or a wicker basket to hold my chips, but I do have a pack of laminated trading cards and a handful of clothes pegs. Tomorrow morning it will sound like the Devil himself is riding forth from the pits of Hell on a heaving chopper made from the flesh and bones of the Damned. This is no supernal bike. It’s the incarnation of Hades’s Hounds, in bicycle format. Tomorrow morning I will ride again like a Tempest, whipping up the winds in a cyclonic frenzy. Those in my path will think me one of the Horsemen, come to wreak God’s vengeance on those who have Mortally Sinned. All shall repent with the sound of my malevolent laughter ringing in their ears.

I don’t have any pictures of my new bike yet, nor do I have a name that befits a vessel of such Fury, but soon I shall. Soon it will be christened with human blood, and decaled like a stock car sponsored by the Underworld. Soon its name will thunder through the Heavens, and Angels will weep and tremble with fear.

Rejected thus far:

The Gold Rush
Khimaira
The Chariot (in which case I would play the part of Helios)

Just 'Cause

According to researchers at University of Texas, one species of plant or animal becomes extinct every twenty minutes. The same study predicts that half of all bird and mammal species will be wiped out within 200 to 300 years (http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2002/01/020109074801.htm).

I believe in the annihilation of Mankind. That is my cause. Intelligent people should have been making more babies, and the Stupid involved in more farm accidents, but it hasn’t happened that way. Many Intelligent took stock and decided that it was too late to save our planet, and subsequently our race, and as a result decided not to procreate, saving future potentially intelligent children the agony of living immersed in inferiority on a barren rock. Conversely, the Stupid just keep on popping out babies like idiot factories. Our society is severely watered down, like a teabag on its third pot.

Al Gore believes we can save the planet. But is it true? Can we truly reverse the damage we’ve done? The experts say if we all start now we can, but does anybody actually think that is going to happen? Take a good look at any major corporation, or US foreign affairs strategies, and you’ll see we are a long way from convincing anybody who’s making any money destroying the planet to do anything to save it.

Environmentalists are cowards. They want us to think they’re trying to help, but what do they do? Carry placards, chain themselves to trees, they put on a good show, but there are no selfless acts. They just can’t admit to themselves that the world is already doomed. Environmentalists fear their own mortality, yet they’re prepared to watch our world slowly die. They won’t take the necessary steps. They’re afraid to pull the plug.

We need a global purge, like Naess’s Deep Ecology movement, but far more extreme. We need to throw out that teabag, but why stop there? Let’s throw out the whole teapot. Let’s start a fire in the kitchen and burn the entire house to the ground. Let’s scorch the Earth until not a single tea leaf remains.

We can only save the planet by destroying ourselves. The quicker we are gone, the sooner our beloved planet can rebuild, from the beginning. The longer we wait, the more permanent damage is done. We need to get it over with quickly, like killing a deer you just hit with your truck. We need to wage war, spread disease, and support our local famine. We must do whatever we can to rid the Earth of us, for its own good.

The old saying goes, “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back it was meant to be.” (Actually I may have improved it). Let’s put a twist on that old saying. Let’s free Earth of our torment, and if in a few billion years we come back, then we can try again to co-exist, because then at least we’ll know we’re supposed to be here, and not that we’re just some kind of planetary HIV.