So picture this: me, standing tall at the post-race grub table, salsa-stained fingers clutching a chip, regaling my crew with tales of victory (okay, maybe just finishing). Underneath the “racer” facade, though? A 44-year-old body rebelling like a teenager at a Justin Bieber concert. Later, stripping down for the celebratory fiesta at the local Mexican joint, I discover a war map of scrapes and bruises. Naturally, I whip out the most impressive one for dramatic effect, earning the obligatory “ooh”s and “ouch”es from my fellow warriors.
Meanwhile, Ross, the ever-practical one, is already plotting a more comfortable crash pad. After a valiant attempt at scrubbing my road rash with industrial-strength wipes (think Mr. Clean on steroids), we roll into Riggs, Idaho, and snag a fisherman’s motel for the night. Sweet relief – a hot shower and a bed that doesn’t smell like questionable foot odor. Bliss.
Morning arrives, and I’m up with the rooster (or maybe just the fishermen grumbling about their elusive catches). Feeling spry, I head down to the river for a photo op, only to reenact a clumsy penguin act and nearly take an unscheduled dip. Seriously, universe, what are you trying to tell me?
Now, caught between the siren song of home and the allure of adventure, I’m torn. One minute I’m plotting a glorious return ride, the next I’m open to whatever mayhem the day throws my way. But hold on, gotta run! The Grizzlyman Adventure Race beckons, and I wouldn’t want to miss the chance to trade war stories with fellow dirt warriors.
Here’s the dilemma: do I finish this tale in words, or leave you with a video cliffhanger, forcing you to guess what ridiculous shenanigans we got ourselves into next? Stay tuned, folks, the adventure (and maybe some questionable dance moves) continues…
Boneshakerbike 
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