Pre-St. Croix and the Parable of the Mustang

So I’m headed out tomorrow to St. Croix to race the half-ironman there, and see what this beast business is all about. I’ve been kinda messin’ around with doing the St. Croix race report to a Dr. Seuss theme, but it’s all still touch and go right now. I don’t know if I’ve got the chops to pull it off. He was a grumpy old genius who hated kids and still the people bought his children’s books. I’m a 7-5 paper pusher who occasionally highlights. I know my role, but I might give it a shot anyway.
While in St. Croix, I thought I might be no dice on the twitter, as my phone has decided to give up on me. Well, not completely, maybe the phone is on strike. So the 2, 5, and 8 keys don’t work. Try texting anything without the letters on the 2, 5, and 8 keys. Most of my stuff is Word!, Yes!, No, good. Real smooth vocab, for sure. However, they’ve got free Wi-Fi at the hotel, and Da Bear has an extra Cingular phone “just in case” that he’s loaning to me until I can FINALLY upgrade to the new iPhone in June. Who knew his “just in case” would actually happen (him, I’m sure.) Anyway, that’s a long-winded way to say stay tuned for updates, and general silliness from the US Virgin Islands.
I’ll end this quick blurb with my favorite parable. A buddy of mine called and we were talking smack. He told me something someone said he heard 8th hand from a guy next to a bus stop talking to a lady who used to babysit for my friends’ parents. Anyway, you get the picture. He told me the story, which was basically slamming me. So I felt inclined to share my “Parable of the Mustang”. It goes like this: When I was in high school, I had a 1968 Mustang. This beast was BAD. 390 cubic inch engine, slicks in the back. Just the sort of car you want a 15 year old full of testosterone to have. Anyway, this car attracted all kinds of attention; good and bad. But without fail, every time I drove the car anywhere, some dumbass would make a comment that went like this: “Well I’ve got this friend who’s got a (fill in the blank), and it’s got a (###) engine, and it would smoke your car!” After hearing this enough, I finally put together my clever reply. “Well go get your car. You should call your friend and get it and then we can race. I have nothing important going on, so call him and we can race right now.” This little reply was usually met with stuttering, mumbling, or embarrassment when they said, “I told you it wasn’t MY car, but a friend of mine’s. He’s pry not home anyway, volunteering at the nursing home, etc. etc.” While my bad ass car is long gone, the moral of that story still rings true today. Don’t run your mouth about a friend of a friend of a guy who used to live in your neighborhood, and how he would crush all our wills’ to live. Or how if your buddy could just sober up long enough to train, he’d be like miles ahead of us. You just end up living vicariously through other people, but more importantly you just look silly. A wise Portuguese fellow once told me, “You’re only as good as your last race.” But more importantly, in drag race talk, You gotta run what you brung. You don’t get to run what your buddy used to be able to do, or the race you woulda had if only x, y, and z didn’t happen. Talk less, train more.