James put together an hysterical home video after him, me, Byron and Alex had an awesome ride up National and down Geronimo.

The reaction on MTBR was a skinny, lycra-wearing man’s version of Fight Club – desperate men desperately trying to reconcile their passion with their S.Os in our   disassociative modern world.

I am very lucky.   Beckie likes riding enough and has ridden National enough to indulge me, and tolerate a polite amount of bike stoke. In return, I must tolerate a polite amount of furniture stoke.

When i really go off on Sedona or Goat Camp or snowboard stokage — or today when i first made the Chutes and all but the last turn out of Yuri’s Folly at Phoenix Mtn Preserve (below) — i have to sit through NPR-stokage from her.

I fiddled in vain with the Xtranormal program, trying to make camera angles that accurately depict where a character smiles and nods but does not talk, but could not make it accurately portray one’s inside voice? Perhaps I can submit an enhancement request.

Me: And the snow was so rad!! We shredded through trees!!! Hip Deep!!!. We tore up first tracks on this cornice and it was pow-pow heaven!!!
Mrs. Cball (outside voice): wow that is cool.
Mrs. Cball (inside voice): and then the Chief of the CBO actually told the President of Goldman Sachs that his portfolio was not balanced. Can you F**KING believe he said that!! Homey just cracked off on that muthafugga!
Me: how was your day?
Mrs. Cball: and then the Chief of the CBO actually told the President of Goldman Sachs that his portfolio was not balanced. Can you F**KING believe he said that!! Homey just cracked off on that muthafugga!
Me (outside voice): wow that is cool.
Me (inside voice): And the snow was so rad!! We shredded through trees!!! Hip Deep!!!. We tore up first tracks on this cornice and it was pow-pow heaven!!!

It could be worse.   At least we are polite, and avoid emasculating each other.

It could be better. It is a pretty big gap between us.   But hardly the only one, of which there are many in any relationship.   My wife did not know the significance of “Did you get me my Cheez Wiz, boy?”   when i lobbed a tube of honey mustard at her, obtained by riding drunkenly up to Bashas and back for an assortment of gourmet mustards into which to dip our leftover xmas ham.   Swallowing your stoke is like suffering with yellow mustard. Beckie does not know the significance of good mustard either.

I’ve tried to stoke Beckie’s stoke by buying her several nice bikes.   The resulting coefficient-of-stoke-stoking is always positive, but regrettably not so potent as to become self-perpetuating ala a nucular reaction.   Throwing money is still my best fallback move at xmas, and chicks always dig something new and shiny.   Lo and behold, on the next day she rode the Bianchi for the first time in a long time, wearing new gloves, socks and (almost new) jersey.   New helmet was available but forgone.   This just prior to my pilgrimage for mustard, which she begrudgingly acknowledged was tastier.   There is a strong foundation for a peaceful coexistence, if not victory

things don’t seem so hard on the intertubes