While the young female population of Charlotte spent their day camped out on the side walk in front of Amos' South End, anticipating a glimpse at Isaac, Taylor, and Zac, I found my self surrounded by tattooed men and covered in mud. Let this day forever be known as hard core Friday.
Instead of lining the streets, holding signs proclaiming my love for Hanson ( Mmmbop, I, um, really do love them.) I made my way to Ace Custom Tattoo in Plaza Mid wood. After much thought and deliberation, my friend Scott decided to brand himself with the Lord's name. It turned out pretty sweet. And for those of you who thought his shy demeanor was all about order and business, just ask him to roll up his sleeves, or whip out his...camera (The guy can take a mighty decent photograph. Mad skills.)
We waited in the parlor lobby for at least an hour. Apparently a 12:00 appointment needs preparation. Don't rush creativity. You have to let an artist breath, or smoke, or fumble around trying to find the perfect spot to rest his Fedora. But it gave us time to peruse the artwork. There is some serious talent in ink. And despite the Tasmanian Devils and Marvin the Martians of the world, the human body has become the canvas for some exquisite masterpieces. There is something contagious about the culture. An intimidation factor that is caused by the coverage and gaging. Sub-dermal implants and sleeves. Makes me want to get my nose pierced. My hip inked. Eight inches of monochromatic magic rising up my left side and wrapping around my rib cage. In honor of my sister. The first of us to bare the permanency. In memory of her talent. Her steady hands. The gift that has been paralyzed. Stolen by her disease. I will wear it in memory of what was. In hopes of what might someday be again.
The day continued with an edge. Two tires planted firmly on muddy trails. My initiation into the Whitewater Center. My roommate, Jeff, temporarily set aside his fetish for skinny, blond celebrities and drove me to the park for an evening of grit and grime. The rain was staved off by the sun's determination and the once soaked trails held little remnants of the previous day's precipitation. Enough to cause a muddy spray and an occasional spin out, but not severe enough to call for a closing.
I hadn't been on a decent trail in at least five years. Nothing to cause my knuckles to turn white. Death grip on my handlebars. A fear of flipping over them. But then that's all part of the fun. The rush. The adrenalin. I've got my helmet. And a trained firefighter to rush me to the emergency room, should I be in need of medical assistance. But I was careful. No funny business. Just plain fun. If you call racing through tree lined trails, jumping over roots and rocks, pedaling and panting uphill, a good time. Count me in. I watched a video on the WWC website to get a feel for the terrain I was going to encounter. I was not disappointed. We managed to squeeze in a solid six mile ride before the sun dipped down. The conditions were perfect. Warm, humid air, wet trails, and the shadowy cast of dusk. This is exactly what it was like...except with decreased visability, more mud, a few tumbles, and labored breathing. Those hills kicked my ass. But I'm ready for more. My butt has finally made friends with my bike seat, and the two can now coexist peacefully. Those first few painful days behind me, riding to and from work. East Blvd is no comparison to the WWC's steep grades and drop offs. I'm still gonna wuss out on the jumps, but it's only because I like my collar bones in one piece. No health insurance means just say NO to broken bones. But it feels great to get out there. Heart beating, lungs pumping, legs burning. It feels good to be alive.
See you on the trails, bitches.
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