Ciao Bella

Bags packed, ready to go. WF (pictured at right) now holds racing, camping and video gear plus adjacent tools, tapes and supporting equipment that I am quite sure could last me a month on the road. Today’s out leg is a little over 200 miles with an estimated 3.28 hours between the dots. That does not include the Washington State Ferry sail and circumnavigation of downtown Seattle, which at this time, a summer Friday, is going to be a colossal clusterfuck. I am not even thinking about the return trip.

Between the starting dot and the destination dot is the adventure. I will get there, the issue is how. I know I-90 like the palm of my left hand, meaning that those three plus hours in a seated, locked position, the day before a race, can be, shall we say, ominous. I will pick a few rest areas and stretch, also allowing the pre-race over hydration process to self regulate. I think  you know of what I speak.

Going to see my old buddy Stan this afternoon. We haven’t stood mano-a-mano in almost forty years. Stan was the lead singer of the country outfit I played in for almost five years. Stan was the guy who listened to my banjo picking and suggested that the group needed a drummer more than another string player, and since at the time I only knew a handful of hillbilly jazz tunes, and as the group, later to become Whiskey River, had a paying gig that Saturday night, I took Stan up on his offer and faked my way through a pair of ninety minute sets. A word to wanna be drummers - country is your go-to genera for your initiation to live music. One-two-three-four and repeat.

It is raining lightly and I have the double-check to execute before settling into Whitey for the trip. I have my laptop but the destination, as well as a hundred mile radius, is famous for sporadic wifi. Meaning that  although I will transcribe my post-race notes, they may not get published until Sunday. I know this breaks your heart, so I apologize up front.

Gotta go. Ciao bella.