Once as I was loading a speaker into the back of my ’82 volvo station wagon, a carload of dudes drove slowly by me. Someone leaned out the window and said “Fag.”

There weren’t any other men standing around or kissing me or serenading me or squeezing my buttocks at the time, so I have often wondered what prompted these kids to say that.

I have determined that they have highly tuned “gaydar” and have correctly identified the Mackie SRM450 speaker I was lifting as being gay.

I own two of these speakers. Are they both gay? Are they seeing one another in my closet when they’re not in use? Hey, that’s totally cool by me, I’m just wondering because I’m nosy and I like relationship gossip, particularly if it regards my electronic devices. Am I offending them by keeping them in my closet?

All I’m saying is they’re great speakers and I had no idea either or both were gay, not that it’s any of my business.

I just watched the last three or four minutes of a truly awesome horror movie, which thanks to IMDB and the internet in my Anaheim hotel room I have identified as The Hills Have Eyes II. As I type this I am listening to the late eighties cock rock style theme song. It also is awesome.

I’ll try to run down the last few minutes as I just watched them. Spoilers ahead! [added for Richard --jim]

A giant mutant dude with misshapen leather clothing is in a barn haranguing three people in military garb, two hot chicks and a dude. He’s got hot chick number one by the belt and he’s slamming her into the ground over and over again. I think he actually says “Bitch!” during this.

Meanwhile hot chick #2 is fumbling with an AR-15 rifle, trying to insert a single round into it via the breech, when she should know as a military person that she should press it into the magazine and then load it into the rifle as normal.

Hot Chick 1 (HC1) now appears to be knocked out, but HC2 brings up the rifle and delivers a .223 round to mister mutant’s head. He pauses to reflect on matters. We see part of his brain has splattered onto a barn post. Another piece is on his boot, and he wiggles his toes inside his boot.

But he’s not to be stopped. Hero Dude rises into frame from nowhere and is tossed aside like a small bag of wet turds by Mutant, who is determined to put the hurt on HC2. He grabs her and strangles her against a wall! Her boots dangle uselessly only feet form his.. crotch. Do mutants not have balls? Who knows.

Anyway Hero Dude regains consciousness and grabs a handy nearby barn javelin and runs mutant dude through, but the mutant only screams. Now HC2 puts her fingers into the wound in mutant dude’s head and pokes her fingers into his brain. Some pieces come out. This causes him to fall over.

…but he’s not dead. He has one of the hot chicks by the pantleg! Oh no!

Thankfully Hero Dude is there with the rifle which has a bayonet attached. He plunges it into Mutant Dude’s open mouth, and this apparently… finally… kills Mutant Dude for good.

Which is best, really. He was kind of a prick.

I woke up the first time this morning around four in the morning. Ghosts of my old life were outside hooting at one another and raising hell and presumably kissing each others faces, although that part is quiet and doesn’t keep one awake.

I considered stomping outside in my boxers and undershirt and doing a little theraputic yelling and possibly getting in someone’s face, but everyone shut up and I fell asleep again before I got too worked up.

The second time I woke up, it was time to do work. My alarm let rip an earnest electronic fart around 7:20 and rattled me awake. I stripped down and put on cycling clothes and my heart rate monitor, which I refer to as my bra strap.

I got into my car which has the soul of a wild stallion due to a cracked air intake hose. It bucks like hell unless you baby it with the clutch. We herked and jerked down the road together and Benji Hughes sang to me about a mummy. It helped bridge the time until the heat started a timid gust from the vents.

I got to the gym early by about seven minutes, knocked on the door just in case someone was inside, and then retreated to my car and the warmness inside. I wrote a note to the universe via Twitter, and about that time my coach Tony showed up and got out of his car.

“Ready to abuse yourself?” he asked.

Boy was I.

The mission was to beat 210 watts. That was my previous best lactate threshhold output over the 42minute periods that Tony likes to torture cyclists with. You go as hard as you can for 20 minutes, then rest for two, then go like hell for another 20 and the average watts output are your number. I knew I could do better than 210, so I asked Tony if I could come in on my own on a Sunday and really go to town. He said okay.

The Tuesdays and Thursdays upon which I usually do my spin class at the house of quad pain and sweat known as ATS aren’t really good for testing my actual ability because the classes take place at a butt-early 5AM and I usually only manage to grab a few hours sleep.

I got onto the bike and warmed up for a few minutes. Tony put on the 07 Ironman Panama City dvd for me to watch so I could see other people in pain. I saw a beachside shack that I went to with my friends to get beach stuff on our last trip with a rider in front of it all hunched over and pedaling like hell. I pedaled like hell.

Once I got warmed up, I started the test. It’s hard to talk about what really happened after that because my brain shuts off, but I can tell you this. If you want to shut off your mind and really think about nothing at all, try endurance sports. All you can think about is when you get to stop.

After the first 20 minutes we reviewed my numbers and I rested. My avg was at 277. I was pouring sweat as though each of my pores were sharing a simultaneous “HOLY SHIT” and pumping for all they were worth.

“I like the look.” Tony said. Well, that’s something.

I was alternating pedaling seated at 250+ and giving the resistance knob a hearty twist and standing up for a good old fashioned mash down. I tend to stand up a lot on hills, although they say it’s more efficient to sit and spin it out in a lower gear. My teardrop muscles just above my knees were being very annoying about hurting.

The second 20 minutes I tried to continue at the level of the first and just couldn’t output the same numbers. The two minute rest in between the tests counts in the average, so my 277 avg for the first 20 fell to 250ish after my rest, and then to 244 or so.

Tony clicked buttons on the bike’s display. “Increase that number” he said. I pedaled. My ability to output power dwindled. I looked at the display and I had eighteen minutes to go.

It’s amazing how slow time can be at times like these. Tony walked away, leaving me and the resistance knob to conspire against my wattage output.

My strategy was to twist the resistance knob down a bit to catch my breath, then wound it way up and stand up and mash, then back down again to rest. The amount of time that I could stand up and mash, however, was getting shorter and shorter and the rests were getting longer, but I was nearly done.

After a good long rest at around 200 watts, another cyclist joined me on the bike next to mine. I saw Phil Ligget appear on the screen in front of us, commentating on the Ironman race.

“I didn’t know Phil Ligget ever came stateside,” I commented to my neighbor, with about five minutes to go.

“Maybe just for that race..” he said.

I immediately realized that I had made a mistake. Tony heard me talking without vomiting and came over to wind up my resistance knob and goad me. The last few minutes were hell and I wanted to die many times, but I ended up with 235 watts instead of my previous 210.

So, that’s 235 watts average output over 42 minutes, which I feel pretty good about.

“That’s better,” Tony said,”But you are a 250 man.”

Hopefully I won’t ever have to do another one of these tests, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I will. I’m going to bring a poisonous cobra with me in the pocket of my cycling jersey so I can throw it on the ground, leap off my bike onto it, and either get bitten and die or at least appear to be a hero.

Anything to stop pedaling.

Well, I just stepped on the scale as I was showering and it was scary. I put on at least five pounds over my holidays, when I was eating whatever I wanted as much as I wanted and not exercising at all. This is the end of my first week back and I’m back up to 220.

Also I went to the pool today to find it closed. I guess the city’s decided that people don’t need to swim on Fridays anymore at the MLK natatorium. So, schedule redesign time for your boy it looks like.

I was on TV this morning on Good Day Atlanta.

Pyramid spin class drills today, then one legged drills. The pyramids sucked a lot. Sucked like.. an Egyptiannnn.

During the 120 pyramid, my coach walked over and gave the resistance knob a twist on my bike, and I was struggling like hell to keep up. I had to wind it back. I was blowing like crazy. Even had trouble hanging in there when we dialed it back to 110.

Talked to coach Tony about retrying my LT test. He said he has some time early Sunday AM, so I’m going to get a good night’s rest Saturday night and go in there and kick it in the ass. He’ll be standing over me yelling and cajoling so I’ll probably do a lot better than I did the last two times.

Tonight I ran the 4mile Brookhaven loop with the tri club. It was a big group, presumably because of people pledging new years resolutions and whatnot. It was cold as hell.

I ran the loop in about 33 minutes, finished third in the group. Not that it’s really a race, but I was trying hard to keep up with the two guys ahead of me. They were too fast for me, though.

Heading to the Fox News tv studio in the morning to play guitar with Hamner, then swimming some laps, playing with Hambone again at Smith’s tomorrow nite. Also need to set up a new business checking account tomorrow.

I heard a great joke tonight: What do you get when you cross a brown chicken with a brown cow?

Brown-chicken brown cowwwww (bow chicka wow wow).

I thought it was hilarious but the two people I have told it to so far haven’t seemed that impressed. Hmph.