SFH3 Run #1707: The Alzheimers Run
|:||Dolores Park, 20th & Church|
|:||Hippy Sniper (aka White Bollocks/Bloqueen)|
|:||Do Her Well|
Sometimes it’s like you’re leading a grand orchestra, crowd gathered around you with a chorus of voices ringing out. A trumpeter sounds in the background, and everyone waits with baited breath. Crabs pulls out his whistle, and the crowd roars.
Sometimes it’s like you’re in the center ring of the circus, three acts going all at once, trapeze artists spinning though the air. To your right, The Sadiator. To the left, Mr. Asstastic (nee Just Dylan). Front and center, Bloqueen. All drop their pants.
Sometimes it’s like you’re surfing a wave, the front of the water spraying mist in your face, the bulk underneath your board, the rest trailing behind, only to regroup with the next pull of the tide. The beard will grow back, Uncle Bad Touch.
Sometimes it’s like you’re balancing a plate on your head, sometimes it’s like you’re balancing Raspukin on your handlebars. Sometimes it’s like losing yourself, sometimes it’s like finding yourself, sometimes the math doesn’t add up. Contact No Shit, Hand Pump, and Roman Showers for details.
Sometimes you’re Michael Jordan, back from retirement to soar to victory once again. Sometimes you’re Lance Armstrong. Welcome back, Da Vinci Load.
Sometimes you’re fumbling about, nerves jangling with tension and excitement, breath quickening because it’s your first time and you can sense the imminent climax approaching, and… you drop your phone in the middle of circle. Enjoy the pictures that The Perfect Woman provided, Virgin Hasher.
Sometimes it’s like you’re leading the orchestra, sometimes it’s like you’re alone in your room, humming only to yourself.
Rest in peace, Huevos Verdes.