Discussion Topic |
|
This thread has been locked |
zBrown
Ice climber
Brujň de la Playa
|
|
Here's what getting older may do to you.
Columns are:
M(ale) age group
mile time record for the group
the person
percentage that the time represents of a four minute mile
YMMV
M 35 03:51.4 Bernard Lagat 96.41%
M 40 03:58.2 Eamonn Coghlan 99.23%
M 45 04:16.1 Tony Young 106.70%
M 50 04:25.0 Nolan Shaheed 110.43%
M 55 04:35.0 Keith Bateman 114.60%
M 60 04:51.8 Tony McManus 121.60%
M 65 04:56.4 Derek Turnbull 123.50%
M 70 05:19.7 Joop Rüter 133.23%
M 75 05:41.8 Ed Whitlock 142.42%
M 80 06:26.6 David Carr 161.08%
M 85 08:04.7 Josef Galia 201.96%
M 90 10:30.9 Peter Brownbill 262.88%
M 95 14:48.2 Herb Kirk 370.08%
M 100 11:53.5 Fauja Singh 297.27%
|
|
Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Yeah thats what I knew . . . OutA space ... Koool!!!
I was sad that the Breeders show, from Brooklyn, I had loaded, failed. I tried twice,
When I looked for the same video I found it not, and now, instead of one of their versions of
Happiness Is A Warm Gun, this Short New Years From 2012, These Goylzs have been
Playin' out for years and still Rock today!
May be surprize' Your Bevin (the Melody) And her Dara, They, The Breeders, are a fun group, She may know the gang?
zzz
[Click to View YouTube Video]
;D,Edit: A show that showz the goylz having fun,
[Click to View YouTube Video]
|
|
zBrown
Ice climber
Brujň de la Playa
|
|
End of the Line. We've run out of space on the server.
To continue, click here:
Doodah Parade
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
Faux Trip Report #2 or #3
Special to the Flames from the tard climber known as MFM.
Making Lemonade with Clive Cussler (OT by a mile)
Apologies to Spider Savage, my kindest reviewer, who said something like, “Better than the morning paper” in praise of The Flames. It is the kindest blurb that I have ever been given.
I am subject to periodic absences from the Taco, mainly because of poverty, which can happen to anyone. One of these absences took place last week. I used the time to pen this.
Sometimes life gives you lemons.
Make some lemonade and sell it.
You are bound to profit.
“All I got was lemon peels, but I can still make lemon marmalade. I wonder what else goes into it? Hmm...”
As MFM stepped into the hallway and turned left right away and opened the door leading back into the bar, two big men—-the same two from the uniform cleaning and supply store!--dressed uniformly in CHP uniforms, came up alongside him and grabbed his arms. They propelled him through the opened door.
He resisted, but his efforts were as useful, more or less, as the head on the pint of Mariposa Midnight from Mariposa Brewing Company (the head was still not gone after five minutes in the restroom!) sitting at his place at the bar. Only the three thirty-something hipsters at the far end said anything, as the tapster was busy with the register.
“Hi, MFM,” said the fat one.
“Bye, MFM,” said the skinny one.
“Are you gonna want that beer? Can we split it?” said the one in the middle as the two bogus peace officers hustled him out into the street. MFM managed an over-the-shoulder “I’ll be back!”
“That was the best you could do?” laughed the phoney officer on the left, as they emerged into the sunlight.
“Chips had better dialog, huh?” agreed the one grasping his right arm as he opened the back panel door of a van painted like a City vehicle and which had the logo, “It all starts here” painted on its side panel.
Whereupon MFM shouted up at him, “And your momma sells Northern California vacation real estate, Paunch!”
The first imitation CHP, using little effort, spun MFM in a circle using his right hand, slapped his face with his left hand, and said, earnestly, “I’m Paunch. He’s John. Got it, beer-breath? Jesus, when’s the last time you brushed?”
Recovering his senses, especially his comedic one, MFM muttered, sotto voce to no one in particular, “Hey, John, look, I’m sorry. The other night at your momma’s house, that was all in a night’s work, OK?”
The one who was putatively John grabbed his collar and dragged him up to his face and said, menacingly, “What were you doing at my momma’s house, butthole? “
“What didn’t we do, as#@&%e?” was the reply.
“Who the f-- cares?’ said the one said to be Paunch. “She’s got lots of strange toothbrushes in that cup on the sink in the john—-I seen ‘em. What’s the difference, John?”
Using his wits and seeing his chance, our hero spit a slimy pearl of gooey glop square into the open mouth of the man named “John,” who was looking at his partner quizzically.
He slackened his grip a bit, causing MFM nearly to fall down, but as he dropped away, he backed into Paunch. MFM kept pushing backwards, causing Paunch’s heels to strike the gutter, thereby causing him to trip backwards. He fell hard to the sidewalk. The back of his skull did a double dribble on the concrete.
“Lights out, John—-or is it Paunch?” thought MFM to himself.
“You dopes should have worn your helmets,” thought MFM again as he reached for the coughing John’s crotch and grabbed and squeezed hard.
“Fruit of the Loom,” he thought again. He yanked upwards with John’s package firmly in his grip and John or whoever melted to the pavement. A swift kick to the head brought instant relief to an outraged son.
"Now that was balls-to-the-walls lucky," thought MFM. "Thank you, Jesus."
“And codpieces, too,” MFM declared out loud. He took both the porkers' wallets, their badges (they didn’t need them), and the keys to the van. He pried the Vuarnets from the heads of the cold-cocked Coke-suckers, too. “I need a new pair, boys, so thanks.”
He placed one pair of shades on his face and pocketed the other pair. Then he dumped everything in the nearest garbage receptacle, which firmly declared on a nicely printed sticker that “It all goes in here sooner or later, so just put it in and be a good citizen.” But first he removed the cash from the wallets.
Then he took the money and ran back into the pub, slapped down a twenty next to the trippy hipster trio and yelled down the bar to the tapster, still counting her cash in the register (her third try).
“House round on our local state law enforcement phonies. Thanks for the help (smirk) and thanks for not drinking my Mariposa Midnight, boys.”
“Thanks, Dudenham.”
“Wow, man, like, thanks.”
“Yeah, thank you, Mouse from Merced. Like, you’ve saved the day yet again, tra-la.”
And that is only the midway point of where I was when I wasn’t here.
Wait till you hear about my Yosemite trip with Mr. Cussler! He was cool enough to let me drive one of his classic autos (the Corvair) to the liquor store and back for some Clive-Cliquot ‘97! He rode shotgun.
When we got back to his traveling circus six hours or so later--a lsrge converted Greyhound bus parked in Upper Pines CG (we had to go all the way to Fresno for the Clive-Cliquot ‘97—Oakhurts has only the ‘02)--we talked of potato heads and chicken wings, among other things.
For example: Why insist on Coors Light when there is Mariposa Midnight for only twenty times the price?
Why are there no Gnomes in The Lord of the Rings?
Why drive a Dusey when all you need is a reliable old Triumph motorcycle?
Why was Ray so all-fired sold on pickles?And was it a kosher or a plain dill?
What is the difference between trad and tard? (Hint: not semantics, not semiotics.)
Well, sometime in there, Werner had happened to drop by in his new golf cart (which impressed the hell out of Mr. Cussler, let me tell you) and set us this question, after consuming just one glass of champagne, “Who the f-- cares? Stupid Americans will drive anything.”
And then we followed him down to After Six Pack, keeping up handily in the mach-worthy VW with Werner’s enhanced go-kart disguised as a golf cart, and watched him free-soloing in his skivvies, using only his hands and bare feet while singing “Catch Us If You Can,” the clean American version.
We just sat there grinning. We smoked a fattie I had copped from the hitchhiker dude we had picked up at the Bass Lake turn-off on the way back from Fresburg withe the champagne. We had dropped dude off at Degnan’s earlier.
“He said his name was Warbler,
But he looked like a Wren to me.
Who’ll be the nest in line?
Who’ll be the next to experience the heartache
Caused by watching your awkward technique?”
Let us not talk falsely now...he might have been Sidmo, or he might have been, I don’t know, he might have been Ray or Fritz or John or JohnTP. But I’d like to thank that mystery man. It was “the bomb.”[Click to View YouTube Video]
Hot on the trail of donini the restless, dopeless roamer.
Believe it or not, Arlo Guthrie himself, one of Mr. Cussler's biggest fans (!) came rolling into the campsite on a vintage Triumph. Over another fattie which he produced, claiming it was the last of his stash from his epic arrival at LAX, Arlo explained some things about The Alice's Restaurant Massacre.
“Mandrake root did not rhyme with motor sickle and Sickle is a long ways up there. And it’s my f--ing muse, MFM...you got yours and I got mine.”
|
|
Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
|
|
Okay OK I have gone and tried to catch up out of ketchup, now do you want the SIX K to stand AS a page? OK and as A thing that I like At the slower side Of the dial>...[Click to View YouTube Video]
Savings, a penny, Scratching for dimes,
can't get by on selling rhymes.
just got blind sided by the fact that one who was a total tripster
Hank now say he is a cop!! What? what iz uptz wthzz Zatts!
he was surely one of the blond phenomes(sp?)a bit of a backseat to the others,climbing #'s
wise. . .
when I was half way up the Free Blast thing, My girl, on belay ay, related that three of the best lookin Cali boys she'd ever smelled came up and shared the belay (DOGZ)!!
Besides eyefulls, they shared my satchel, left lots less than was politely called for!
Then as when I saw who they were and how my girls thighs had gone all aquiver at the smell and sight of Craig Frye? Hans Florine ? Shipoopy ?& Hankster?
Because I was leading, I never got close enough to shake hands, see for myself for sure but they were blond men.
Amazing Here I was trying That picture of a reflection, in a reflection, yours a puddle, mine in a framed picture, catching the widow, in reveres I hope it looks like something.
But not down loaded , and still not happy with the settings this was the full moon set zandzendizNo more crap! well zust one more
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO GYPSY!!!!
How many candles?
|
|
mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
|
|
[Click to View YouTube Video]zBrown, you can have post #7,000 and a Dudo Bar, if we survive...
If the ice don't getcha then the giant pickerel will.
REAL MEN race old beater station wagons on the ice.
|
|
zBrown
Ice climber
Brujň de la Playa
|
|
THE REAL ICEMEN COMETH
Don't be a fool! Loan me a dollar! Damned bourgeois Wop! The great Malatesta is my good friend! Buy me a trink!
How Eugene saw this coming I do not know.
De old Foolosopher, like Hickey calls yuh, ain't yuh? I s'pose you don't fall for no pipe dream?
[Click to View YouTube Video]
|
|
zBrown
Ice climber
Brujň de la Playa
|
|
|
|
feralfae
Boulder climber
in the midst of a metaphysical mystery
|
|
Oh, great job, zBrown!
Happy Birthday Gypsy!
I always enjoy your posts.
feralfae
|
|
|
SuperTopo on the Web
|
Let us know!