This has been the hardest year ever for blogging, not least of all because blogging is so late 20th, early 21st century, but also because the nature of writing is that eventually you run out of shit to say. Of course you don’t, but the struggle is real, finding the right words, or even the wrong ones, and then managing to slap them down daily.
The problem increases the older I get because I know more people, have deeper and more complicated relationships, and hesitate to write things that before I would have dashed off, devil take the hindmost. Consideration of the feelings of others is an inflexible mechanism for restraint, self-censorship, and horribly boring prose.
Time is a huge factor, too. There’s less of it, and the few grains that remain seem to fall through the hourglass so much more quickly.
But if you’re going to do a thing, you might as well do it full bore, and my version of full bore since 2011 has been to write on a near-daily basis and share it here. The tumultous, energy sapping Year of the Swine has turned each day into a Mt. Chomolungma of lethargic self-doubt that has to be scaled before churning out even the briefest of musings.
Well, fuck all that. As John Trump Candy said to me at Telo, drooling in rage over having been taken off the back, “YOU’RE NOT RELEVANT.” Listen to people who hate your fucking guts, at least occasionally, because they are often the least afraid to say the truth, tucked in amongst all the lies, delusions, and defamation.
I started writing this blog not to spare feelings but to inflame them. I started writing because I had things to say, bitter things, hard things, occasionally funny things, and I gave not two broken fucks if it hurt your feelings or anyone else’s. If it seemed relevant and true, and I felt like saying it, I said it.
There’s no point in continuing to write if I’m simply going to dodder off into the mealy musings of caution. Who wants to read that? More importantly, who wants to write it? Not I.
So I thought I would return to the roots of this blog, writing about riding in the South Bay, where “South Bay” covers planet Earth, and about the people who push the pedals. No more shelving ideas or events because someone out there is going to need a truckload of ass-balm after I hit the publish button. No more kow-towing to the self-censor. No more letting cheap shots and shitty behavior slide, whether on the bike or off.
Game back on, bitches.