There Is No "Bike" in Vacation

Saturday afternoon, RandoGirl, the RandoDaughter, and the RandoDaughter's Boyfriend (whom I cannot bring myself to call the RandoBoyfriend ... I mean, I like him alright, but, it sounds kind of creepy) ...

Sorry, where was I?

Oh, yeah. We're getting on a plane Saturday afternoon and flying off to merry old Ireland for a week. The Emerald Isle. Land of Fairly Good Whiskey But Not As Good As Real Single-Malt Scotch. Island of Inebriated Ex-Bombers.

For some reason, the Department of Redundant Irish Tourism Department does not use all of these.

Everybody ... and I do mean everybody ... that I have told about this vacation asks the same question:

"Are you bringing your bike?"

Admit it -- you were going to ask the same thing yourself.

So, when I tell them, "Not this trip," they ask if I won't go crazy.

RandoBoy is Multi-Facetious

As Lance Armstrong wrote, "It's Not About the Bike." (Speaking of which, congratulations to Lance on the birth of his son -- although it worries me that he named the boy Max. If Anna Hansen let it slip who the real father of the boy is, claiming that it was actually 70's porno star Max Watts ... well, that's for the courts and a DNA test to decide).

Sorry, got lost again.

But Lance was right in saying that a normal life does not center around cycling. Even Jure Robic gets off the bike to sleep ... at least when he sleeps with his eyes closed, which isn't often. And, of course, he sleeps in a coffin filled with soil from his native land.

But my point here (if indeed I have one) is that there is no bicycle in that coffin. Unless it's a folding bike ... and it would have to be a recumbent if he's going to sleep in it.

Zombie Cyclists From Heck

Since I am not one of the walking ... er, biking dead, I need to get away from a bicycle for a while. My last two vacations -- a week supporting the Gran Fondo Fixies on RAAM in June 2008, and another week doing the Rocky Mountain 1200K -- were definitely bicycle-oriented. I need a break.

So, next week, there will be no posts (although I promise to post some pictures when I return). After the Saturday morning group ride, I will not don spandex for at least nine days. No chamois shall touch my nether regions, yadda-yadda.

Will I go crazy? It's possible. We may find ourselves in some quaint tourist burg, and they may have some little town bikes to rent, and RandoGirl and I may just jump on them and tool around for a mile or two ... or 10 ... or 50.

Sigh.