vestigial limbs

Five arguments against Intelligent Design

1. Blisters

I backpack rarely and best in the company of other people who spend more time on their wheels than their feet. We all begin by overestimating our legs—because 20 miles sounds like nothing—and our stomachs, packing double the food we actually need because what if you bonk! We sport repurposed spandex, walk the switchbacks outside-to-inside, and by the end of it are hobbling, vowing we’ll never carry anything anywhere again. (Alright, maybe that was just me.)

In any case—as always, dulce et decorum est to revisit basic locomotion. And all sorts of rewards at trail's end.

As I was goin' over / Those far famed Kerry Mammoth mountains

2. Lack of a human equivalent for purring or tail-wagging

What have we got for that? For “yes, I approve; you have my ongoing appreciation” or “hi-hi-hi, I’m so happy you’re here!”—?

3. I can only hold my breath for one minute, 37 seconds.

I try this in the back of the car as Dan talks us through the dive that put dinner on the table. Ryan's driving again; the Mendocino coast is all cresting waves and wallowing fog. I imagine the dark, swirling Pacific, the confounding curtain of kelp, and am even more impressed with the evening meal. I can't think of the last time I deliberately held my breath for as long as I could. But I used to play this game all the time, remember? When did I stop?

Cooking pro-tip: Make friends with divers.

4. My knee

“Race reports?” query a few giddy "cyclocross" folk. "Cycloross" because there’s no such thing, I’m telling myself, there is No Such Thing.

Answer: No, alas. Resisting my PT (and trust me, that's difficult) and all my theories of what’s making it so angry, the thing remains bullshit, will sustain weekend-warrior-ing on my mountain bike but nothing like the volume of sweat and tears historically necessary to get myself in racing shape. This makes me crazy, obviously. Whether it will make me crazier to downgrade and get my ass/ego beat to hell or to go the whole season without pinning a number on remains to be seen.

Gah!

5. What if you need to lick your elbow?

Party foul. And that's an order.