The summer of activities has started, and somewhere along the way I have become more sore than I have been in my entire life. It all started when my brother threw me a coming home party; most of the people that showed up, I have never seen in my entire life, and they had thought that I was actually coming home from a mission, but that’s neither here nor there. The party was a mustache bash, and to come in, a mustache had to be present on your face. Many party goers thought my brother was joking, until they got to our house and he turned them away until they were properly mustached.
After a while, my brother broke out the big surprise of the party: an Xbox Kinect. We projected the games across the back of the house and had everyone watch while we made idiots of ourselves. My brother challenged me to a duel of Olympic Games, which started my week of soreness. Apparently, if you raise your knees rather high, while running, you run faster on the game. I was nearly leaping in the air to go as fast as humanly possible, pummeling my feet into the cement deck. I should have been wearing underwear as well… but I had no time to change from my swim trunks when a challenge was presented. Cameron won as usual, but I still beat him in a few events.
Sunday night was restless. And after trying to go to bed at midnight, my brother knocked on the connecting bathroom door to get me for a midnight-no-longer-Sabbath-let’s-get-In-n-Out snack. This, of course, was organized by Cameron’s sugardaddy (Joe), so I got a free bunch of fries out of the trip. But going to the midnight-no-longer-Sabbath-let’s-get-In-n-Out snack, and having Joe pay for my food, meant that I owed him. This would be paid back by a Monday morning game day.
I rolled out of bed on about six hours of sleep and zombied my way to a park, with my brother, to meet up with Joe and a few other friends from the ward, where we stood in the 100 degree heat at nine in the morning. Here, I was introduced to the most bizarre combination of baseball, football, polo, and plastic that I have ever come across in my life. The game is called foobasolf, and due to how dumb the game is, I refuse to actually describe the rules on my blog, and while it was a good laugh for a while, I don’t necessarily plan on keeping the foobasolf tradition alive after I move away from home. The second game was more enjoyable, and was a combination of ultimate Frisbee, lacrosse, and beach toys. Unfortunately for the other team, I used my entire body to block any type of passing between teammates, utilizing my crotch to make players so uncomfortable that they were not able to make any type of decent throw.
Tuesday was the day of an impromptu bike ride that my Mother planned with a few friends in the ward. She told on me on Sunday, asking, “Are you coming?” Not knowing what I was coming to, I said yes, just in case she was taking a group to a massage parlor. Then I was told that we would be going on a bike ride for 22 miles. I haven’t ridden a bike in over five years, and tried to get out by saying, “Oh darn, I don’t have a bike.” But my mother was prepared, and had already managed to get a hold of a fleet of bicycles for the tour de Hemet.
Tuesday, I rolled out of bed again, but this time at six, to get prepared for the activity. I managed to pull some clothes on, which was a miracle because of how sore I was from diving at wiffle balls during the previous day’s activities. After going about town to collect all the bikes we could, we met up at the trail.
I tried a few bikes, but nothing seemed to work for my lanky body. I was left with a choice: an obnoxiously colored bike that had issues with its gears, and a decent bike with a skinny, little banana seat. In a rushed decision, I chose the banana seat, and took off on the trail.
The first few miles wasn’t horrible, but when the trail turned to rocky horribleness, the banana seat started to rise higher and higher into what should be my butt crack, but due to my lack of butt, it is just a random crack. With each rock, the seat was nailed up and up until it wouldn’t go no more. My thighs burned, I was loamed in sweat, and somehow I managed to pedal my way to the end, and laid down into the back of my truck. Rigor mortis set in, and I was not able to get up. I just laid in the back of my truck, waiting to be roasted alive by the California sun.
Somehow, I was able to get myself back to my truck, waddling of course, and drive the bikes back to their proper owners, and then I promptly fell asleep on our leather couches. I only awoke to nature’s call, which had me cowboy strutting down the hallway as fast as I could, but when I finally took my seat, I realized that getting off of the pot might prove to be problematic. I sat there and realized that I could die there, just like Elvis did, or I could force myself off of the toilet, and make something of my life. Getting off of the toilet was the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life, but I refused to be found like Elvis, dead and bloated on the toilet.
I had difficulty walking after the mustache bash, but then somehow pushed myself to play games in the park, where running, diving, twisting, and movement were encouraged. I thought I was sore then, but now that I made a 22 miler, I think that it will be impossible for me to move in morning, and I might die from sheer exhaustion. But if I die tonight, I will be buried a biking, diving, running, throwing winner, which is more than I ever thought I would be.
