Sports Weekend

"I figure it's about time; I'm 33." - James Three Thousand, Bandit Run 2005

I suppose I'm no spring chicken anymore. Friday was my 33rd birthday. We went to the mountain house in north Georgia for a long weekend for a final bit of r&r before the madness starts with school. It turned out to be a fantastic sports weekend. Here's a quick rundown:

• Friday, the 26th | I played a round of golf with my father-in-law. In my mind, I'm a much better golfer than I am in reality. Playing on a nice country club course is really my opportunity to hit houses that are much nicer than the ones I normally dent. Seriously, I'm the Johnny Appleseed of golf. I roam the course planting golf balls along the way. I'm known among the villages as El Doble, he who limits his score to double par. Around the 15 hole, a thunderstorm rained us out and, coincidentally, blew away our scorecard. God's way of telling me that I'm an embarassment to the game? Maybe. Next time, I think I'll wear a helmet and cape, develop a nervous tick, and talk to myself the entire time just so people would think I was doing really well.
• Saturday, the 27th | I went for a 5 mile kayak trip down the Chattahoochee with my wife, her parents, and our guide, Jimmy3000 (J3K). Nothing like the surprise of a water snake to coax the most foul, off-limits words from a person. Why is it that, just prior to yelling a terrible string of obsenities within earshot of your mother-in-law, the immediate vicinity pauses in dead silence? I'd like to believe that she didn't hear me. I did notice that, upon my utterance, most birds on the banks flew from the trees and a little girl dropped her fishing pole and ran crying to her father. I'm an idiot. Although I'm no expert, I'm pretty sure the anaconda that frightened me was about 7 feet long and hungry. Snakes excluded, I had a fantastic time. I have the 10 blisters on my hand and the third degree sunburn to show for it.
• Sunday, the 29th | J3K and I went mountain biking in Unicoi. If you like punishment, this is your trail. Through six marathons of running, I've only been close to puking my guts out once. This trail almost got me to do it. Holy smokes. At one point, I'm sure this was a fantastic trail. Now, however, it's a washed out, rutty, death route. For most of the ride, I was in my lowest gear. In fact, I took a spill going less than a mile an hour. If somebody tries to convince you to ride this trail, slap them. Hard.

The result of the sports weekend? A soreness and dull ache that covers most of my body. Ibuprofen is the new Pez.

Hello, 33, glad to meet you, I guess.