Part Twelve: San Diego

Have taken a few days in San Diego to absorb the enormity of the achievement to date, eat lashings of $3 pizza slices and explore the plethora of Irish pubs in the downtown area.

A big thank you goes out to all those who have been offering encouragement and sending lovely messages. There does, however, still seem to be some lingering confusion regarding comments that could in anyway be construed (by a reasonable person, or me), as critical or negative.  This needs to be cleared up right here and now.  The previous advice regarding where to post your comments remains in place.  To assist further we’ve set up another feedback portal so please forward all negative, idiotic or just boring comments to the link provided below,  The team will then do its utmost to respond appropriately and as quickly as possible.  As you would no doubt appreciate there is a huge back log of such comments for us to get through so we beg for your understanding in this matter.  For those who have left return mailing addresses, please appreciate that it takes time to individually pack the freshest and moistest of dog turds and post them off to you.  Therefore please remain patient.

San Diego offered the opportunity to attend a football game (Thanks for the ticket Ian).  A great day out was had by all.  The temptation is, of course, to follow in the well-trod hoof prints of any number of critics of American football and rabbit on inanely about the steroid fueled gladiatorial machismo of the game.  That is along side the temptation to dredge the harbour of banality and go on about the undeniable fact that not a great deal of the playing time appears to be spent actually footing a ball.  Yes, of course ‘hand ball’ is more appropriate yet to go down that track would be puerile in the extreme.  It is also very true that only skirt-wearing school girls wear helmets and that amount of padding to play a game but that need not be gone into right now.  Yes, the boofy lads had the opportunity to express themselves by slamming into each other and the girls similarly through high-stepping ad infinitum. All great stuff.

At the Footy

We at buff3ysbicyclingblog feel that it is far more important to celebrate the game and the theatre of it for what it is; a great opportunity to get out into the car park of a large stadium and ‘tail gate’ up some wieners.   The local team is, of course, the San Diego Bustards.  Odd they should name their team after the flightless Bustard yet there it is.  Quickly inducted in the Denver fan hall of fame, we (the away side) taunted the hometown team as the game went into overtime and the mighty Denver Ducks inevitably exerted their authority.  Oddly for a quarterback (the chap charged with the responsibility of throwing the ball), Mr Tebow, the Denver Ducks quarter back is best known for his reluctance and/or inability to throw the ball, preferring to run at the opposition (and sometimes towards his own goal line, much to the chagrin of his team mates).   The very enthusiastic and charmingly attired cheer leaders (The San Diego Scrubbers) high-stepped and shook their pom-poms bravely right up until their defeat was secured.  Admittedly some points were deducted from San Diego, cruelly many maintain, for having a coach called ‘Norv’ (short for ‘Norv’).  To their credit the Bustards fans took the defeat in good humour, the local crowd choosing to take out their justified frustration on Coach Norv through the media at their leisure.

Lads in Gaslamp district

There are more Irish Pubs here in San Diego Gaslamp district per square foot than anywhere else in the world, including Ireland.  The Welsh, Irish and Australian contingent spent the bulk of the short stay here in Gastown, sucking on yet more rounds of IPAs at one of the innumerable Irish Pubs.

The Irish, Welsh, Australian triumvirate of pan-continental cycling dominance dissolves here in this city into the annals of pan-American bicycling and IPA drinking folk law (see photo) and we go our separate ways.  The Irish continent now takes the easy option of crossing the border into Mexico; The Welsh is return home to clamber up trees while the Australian is left to somehow struggle on through the USA and endure the relative hardship of a side trip to Las Vegas.  The good people at San Diego Bike Shop have been kind enough to fit a new set of Continental Travel Contact tires to the beast and look after her for two weeks while I am away.

Off to Vegas.

4 thoughts on “Part Twelve: San Diego

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