I hate mosquitoes. Hate is a strong word, and I am using it. If I could rub a genie bottle and wish for one thing, it would be to kill every mosquito that comes within five feet of me. Now, I don’t use this lightly as I am aware of the parable where a man wished everything he touched turned to gold and soon starved to death. There are consequences to our wishes and everyone who has ever thought through the process of wishes, can attest to this. We already know what happened to the gold guy and think how miserable I would be today if I really had become the best Lego builder in the world. A life doomed to sit in my parent’s basement building my next pirate ship masterpiece or maybe a castle with a moat full of sharks. These are tragic events. There is probably some reason mosquitoes need to be in my personal space, but I haven’t found one yet, and I don’t care if this wish comes with an unforeseen consequence or two. Bring on the basement. At least I know there aren’t any mosquitoes there.

I bring this up because at my lowest of lows yesterday, I was confronted by an attacking army of Mosquitoes. These guys were mean and hungry. Imagine, if you will, sitting on a bike for 13 hours in 90 plus degree temperatures over 120 miles and not having the energy to bike another six miles to an oasis known as Lander. Now imagine a gang of middle aged roadbike warriors passing you at this moment saying, “come on . . . you can do.” That is like your big sister telling you to suck it up after she brought you tears from a sucker punch to the gut. Regardless, I was feeling like little Mr. Cranky Pants. I was hangry and my water resources were exhausted.  I had bonked and all I wanted was my sleeping bag. This is where the mosquitoes came in. They bombarded me with their buzzes. Around the ears, near the ankles; they knew all the vulnerable spots. I was running in place screaming just to keep them away long enough to lower the rancher’s gate where my motorhome sized bike had to pass. I was singing “I am a maniac . . . maniac on the floor . . . and I am dancing like I have never danced before.” Name that tune? Name that movie? You get the idea. I was bolting for higher ground in hopes that the mosquitoes would give up and go back to their low land haciendas. No luck. They followed me into my tent that ironically looks like a coffin. Room for one man and twenty blood sucking death merchants. I spent the better part of an hour subduing their buzzing which is a nice way of putting, I killed them one by one. In a very strategic way I might add. I baited them with a little thigh. White and supple. They were powerless to it. They would eventually land on the whitest part where the contrast of their dark bodies could be seen in the subtle tent lighting. It all ended with a bang. Better to kill them with a loud noise. I hope to go out with a bang or at least a fireworks display. Put me in a bottle rocket and launch me off a mountain. A high one where no mosquitos can ever flap their little wings.

Drew

PS Why do bikers shave their legs and, more importantly, where do you stop shaving? Suggestions? Thoughts?

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