Surfing anyone?


I doubt surfing was as big commercially when I was a kid as it is now, but socially it was huge in Southern California as I was growing up. Sun-bleached blond bangs meant you were a surfer, which was bigger than being a football player.

I never surfed, only bobbed around like a cork in an inner tube until a big wave turned me upside down. If I had surfed, I’m pretty sure I would’ve hit my head on the board one of the times I fell off and would’ve sunk to the bottom unnoticed by the lifeguard as he flirted with the girl in the yellow polka-dot bikini.

I’ve never been athletic, more the kind of guy worried about being hit on the head with the baseball when I was sent into the outfield. When I go to a ball game today, I always look around hoping to find a kid with a glove in case the damned ball comes into the stands to get me.

As an adult I do my duty on the treadmill, but really my idea of sport is sipping a cocktail in the lounge car while my train struggles up the Rockies. I looked out the lounge car window and saw cyclists once and said to Todd, my other half, “You’re lucky my hobby is trains rather that cycling, otherwise you’d be pumping up this mountain with me in a sidecar.”
The photo above I reblogged from, and there it was attributed to 

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