A cold Saturday promising wind and rain later in the afternoon. Doug suggested a fat tire ride up Asotin Creek, perhaps up the George Creek grade. He recently bought himself a 29er on eBay so that he could keep up on fat tire rides. He wanted to test it out. Next time I hear him suggest such a ride, I'll know just what to say . .

How now, wool-sack, what mutter you?

"Doug," I'll say, "You starvelling, you eel-skin, you dried neat's-tongue, you bull's-pizzle, you stock-fish--O for breath to utter what is like thee!-you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck!"

The first time I did a fat tire ride with you up Asotin creek I ended up with more puncture weed than I could count and the last time I spent an hour cleaning the mud out of my brakes, derailleurs, and pedals.

I really had thought it would be safe to tool around on gravel roads. No single track. No mud. I should have known there'd be trouble when Scott and Jen showed up at Chief Looking Glass park. Scott's never happier than when suffering unless it's when he's watching someone else suffering. Today, Scott would completely enjoy himeslf. Oh, Scott,"Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I might water an ass at it."

The smile is just on the outside, Doug, Thou surly beetle-headed horse-drench!

I had second thoughts even on the pavement. Largent had taken me on all the hill-climbs in the area, I thought. If Steve hadn't taken me up George Creek, it must have something wrong with it. But this road was smoothe, lightly graveled. Not a rut in sight. Granted, it was steep. I remember catching my breath and looking down at the GPS. "Oh, good. Only 12%," I thought. Yes, 10% to 19% and most of that on the upper end of that range.

Oh, Doug, Thou churlish fen-sucked barnacle!

But we weren't going far today. The snow level lay only a hundred feet above us. Wait, what's that? My tires are spinning out? I must just be off the travel lane. I can find a solid spot.

Doug, Thou ruttish fool-born measle!

Gotta stay ahead of Doug, though. Can't let him think he can buy a bike and keep up. Where's he at?

That's gotta be the top; just another bend. Doug, you are a beggarly swag-bellied incontinent varlet!

I've gotta unclip now. Spinning out, going down if I don't stop now.

My feet are immediately caked with mud. It's not deep and doesn't seem too bad. I look for a stick to clear my brakes and scrape the mud off the tires. Nothing but rocks. I make do. 50 yeards back, Doug has also stopped, the wayward fat-kidneyed hedge-pig! He's cleaning his bike, too, but it's not so bad as mine.

I turn and walk my 29er back down hill. It's unrideable when I start walking and it rapidly piles up mud everywhere. This mud would be perfect for making thatched huts. It clings stubbornly resistant to all attempts to clear a brake pad or derailleur.

Doug and I walk back to the flat where we scramble over rough rubble to what must be George Creek and attempt to clean our bikes. The mud doesn't wash off even when Doug uses my water-bottle as a swuirt bottle. Scott and Jen, of course, did ride high enough to get seriously muddy. They get to ride back down, but my brakes will score the rims if I try to use them on a 19% descent. And I use my brakes a lot.

Even at home with a hose, the mud clings tenaciously. I remove both wheels to get at the pads and derailleur qne use fine grit sand-paper to clean the pads. My fingers are numb and gouts of rain blow in my face and spot my glasses.

Clearly Sott had a great day of it. Me, I'm not even logging the miles.

And Doug, you are an obscene puke-stockinged execrable-wretch!

Thanks for the ride Corrie

Ps: And Reader, if you'd like a few insults for Doug of your own feel free to find the Doug Shakespean Insult Generator.