Doing the Ton
"The Ton" was a name for the useless "upper" classes of Victorian and Edwardian times who did nothing but impose their ridiculous fantasies on the sweating hoards (Tu et Moi).
Spent their time going from place to place trying to impress each other in the absurdity competition.
Refer to P.G. Wodehouse's work involving Bertie and Jeeves.
Total airheads.
They have been replaced by the "jet set" and such.
These are the people who just recently screwed you out of your pension funds.
They are oft seen running certain social rackets like...oh Symphony orchestras.
But, that's not what it means to me.
What it means to me is in the phrase "doing the ton at Goodwood" which means lapping the aforementioned race track at 100 miles per hour or more.
Whether it actually ever meant that is irrelevant.
Closely related to the phrase "going whole hog".
What it means here on this post is that yesterday I managed to ride 100 miles up and down and around and in and out by the shining waters of Lake Washington.
My butt is an aching mass of eroded flesh!!!
Left the house at 7 AM and straggled back home at 7.15 PM.
Got in some nice rest stops lying on the grass looking up at the lightly clouded sky through the branches of the trees.
Highlight of the trip was the Sammamish (used to be called "slough") river.
The Sammamish river connects Lake Sammamish and Lake Washington.
There is not a very big difference in the levels of the two lakes, so the water just sort of sits there.
But the big thing is that the powers that be have been restoring it from a dredged out canal to a classic look riverbed with sand bars, gravel banks, fallen trees and all that "out in the wilderness" look that it was born with.
Very nice and Japanese garden look to it.
No more boat races there.
That was in the first 50 miles. The last 50 was just pumping, grunting and breathing heavy.
Anyway, I finally found out what was wrong with the counter. The battery in the
sending unit was going out. It lasted for the first 50 miles so I was able to put together the total from previously measured rides.
None of the bike shops along the way had such batteries.
So there's no splog today. Not that you care about that. I'm just using the site to keep track of the rides.
Spent their time going from place to place trying to impress each other in the absurdity competition.
Refer to P.G. Wodehouse's work involving Bertie and Jeeves.
Total airheads.
They have been replaced by the "jet set" and such.
These are the people who just recently screwed you out of your pension funds.
They are oft seen running certain social rackets like...oh Symphony orchestras.
But, that's not what it means to me.
What it means to me is in the phrase "doing the ton at Goodwood" which means lapping the aforementioned race track at 100 miles per hour or more.
Whether it actually ever meant that is irrelevant.
Closely related to the phrase "going whole hog".
What it means here on this post is that yesterday I managed to ride 100 miles up and down and around and in and out by the shining waters of Lake Washington.
My butt is an aching mass of eroded flesh!!!
Left the house at 7 AM and straggled back home at 7.15 PM.
Got in some nice rest stops lying on the grass looking up at the lightly clouded sky through the branches of the trees.
Highlight of the trip was the Sammamish (used to be called "slough") river.
The Sammamish river connects Lake Sammamish and Lake Washington.
There is not a very big difference in the levels of the two lakes, so the water just sort of sits there.
But the big thing is that the powers that be have been restoring it from a dredged out canal to a classic look riverbed with sand bars, gravel banks, fallen trees and all that "out in the wilderness" look that it was born with.
Very nice and Japanese garden look to it.
No more boat races there.
That was in the first 50 miles. The last 50 was just pumping, grunting and breathing heavy.
Anyway, I finally found out what was wrong with the counter. The battery in the
sending unit was going out. It lasted for the first 50 miles so I was able to put together the total from previously measured rides.
None of the bike shops along the way had such batteries.
So there's no splog today. Not that you care about that. I'm just using the site to keep track of the rides.
posted by Lane Savant at 10:39 AM
12 Comments:
Special report for Jannie;
Band saw, drill press, 12" metal lathe, milling machine, table saw, circular saws, brakes, arc welder oxy-acet welder, MIG welder, 18" kiln, planer, router, joiner, hand drills, peg hole reamers, peg shapers, bunches of knives, chisels, planes, hand saws, hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, pullers, pushers, smackers, bangers, and crackers and knuckle busters of many sizes and evil intent.
My God, he's actually bragging about a tiny little 100 mile sprint!
......Lance in France.
100 frickin miles on Fidelio!
Now that is some impressive
bragadosio, dude. You are
about ready for the STP;
nearly. You could mop up
in the senior's mob/clump/
gaggle. Jannie will flip
her cookies when she reads
about your tools.
Forgot to tell her about
your chain saw, and wood
chipper though; those really
get here attention.
I was impressed with the
37 comments posted on the
proceeding vernacular event.
I even extracted a poem
out of the mess, and
entitled it, DOWN HOME WITH "W".
It has a nice feel to it;
sent it out to my tiny tim
readership, those few hearty
souls who will slog through
my poetry and keep a straight
face while replying to it.
You, too, have created another
Palmer Poem. I do not have time
to do so during this moment
cuz my student will arrive
at any moment, and the powers
that be will expect me to
do some teaching. At least
that's what I call it.
Really your incredible cycle-
journey is impressive. You
have not trained so hard
over this last year that
that ride will not stove
you up for several days.
Quarts of lactic acid
are fuming right below
your right buttock. You
will limp, walk stiffly
and pine for your misspent
youth before this week
is over, I tell you.
My accomodation headache
is not as bad today. I
found, thanks to Bobby
Byrd, a new poet for FFTR,
Jerome Rothenberg. He is
really engaging my left
brain, and fanning my
metaphysical tarsuls for
sure. I got an email from
C.L. Bledsoe, thanking me
for posting 50 of his poems.
Ain't life grand?
Glenn
Lance, your arrogance is only exceeded by the length of your intelligence quotant (?). Anyway
you talk like a damned dummy.
Lay off of Palmer. He's our guy.
.........Eddy Emerald
Who the hell do you think you are, God On A Bicycle? Palmer has done an impressive thing, in spite of your feelings, or lack of them.
.........Elton's John
Lissen Lance, you punk bitch...
der ain't no better rider dan Dougie; not round dese parts. Everybody knows dat. Youse is one igrant buttwipe dat youse gives
him a bad thyme. Jus cuz youse is a bit of a celebrity, tour de lance and all dat crap, dat don't meen dat youse can't be got to. Watch yer moutt.
.........Vinnie
Oh Lance in France without any underpants, when you get bitchy, I get hot.
.......Tiny Tim
If Cheryl Crow dumped your ass, you must be a read dud.
.........Emily
How would you continue to bitch and whine if someone shoves a French bike down your piehole?
.......Friend of Vinnie's
Good morning, and good luck.
Somehow I managed to "do the
ton" myself, and wrestled
with your passionate prose,
and squeezed it, and cajoled
it, and spanked it, and
there on the screen
a poem emerged; a damned
good one too. Another fine
insert into the laughing
lexicon of Palmer poetry.
Or perhaps addition, or
perhaps augmentation, or
perhaps replacement, or
perhaps another steaming
plate of philosophic
palaver, enit?
Yes, folks, this is the
day for my departure;
off to the roads, to the
byways and highways, motels
and greasy spoons of America's
Southwest, hotter than the
hobbs of hell, lying in
wait for Miss M 'n Me.
I shall miss our morning
ritual, our misbegotten
moments together watching
the sun burst from behind
the fire mountain, and spread
its colors across the surface
of American lake like a
mothernature porno, like
a CGI wet dream.
I will be without poetry
not, for a poet is never
without his/her filters
and senses, sucking up
the environment, every
dew drop, every sprig of
sage, every beetle and
slithering early bird,
every blossom, every
branch, watching the sun
play jacks on the fat
yellow line, hopscotching
over the empty spaces,
wondering what kind of
morse code the lines are
up to, dit dit da, da dit
da dit, da da.
Fodder for poems of the
future, icons for the
collage, the kalidescope
that churns in my visual
pathways, overturning,
overriding the mundane,
making every moment some
kind of drama, tragedy,
farce, fallacy, or
symbol. Hell, my new glasses
are settling in, my visual
cortex has begun to stop
its vibrating, the windows
are no longer revolving, the
floor is leveling out, the
Camry is gassed up, the car
refrigerator is loaded with
diet Coke and apple juice,
the trail mix is bagged,
the maps are folded, the
Garmin GPS is cranked up
and sassy, the hand sanitizer
is plentiful, the artificial
tears are ready for action,
the air conditioner is fully
charged--oh mama, looks
like it is road trip
party time.
Glenn
Belt sander, palm sanders, CHAIN SAW, paint brushes, english wheel,
squares, compasses, dividers, calipers, sabre saw, clamps.....
Hallo, Lance!
Your tour sounds quite scenic!!
Have they already converted the ex-railbed ("Dinner Train" route) into a bike & foot way??
Next time you want a break en route around Lake Wash, you might stop at Pert's Deli in Leschi for a sandwich; they are great!!
The LL admires you biking; she bikes everywhere!
Tschuess,
Anonomann (+LL)
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