. . .You all know what it is. It happens on a long ride when the conditions are perfect and you're discovering that part of you that would have been a fur trapper when Ohio was 'out west'. It becomes a discomfort and gets worse as the ride rolls on.
Three days in and you've transitioned from 9-5 drone to your own person. You're feeling the curves and swells of the terrain and there's not a whole lot in your head except 'being one with the road'. The miles sweep by. The monkey butt continues.
Think about the transition from work-a-day to where you are now, with the symphony of road, machine, and air in your ears, the beat of pavement and gusts through your arms, and the feeling that you're free to become part of the machine as you leave the alphabets and climb into the twisties.
Think about the monkey butt.
The Aha! moment comes when you realize that monkey butt is the expulsion of the 9-5 the same way that vomiting expels volumes of expensive single-malt. It's the cares and stress of the assholes and asinine situations of the year evicted from the core of your being in the most poetically correct manner. It's the veritable shit of your life being replaced by the cleansing volume of your immersion into the ride.
So embrace the monkey butt. Wipe it clear and know that's the boss. . . the neighborhood . . . the man -- all getting flushed where they belong. At the end of it is the comfortable bliss of the perfect ride.
Now please go out and report back with a record case of monkey butt. It's good for what ails you.
