Bikers Beware

I went for a run today with my husband on the tobacco trail.  First step onto the trail and my husband almost loses his life.  Y'all, those trail bikers don't mess around. The men wear those tight shorts displaying all kinds of manhood and those tight neon look at me shirts. Tour de France these durhamites think they're in. Tour de flipping France.  I told Austin it was a terrible way to die and to stay in the stupid yellow lines. Now I'm not judging.  I know you're the real deal. If I ever want to wear tight clothes and get on a bike that costs as much as my 2002 preowned minivan, I'll let cha know.  Until then, carry on, Carla, carry the heck on...

Now I love my husband. He is so nice like Mr Rogers.  I listen to him read my kids stories and I drift off to another happy world with Mr McFeely and the castle and that little train.  But there's this other side, too.  Ron Swanson. He's got this Ron Swanson flair.  Loving bacon.  Talking about waste of money politics.  Etc. Shall I say more?  Well, I decide to not wear my earbuds this go round cause I thought that was, well. Rude.  We could connect and I could hear his feelings (nod to JD Greear. We're doing our homework.  And so far my hubs has been happy.  All week long.)  Well he starts talking about why did Durham plant grass beside the trail they gotta mow and make tax payers pay for (good point), he tells me he's not moving for the next biker that passes, that he yields on the road but not the trail.  (He loves bikers.  I'm sure of it.  He was just feeling smug, I tell you.)  Then we both wonder if these mamas with the double strollers are more fierce than the tour de Durm.  We don't know but we think maybe.

Then he says "all those trees are coming down next hurricane." And I'm like, "What?"  He explains that they cleared the trail, and all those pines lining it were leaning on each other.  They cut some down, weakening the outside of them. Now when he starts talking like that I listen.  He's a NC riverboy and sure nuff knows his stuff.  He lived hurricanes.  He and his family waited the hurricanes out. Like come and get me already Bertha.  In their house.  With water lapping up through their air vents.  Yes they did.  He knows about hurricanes.

And I'm thinking (Maybe I said this, but really, at this point all I can remember is chanting "Sweat is fat crying.  Sweat is fat crying"), "Honey, are we grounded?  Truly grounded?  Leaning on each other for things only God has the ability to give?  Are we taking him seriously?" God dredge out the sin. In our marriage, so that if something catastrophic happens, we have clearer focus of you." And I know he provides. And answers. And sanctifies. 

And now I gotta run.  I am frying bacon as I type.  For real.  The good kind, too. Hoping not to burn it, waiting for Ron to come home from his errand.  I'm sure he yielded to those bikers.  And I pray we yield to our faithful maker.