To ride, or not to ride: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler of the butt to suffer
The pain and cramps of outrageous discomfort,
Or to take up engine against endless road,
And by riding them? To snooze: to sleep;
No more; and by sleep to say we end
The wear of tyre and the thousand natural bumps
That backside is heir to, 'tis a dislocation
Obsessively to be wish'd. To ride, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of bikes what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes riding of so long life;
For who would bear the cold and heat of riding,
The road rager’s wrong, the slow driving woman,
The hassle of a flat tyre, the open road’s delay,
The insolence of faster bikes and the spurns
That patient riding of the unworthy causes,
When he himself might his slow riding make
With a bare arse? who would camping gear bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary day’s ride,
But that the tedium after the ride,
The undiscover'd road from whose corners
No rider wants to return, puzzles the will
And makes me rather bear those pains I have
Than ride to other places I know not of?
Thus indolence does make sloths of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution to ride
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of laziness,
And rides of great pith and moment such as Seabird
With this regard their pleasures turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - soft tomorrow!
The fair Chaff Cutter! Ride Leader, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
.
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poem: "Burnt Norton" by T. S. Eliot...
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Wont bother then

"woh woh an thrice woh.oh be-where the ide's of march"
frankie howard.up pompeii