Don't Call Me Tree Hugger

I had a disagreement with a tree yesterday.

During a mountain bike ride in the hills just outside of Nashville I lost control for a split second, or two. In my state of frenzy, I must have unwittingly elected to veer off the trail and attempt to mow down one of the resident trees. The tree however, recognizing the error in my logic, was starkly opposed to this choice and promptly made his disagreement known. Rather than offering a diplomatic request like "Why don't you go around me, instead of trying to to go through me" the tree simply responded with brute force and resilience. As I rapidly moved forward into said tree, I received a sharp thump on the head, many small slaps to the face, a whack to the nose, a gaping tree bark rash on my left arm, Rambo-style cuts across my right bicep and a boatload of minor bruises.

Once the initial shock wore off I stood up, dusted my sell off, and seeing that none of my new wounds appeared particularly life threatening, finished my ride.

My wife was sitting on the couch when I got home. Seeing the dirt on my clothes and my newly acquired cuts and bruises (my right bicep was still bleeding) she offered this semi-scold "You're proud of yourself aren't you?" My wife knows me well. I was proud of myself. She knew it, and I knew it. At least for that moment, I was proud to display my battle scars because I was Mike, bicycle mounted warrior of the trails!

I'm not sure why, it must be a guy thing, but there's just something about getting beat up and living to tell about it, isn't there?