In case many of you missed it the government shutdown on October 1 was the unofficial herald of the Apocalypse. No really! I didn’t bother going in to work. I didn’t bother calling in. You can get away with that in the Apocalypse.
The Mozhicans were out of town last weekend at some wedding or something. Jeff was in the program (I think he performed the ceremony) and had to wear a fake mustache. Anyway, I got a text on Sunday that read:
Headed back to the ole pee oh cee oh right now.
I’ve been trying to decipher the coded message hidden in that text for most of the week. Thankfully the Apocalypse has freed up my schedule. I still haven’t figured it out, but I’m sure it’ll come to me in time. I'm just glad they got back home in time for the Big Event.
I responded with:
Um, don’t go straight home…
It’s not like they have pets for us to check in on. And I promise I think I turned off the gas before we left. I mean, we were never there so how would I even know if they had gas in their house. But Jeff was all cool about it:
Why, did you plow the whole 50 for an “extreme park?” As kymba prez east you have that power.
Blew that opportunity.
Aw man! Wish I’d known that on Friday. No, there was a slight accident with a particle accelerator and a Strava account. Your house is dayglo orange.
Now, “particle accelerator” is a euphemism for acetylene torch, but I don’t know if Jeff knows that. But since he didn’t blow up textularly I didn’t think they’d mind us crashing their Apocalypse party, so early on Tuesday morning I texted:
Govt shutdown! The apocalypse is on! We’re on our way up to the Mozhican compound with the kids! What’s for breakfast?
I’m guessing that the Mozhicans knew about the Apocalypse before bedtime and decided to sleep in because it was quite a while before Jeff responded, even after I prodded (I’ll bring my bike too).
The first few days of the Apocalypse were grand. No one gave a thought to paying a mortgage. We didn’t have to worry about replacing our dead Gump. The Mozhican compound is far from long straight stretches of roads where gangs of post-apocalyptic hoodlums can chase our tanker truck so things were pretty quiet.
Then tensions rose when no one was uploading to Strava. I was like, Hey! There’s no reason to go radio silent! In fact, with this here Apocalypse on there’s even more time to create and maintain segments. I’m KOM of the end of the world!
Nobody else in our little light carrying enclave agreed, and they actually had the nerve to tell me we needed to focus more on survival and less on building new singletrack. So I had to go off by myself for a few days. It was my first real bikepacking trip. I mean, isn’t that what the Apocalypse is for?
When I came back the kids were only a little more feral and Jeff had regrown his molestache. I knew things just weren’t going to work out unless we could balance the exquisite freedoms of the Apocalypse with the need to fight off roving bands of Scavengers and scrounge cans of pork-n-beans from the remnants of a dead society. Sorry Jeff, no vegetarian options at modern society’s finish line.
So here I am, writing this my farewell note to the world as I prepare to face Jeff in the Thunder Bowl. Two men enter, one man heaves. It’s finally come to this. I have tried to assert that I am the natural leader of our collective clan because I am the KyMBA East president but Jeff says since he finished the Mohican and I DNFFed I must defer to him. We’ll be settling this mano y mano. I told him no cheating. No pulling armpit hair or purple nurples. This will be a fight to the death; no reason for painful bruising. Let’s make this clean.
I do have hope for the future. Early the other morning when I was hunched on a boulder overlooking the forest, homemade spear poised in anticipation of stabbing into the heart of a wild boar, I heard a noise—a sound that hearkened back to the old days, back before Obamacare and the end of all that is good and holy in the universe. I adjusted my loincloth and angled my head--ears straining.
It sounded like a school bus jamming gears down the road below our forest compound. It was almost as if the Apocalypse had never happened. I imagined that somewhere people were going about their lives living and dying, working and sleeping, eating and…well, y’know. And then I pondered…maybe I should call the office.