Are you implying I brought them back in my car tires? Well, My treads are vacced. In the absence of proof, I will continue to deny and obfuscate.
We call it caltrope or bindi here. No not that Irwin kid.
I just crunched the numbers and some probabilities presented themselves...
Like a corona virus of the soles. A proverbial metaphor for the journey and the mythic connotations along the way...
Are you implying I brought them back in my car tires? Well, My treads are vacced. In the absence of proof, I will continue to deny and obfuscate.
We call it caltrope or bindi here. No not that Irwin kid.
We never had "goat heads" here when I was a kid but the people a couple counties south of us always did. A few years ago I was at our fairgrounds and they're there. Evil sonsabitches came right through the soles of my shoes.
We have yellow star thistle here - nasty, invasive plant which produces YUGE star
shaped prickers that will shred you a new a-hole. At my first falconry field meet, the
folks who took us hunting with them warned us about them. Moral of story:
I hate those bastards. Used to have a lot of them at my old house. A few years ago we went up to north east Victoria, stopped in a town and it was all over. Now it has shown up here.
Like a corona virus of the soles. A proverbial metaphor for the journey and the mythic connotations along the way...
We never had "goat heads" here when I was a kid but the people a couple counties south of us always did. A few years ago I was at our fairgrounds and they're there. Evil sonsabitches came right through the soles of my shoes.
I hate those bastards. Used to have a lot of them at my old house.
A few years ago we went up to north east Victoria, stopped in a town and it was all over. Now it has shown up here.
We never had "goat heads" here when I was a kid but the people a couple counties south of us always did. A few years ago I was at our fairgrounds and they're there. Evil sonsabitches came right through the soles of my shoes.
We never had "goat heads" here when I was a kid but the people a couple counties south of us always did. A few years ago I was at our fairgrounds and they're there. Evil sonsabitches came right through the soles of my shoes.
Oh gosh! Yes! I mean, we have sticker plants here too but out west? like little hell seeds. Like spike balls in the feet! Those things are medieval, dude...
We never had "goat heads" here when I was a kid but the people a couple counties south of us always did. A few years ago I was at our fairgrounds and they're there. Evil sonsabitches came right through the soles of my shoes.
Spanking of bare feet... once when I was real little - maybe about four - I was hanging around my house
by myself - barefoot. I walked across this triangle shaped easement that was just mostly dirt but it had
tumbleweed plants completely jam packed with california desert style stickers, too. I took about four
steps onto that unassuming patch then froze when I felt that the bottoms of my little feet were totally
covered in the prickly little bastards. I just started wailing. I couldn't move. An nice old gent who lived
nearby came to my rescue. He picked me up and put me on his knee and brushed all the stickers off my
trotters. And I can't say I lived happily ever after but I lived. Nasty critters, those stickers. Dumb story
that I will never forget. And what a ballbaby!
Ha, yeah, we had prickles. all over our lawn in summer. Sounds kind of similar. When you got bored at school you could spend some time digging them out with the point of your compass. Worst thing in our garden though was when the magpies were nesting and they'd attack you.
In the neighborhood where I lived there was a dirt road that got fresh tar about once a year and in the summer when I went barefoot, like most of the time, the soles of my feet would stay black. My mom never banned me going barefoot but I did step on a broken Coke bottle once and that pretty much put a dent in my shoeless habits for awhile. Out where my cousin lived there was a tarred dirt road too with a great bank in a curve and when I got my drivers license and my first car, which was a Kawasaki 250 dirt bike, I wrecked trying to ride it up high on that banking curve. Anyway that's all my tar stories...
Spanking of bare feet... once when I was real little - maybe about four - I was hanging around my house by myself - barefoot. I walked across this triangle shaped easement that was just mostly dirt but it had tumbleweed plants completely jam packed with california desert style stickers, too. I took about four steps onto that unassuming patch then froze when I felt that the bottoms of my little feet were totally covered in the prickly little bastards. I just started wailing. I couldn't move. An nice old gent who lived nearby came to my rescue. He picked me up and put me on his knee and brushed all the stickers off my trotters. And I can't say I lived happily ever after but I lived. Nasty critters, those stickers. Dumb story that I will never forget.
Oh gosh! Yes! I mean, we have sticker plants here too but out west? like little hell seeds. Like spike balls in the feet! Those things are medieval, dude...
In the neighborhood where I lived there was a dirt road that got fresh tar about once a year and in the summer when I went barefoot, like
most of the time, the soles of my feet would stay black. My mom never banned me going barefoot but I did step on a broken Coke bottle once and that pretty much put a dent in my shoeless habits for awhile. Out where my cousin lived there was a tarred dirt road too with a great bank in a curve and when I got my drivers license and my first car, which was a Kawasaki 250 dirt bike, I wrecked trying to ride it up high on that banking curve. Anyway that's all my tar stories...
Spanking of bare feet... once when I was real little - maybe about four - I was hanging around my house
by myself - barefoot. I walked across this triangle shaped easement that was just mostly dirt but it had
tumbleweed plants completely jam packed with california desert style stickers, too. I took about four
steps onto that unassuming patch then froze when I felt that the bottoms of my little feet were totally
covered in the prickly little bastards. I just started wailing. I couldn't move. An nice old gent who lived
nearby came to my rescue. He picked me up and put me on his knee and brushed all the stickers off my
trotters. And I can't say I lived happily ever after but I lived. Nasty critters, those stickers. Dumb story
that I will never forget. And what a ballbaby!
My feet were hard as nails back then. Bare foot was the only way to go. Even my first long-distance runs were all done barefoot till Mum took a trip to Australia and brought back some running shoes. It is amazing what feet can withstand if you give them the chance to toughen up. Bummer about your bike though.
lol. Yep. Had to be tough. I never rode barefoot though. lol I just hammered it out and kept ripping...
In the neighborhood where I lived there was a dirt road that got fresh tar about once a year and in the summer when I went barefoot, like most of the time, the soles of my feet would stay black. My mom never banned me going barefoot but I did step on a broken Coke bottle once and that pretty much put a dent in my shoeless habits for awhile. Out where my cousin lived there was a tarred dirt road too with a great bank in a curve and when I got my drivers license and my first car, which was a Kawasaki 250 dirt bike, I wrecked trying to ride it up high on that banking curve. Anyway that's all my tar stories...
Theres a song in there somwhere... barefoot tarheeled boy
In the neighborhood where I lived there was a dirt road that got fresh tar about once a year and in the summer when I went barefoot, like most of the time, the soles of my feet would stay black. My mom never banned me going barefoot but I did step on a broken Coke bottle once and that pretty much put a dent in my shoeless habits for awhile. Out where my cousin lived there was a tarred dirt road too with a great bank in a curve and when I got my drivers license and my first car, which was a Kawasaki 250 dirt bike, I wrecked trying to ride it up high on that banking curve. Anyway that's all my tar stories...
My feet were hard as nails back then. Bare foot was the only way to go. Even my first long-distance runs were all done barefoot till Mum took a trip to Australia and brought back some running shoes. It is amazing what feet can withstand if you give them the chance to toughen up. Bummer about your bike though.
In the neighborhood where I lived there was a dirt road that got fresh tar about once a year and in the summer when I went barefoot, like most of the time, the soles of my feet would stay black. My mom never banned me going barefoot but I did step on a broken Coke bottle once and that pretty much put a dent in my shoeless habits for awhile. Out where my cousin lived there was a tarred dirt road too with a great bank in a curve and when I got my drivers license and my first car, which was a Kawasaki 250 dirt bike, I wrecked trying to ride it up high on that banking curve. Anyway that's all my tar stories...
Theres a song in there somwhere... barefoot tarheeled boy
(paraphrasing a bit here in the course of the translation) I don't want to eat the pomegranate at the table, I want to spread it over the yellow sofa and eat it like a cat.
My mom banned pomegranates from my diet. Fortunately they grew all over the place. We could just suck the sweet tart juice out of as many as we wanted. And I really tried not to dribble it all over my shirt but I was busted every time. Pomegranate lecture number 46.
In the neighborhood where I lived there was a dirt road that got fresh tar about once a year and in the summer when I went barefoot, like most of the time, the soles of my feet would stay black. My mom never banned me going barefoot but I did step on a broken Coke bottle once and that pretty much put a dent in my shoeless habits for awhile. Out where my cousin lived there was a tarred dirt road too with a great bank in a curve and when I got my drivers license and my first car, which was a Kawasaki 250 dirt bike, I wrecked trying to ride it up high on that banking curve. Anyway that's all my tar stories...
(paraphrasing a bit here in the course of the translation)
I don't want to eat the pomegranate at the table, I want to spread it over the yellow sofa and eat it like a cat.
My mom banned pomegranates from my diet. Fortunately they grew all over the place.
We could just suck the sweet tart juice out of as many as we wanted. And I really tried not
to dribble it all over my shirt but I was busted every time. Pomegranate lecture number 46.
Lots of marbled trails linger from those days...
