George (Georgetown Cycle Shop guy also known as George of the Jungle, or Gungle) started bass fishing back in the late '80s. He bought a really fast, zoot bass boat (Astroglass w/200 HP Mariner) and didn't ride bikes much after that.

I broke my leg riding my 500 MStar in 1986, fractured tibial plateau. What that means is, I broke a big chunk off of my knee joint and they had to do a bone graft to reconstruct it. Anyway, I made the bad decision to quit riding all together.

Ron (Beer Barrel) shredded one, or both, of his ACLs when he looped out his KTM 500 on dark mountain night in 1988. No alcohol involved there, I'm sure.

So there we were in January 1989, three single blown out run over has beens with no way to spend our income but going fishing every weekend. The only lake fit to fish in New Mexico (in the winter anyway) is called Elephant Butte and we've been there so many times that the adventure is gone. What could we do but plan a really "big" road trip. We decided to try San Carlos Lake near Globe, Arizona.

After getting our usual late afternoon--ok evening--start, Gungle, Beer Barrel, and the Bald Headed Mexican (I don't know who started calling me that but I'm gonna kick his ass) are happily rolling towards Arizona in the impressive George Town Cycle Shop heavy hauler (1970 Dodge Tradesman w/over 200,000 hard earned miles) with the sparkling Astroglass in tow. Ahh what a life...good friends, cold beer, and non-stop bench racing. Could it be any better than this. Damn right it could be better, we could be gettin some puss once in a while and we could be on our way to a desert race! But this ain't bad.

By the time we made the scene at San Carlos Lake, we were well and truly paralyzed. We fell out of the mighty Dodge Van and passed out where we landed.

With the almighty Arizona sun blazing high in the sky, Ron and I are awakened by an odd deep rumbling. The sort of sound I think a bear would make if he were about to bust out laughing, but didn't want to make any noise. Anyway, Ron and I slowly raised our throbbing skulls, laden as they were with the dense mass of serious over indulgence.

What the fu...Who inna hell is...

As our straining blood shot orbs slowly focus on the unbelievable scene before us. We see George perched on top of a yellow 55 gallon trash barrel, roll of TP hanging conveniently on the post supporting the barrel, and taking his morning dump while giggling like a porn star who is the pivot man in a cluster fuck.

I sprang to my feet. Cold seized, stumbled and fell hard (blowed out knees takes awhile to warm up doncha know?) scrambled for my gear bag and rifled through it in search of my trusty OM-10. I clicked off one of the funniest photos of my non-career. That photo, and many more like it, lay hidden in my garage...until I got a scanner.

Yesterday I emailed that photo to Bob Morgan in Sacramento, CA. Bob suggested that I make a Christmas card out of the picture. So without further long winded narration, and with the help of Paint Shop Pro, here is the master piece of all Christmas Greetings.