hail mary full of grace

For some reason last night, I found myself and my two lapsed Catholic friends, walking up the stairs to a warehouse gig saying a few Hail Mary’s. Literally, bounding step by step with blessed art thou among women blessed is the fruit of thy womb.

Not sure why. It was just one of those things, where the litany, the repetition, the cheesy godliness of it just felt right.  Some language just stays with you, even after the reasons for praying are gone. We were going up a big hill. In some senses. We were three musketeers looking for trouble or maybe just a good time.  We found a loud band with a hot chick in an Indian headdress and gold leggings. Pilgrim’s reward. I’m sure we were channeling Lourdes.

I’m quite sure poor Monsieur Roy said a few Hail Mary’s himself last night on the way up a big hill. Then probably a few “Jesus Shits”* after coming down. What a ride. Poor fella. I’m sure he isn’t that worried if I personally feel sorry for him, but I do. I like to see some G&D. After the gig, I had the holy pleasure of watching the SBS Tour Tracker in bed, listening to the rain coming down like the holy water, blessing the earth and consecrating the mud for the Ipswich Cyclocross adventures (good luck BT). And it was a helluva ride. Smash mountains, jump the little barriers, keep climbing, find the sweet volcano of determination. Seek redemption, lose yourself, find yourself, and just keep riding.

(sirotti)

Sadly for Mr R, sometimes the ride and the race and the righteous path is given to the Gods. Sometimes they throw the hammer and it is all lightning, storms, tall trees, power, destruction, fertility, healing and the mastery of the mountain.

(via cyclingtips)

I wonder, if Thor the God of Thunder takes Mary Mother of God out on a date, who pays?

*Sorry Mum.