Of course I enjoy Mary Hopkin

A very blustery day around here and temps that haven't warmed up a whole lot to boot. Ordinarily, that's fine with me. Unfortunately, it's is a running day today. I suspect I'm not alone in my loathing of running on windy days. While wind may be a great untapped source of energy for our highly mechanized society, it's pretty miserable for one running/riding against it. One need only think back to driving one's automobile at a moderate speed into a particularly heavy wind and the ensuing to-ing and fro-ing of said car due to said wind and its effect on gas mileage. Replace the beloved 2-ton gleaming, dream machine with little old me and the gas mileage with my stamina.

Me x Stamina + Wind = SUCKS

Apologies for the math and to any mathletes out there feel free to correct. Just don't expect me to care. Moving on...

In the far too brief rundown of my Saturday, I neglected to mention the slight ordeal it was getting to the Tech game. Runner though you, dear reader, may not be, I trust it's still obvious that one, namely me, might be slightly tired after chugging 14 miles on Saturday morning. So instead of crashing on the sofa post-run as I would preferred, I quickly showered. Post-shower, my Dad and I loaded into the Tahoe to meet Marisol and Buster at a local fall carnival wherein Buster took great joy in the fact that the games were free. So did I, but probably for different reasons.

Luckily, Buster was able to get his fill of free stuff quickly and no tears ensued upon our departure. Smooth enough sailing for the next hour until the oil pressure in my Dad's large American gas-guzzler plummeted. This, as one might presume, was not good. Not being much of a gear head, I didn't really know exactly how bad this was nor did I really care. I just sorta figured that since sitting along with the speedometer, gas and temperature gauges is the oil pressure gauge that it was vaguely important. The Tahoe's constant warning beep having sufficiently removed any remaining doubt. To the nearest mechanic, posthaste.

Slight problem: there ain't a whole lot before Conyers once one gets past Madison. But being as we really had no choice, we stopped in Rutledge. A town which, by my estimation, has a population of more than 20 but less than a 100. But hallelujah they do have a liquor store and, shazaam, the Rutledge Park and Shop next door also sells motor oil and various DIY car repair junk.

It was like a mini Rutledge mall.

Not that we would have really known what to do with any of the DIY junk but maybe the high school kid cashiering on a Saturday afternoon might be able to point us in the right direction. Unfortunately, the mini Rutledge mall decided that early Saturday afternoon would be a good time to take a break from all the hustle and bustle that must surely ensue in a place such as that.

Sign on the liquor store: Closed, try next door.

Sign next door: We'll reopen at 3:00 pm.

It was 1:45 pm. Maybe they went fishing. That's apparently relaxing.

So we waited for a tow truck to appear out of thin air (it finally did), and with nothing better to do I studied the potential clientele for the Rutledge Park and Shop and Liquor Store. Judging from the constant stream of incoming cars, it would appear that none of the locals got the memo about the apparent fishing trip either.

Not sure if Atlanta was out of beer or the Rutledge Park and Shop and Liquor Store has a lax policy on carding the locals, but at no time were we in danger of being alone in the parking lot. Assuming each potential customer only bought a single can of Old Milwaukee, the Rutledge Park and Shop and Liquor Store still lost about $200 during my 20-minute observation.

That all disappointed would-be customers had remarkably similar reactions provided some level of amusement for my wait. To wit:

1. Car/truck drives up.
2. Fella(s) get out, most likely wearing UGA cap or paraphernalia. This is no exaggeration.
3. Walks up to door of Liquor Store. Gives 'er a tug with no success. Surprised as these things usually work.
4. Puts face up to glass with hands shielding the glare. Sees no life. Backs away with perplexed look.
5. Looks around for confirmation that owners are tools who have harshed his mellow.
6. Notices sign on door.
7. Reads. Enjoys sudden ray of hope.
8. Confidently marches next door, throat moistening in anticipation of golden nectar.
9. Gives 'er a tug. Again surprised to have no success. These things usually work.
10. Puts face up to glass with hands shielding the glare. Sees no life. Backs away with perplexed look.
11. Looks around for confirmation that owners are tools who have further harshed his mellow.
12. Considers/possibly utters a rude word.
13. Notices sign on door.
14. Reads. Utters/possibly repeats rude word.
15. Punches the air/his friend for waiting until kickoff to buy the beer.
16. Sulks back to car/truck.
17. Sits/stares into space with disbelief.
18. Contemplates suicide.
19. Remembers "next year" is going to finally be the Dawgs' and reconsiders topping himself.
20. Remembers it's always "next year" for the Dawgs' and reconsiders his reconsideration.
21. Drives off, barking, presumably in search of the nearest, highest cliff.

Rinse and repeat.