Make Mine Mike

I remember reading about a pissing contest, two macho apes trying to outdo each other, tossin’ testosterone all over Texas. Actually, I do the same thing here in Santa Monica, like last weekend, with my buddy Mike.

Yeah, his name is Mike, too. Sometimes we tell people we’re brothers and our parents were unimaginative when naming us. You’d be surprised at how many people actually believe that. Maybe it’s because Mike kinda looks like me, except he wears glasses, is an inch taller, five years older and about -- shit, at least thirty pounds heavier.

The fat fuck is surprisingly athletic, though. I can understand why he swims so much -- that built-in buoyancy helps sea-lions and penguins and Mike (oh my!), but his biking ability -- that’s pretty amazing for a guy with a bowling ball belly. Take Lance Armstrong, double the girth, subtract that one testicle (probably) and you got Mammoth Mikeyboy there.

If you think I’m being cruel about my friend, believe me, I take twice the crap from him. His wit is dryer than the Sahara and I’m always getting caught in the sandstorm.

How many times has he brought up our bike ride from a few years ago? After hearing him brag about how he would sprint up Mandeville Canyon to Mulholland, he dared me to take a ride with him. Hell, I had run two marathons within a year, there was no way the old man could beat me. We ventured up some steep incline near Will Rogers State Park, and I pumped the pedals past him -- barely. But at the top of the hill, I had to stop and practically fall off my bike. I was winded, dizzy and kinda nauseous. Staggered around and sucked wind like Darth Vader on drugs. And Jabba the Hutt just sat on his padded seat and laughed.

Ever since I got my new mountain bike, Mike’s been bugging me to go again. “Bring your helmet and barf bag,” he tells me.

Well, I haven’t been riding much. I haven’t been running much lately either. So when he told me he’d be going up to the Santa Monica steps last Saturday, I was hesitant to join him.

It’s not that I haven’t been there before -- I’ve climbed the 189 steps in the staircase, but --

“How many sets can you do?” Mike narrowed his four-eyes at me...

I don’t do sets, I told him. I nonchalantly mentioned that I do one set... as part of my eight-mile running loop. Not gonna be one of those fitness hamsters going up and down and up and down...

But if Mike wanted to challenge me...

We rode our bikes up to the steps -- the bastard said he’d go slow so he wouldn’t lose me and I wouldn’t lose my lunch -- and that’s when I offered to make this interesting. He’d never agree to a straight money bet, so how ‘bout loser buys the winner brunch at Callahan’s tomorrow? A chance for free food at our local diner? Mike was on board.

He took us to a different set of stairs, a few blocks away from the one I go to -- I didn’t even know about this. It was probably the same distance, same number of steps, but it was more daunting. Mine is a concrete path winding through the woods; this one was a long wooden row going straight up -- you can see the entire hill in front of you.


I let Mike go first and followed him down, then back up. Even in that first set, he slowed as he reached the top. Was this psychological warfare? Get me cocky early on? I passed him, but took it easy. Wasn’t gonna let him tortoise-and-hare me again.

When we got done with the second circuit, he was beet red… and beat. “I guess I’ll do three sets another time,” he said between breaths. “You wanna head home?”

“Are you kidding?” I had to do a third set. Just hadta.

When I came back up again, Mike reluctantly nodded his head in defeat. But I wasn’t gonna let him off that easy. Time for a victory lap. “You rested up?” I said, “C’mon, you can do your third set now.”

He sighed, and as I followed him back down the steps, I started to feel bad. Not tired -- guilty. What if Mike had a coronary trying to keep up with his younger “brother”? Or I was afraid he’d lose his balance and tumble down the stairs like that priest in The Exorcist.

Maybe he was thinking the same thing, ‘cause he stopped at the top and said, “Nah, you go ahead, Mike.” Ha. I could show off guilt-free.

After the fourth set, truthfully, I was just getting warmed-up. I had a nice sweat going and really felt like I could do at least two more circuits. But there was no need to rub it in. I’d let Mike go home and lick his wounds. And this would even the score. He had his Triumph of the Will Rogers State Park; I won the Battle of the Bulge. Plus, I got a free brunch outta this.

The next day, he called me around 11 to pay his debt. I just woke up, groggy, but suddenly energetic to the thought of eggs benedict, maybe hash browns… ooh, pancakes!

I jumped outta bed… and landed flat on my face. My legs were killing me. The calves and hamstrings felt like the concrete steps I sometimes climb. It would take me a while to loosen up. There was no way I could walk the two blocks to Callahan’s. Hell, I couldn’t make it down the stairs of my apartment complex. This time, I was the one who said, “Nah, you go ahead, Mike.” He chuckled.

“Yeah, go enjoy that greasy bacon without me,” I said. “Add an extension to that front porch of yours.”

“Didn’t you say you got your mom a new wheelchair? Go get the old one. I’ll push you around in it.” Mike said, “You gotta handle your own colostomy bag, though.”

Dammit.