It's the New Year! Who wants a resolution?

Here it comes, barreling at you like a hopped up spider monkey—2025, baby, and I’m kicking off with my annual anti-resolution resolution. That’s right. Pass on the promises, dodge the self-improvement platitudes, and swerve hard away from the "dang, I didn't learn Origami this year" guilt spiral. Who needs another regret in the dumpster fire of modern existence? Not me, amigo.

One bike ride logged this year. One. And the art? Less than that. Am I sweating it? Not yet. The real world has yanked my leash lately, and while paying attention to it isn’t my A-game, I’m trying. If I learned one thing from G.I. Joe, "knowing is half the battle". The other half? I’m guessing bullshit and duct tape, but don’t quote me on that.

Let’s talk 2024. Oh yeah, it brought its fair share of ass kicks and bitch slaps. Newsflash: 2023 wasn’t a picnic either. And guess what? 2025 will probably come at ya too. That’s the deal, folks. Life shows up, punches your ticket, and rides you around the sun whether you’re grinning or grimacing. The secret sauce? Somewhere in that maelstrom of chaos, there’s also love, laughs, and moments that make you wanna throw your head back and howl at the moon. Focus on those. Ignore the rest—or at least try to.

But wait, let’s circle back—because I lied...

"Resolve This" © Mike Moore Studios 2025

There is one tiny little resolution, buried under all this blather. Not really a resolution. More like a grudge match between me and a chunk of dirt. There’s this 25-foot section of trail I’ve never conquered, at least not this direction. It's not as flat as it looks, weird angles, obbstacles straight out of Beelzebubba’s design catalog. Dozens—maybe hundreds—of attempts, and every time it spits me out like gas station Sushi. But 2025 is the year. It’s not a resolution, damn it. It’s a goal. And goals? Goals are made to be CRUSHED. Good GOB, could I be any more cheesy? Most likely.

Here’s the final scoop: take care of yourself. Take care of others too, if you’ve got the bandwidth. Why slap a time limit on it? Forget “new year, new me.” Just keep trying to be less of a dick every day. Improvements? Sure, let’s sprinkle those in.

Good Times.

When you get bucked off...

"Bucked Off" © Mike Moore Studios 2024

 

There’s that old cowboy mantra — "When you get bucked off, get back on!" — rattling around in my head like a rock in a hubcap. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not one for motivational nonsense. Those kitten posters telling me to “hang in there” just make me wanna roll my eyes. Sure, hope the little furball makes it, but seriously, we all got our own battles, right? Suck it up, buttercup. (Kidding… mostly.) No one deserves to go through hell, but do we really need discount hobby shop wall art screeching “Live, Laugh, Love” at us like some demented suburban mantra? Makes me wanna “Hurl, Puke, Vomit.”

Dammit… I’ve drifted off the trail here. Focus.

Okay, so picture this: I’m just your average overgrown manchild, who, in a moment of misguided showboating, managed to “injure” himself. Yeah, injured. Nick, my ever-wise buddy, pointed that out. “You didn’t get hurt, man. You injured yourself.” And damn it, he’s right. It’s been a while since I’ve been legitimately injured, and I guess I’d just forgotten that it could still happen. I’ve never been the gnar god, with skateboarding or mountain bikes, keeping it relatively low key — just trying to stay around maybe a “twist your ankle if you mess up” level. But, you know, sometimes life will give you a taste of knuckle sammich.

Fast forward to today. My third ride since getting cleared to run free again. Back at the scene of the crime, BLORA. Knocked out a solid 10 miles, the sun shining, wind in my face, and — miracle of miracles — no trips to the ER.

(Side note: tried to do this on Tuesday, but forgot my helmet like the aforementioned manchild I am. I took it as a sign from the Ride Gods, packed up, and went home. No tantrums, no broken bones, just a wounded ego.)

Now, on the way back home, I pass another trail — Miller Springs. The legs were feeling like they were plugged into an electrical socket, so I thought, why not? Stopped and knocked out a few more miles of a favorite hunk of trail still recovering from tornado redecorating.

So now here I am, tapping out this rambling mess of thoughts. Bottom line? I got bucked off, but I’m back on, baby. Feeling invincible, ready to tackle the world, and hey, there’s some amazing leftover vittles waiting for me. Life’s good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some vacuuming to do and some scrubbing bubbles to set loose.

Have Fun!