Weight, weight, don't tell me

Okay, now, I realize I have a lot of stuff loaded onto Ollie. No, really, I do. People stop and gawk all the time as we roll past. "What the...?" But can you believe my new friend Buddy loaded me up with *another* bag at the campground in Liberty, Mississippi? Yep. After helping me bandage up the bleeding hand wound -- oh, right, I should maybe elaborate on that -- he insisted I take two MRE packets. One with chicken and beans and rice and a second with pasta and marinara and vegetables, and both came with a drink mix and cookie. There's even a little self-heating device for the main course. I guess most folks in hurricane country have a few crates of these around. An interesting twist for the bikeable feast, to be sure. But seriously, Buddy must be the first person I've met in 22 states to actually tell me I could fit *another* bag on here somewhere (and not be saying it sarcastically). That's southern hospitality for you.

So: the bloody hand. Wouldn't you know that I was sitting in my tent making a sandwich this morning when my multi-tool got jammed. I had the feeling I should be careful, so I was. Well, until the blade finally started to close and I jabbed myself right square in the palm with the scissors and started bleeding like a stuck pig. I mean BLOOD EVERYWHERE. My tent looks like the set for a Coen Brothers movie. I stumbled out of the tent, gripping my wrist above my head, and made a beeline for where I'd seen a couple of gentlemen unloading a truck by the shower building. I thought it best to be around other people in case I passed out. Did I mention there was a lot of blood? It was like a dress rehearsal for the Black Knight scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Anyway, Buddy helped me dress and tape the wound once I got it rinsed out. His companion, a younger guy in striped trousers finishing up a two-year sentence for doing coke, offered me a tube of Neosporin -- I'd vouch for this guy as a model citizen any day.

I've given up some of my hypochondriac tendencies, but after the random staph infection this December, I thought it a good idea to get myself checked out. I slowly packed up my gear, wiping off what blood I could so as not to attract undue attention from the police as I continue my journey, and made my way to the nearest health clinic for a tetanus shot. Friendly and just a bit curious, the medical staff squeezed me in to see the doctor around lunchtime. Aside from discomfort for about a week, I don't foresee any serious complications. Of course, it's tender and bruised right where I lean on the handlebar, but I'm tough. (*whimper*)

And, yes, regarding how much weight I'm dragging around, well for my part I've put on roughly two pounds since leaving DC over a year ago. (They weighed me at the clinic.) Ollie, though... wooh! For those of you still wanting to know how much Ollie weighs -- now with two MREs and a jar of mayhaw jelly adding a solid pound -- I'll never tell. Or, rather, if I ever make it onto the Daily Show one day, maybe I'll roll a fully loaded Ollie onto a scale. Actually, Jon and I will probably need to go off site to a truck weigh station....

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