Check it out. Any website that looks to be packed with boat loads of useless drivel about old bicycles (much like my own, here!) is OK by me! The Goatsurfing part?....er. Hmmm.
Seems like a dubious pass-time to me. Skill seems to be involved, and a resistance to ( or fetish for!) farm-yard stench I'm sure.
Some level of embarrassment for the 'dance-partner' I'd imagine...
Hemingway Seal of Approval...
The goats were dark. The surfing was brisk. Dark Goat-surfing was good. The goats were good. The meat was tender.
"Can I get a go, dear?" she asked.
"Hmm", I replied.
"You know I don't compete well with hobbies, dear. Do pay attention." she hissed.
"What rot" I said
The air was full of Goat Smells. Got Smells are not good. Goats are ripe beasts. Ripe is good, but never when describing a goat. Unless you are from Alabama. Alabama is not good.
"Please listen, dear. I'm speaking" she pouted.
"Hmmm", I replied.
"Fine, have your way with the ripe goats then!" she barked
I blinked, and realized she was gone. She was work. Too much work. Work should never keep a man from his goats. She was good, though. Good and ripe. Perhaps I should make it up to her with some stale Chianti in Pamplona...