Farmers, runners, kayakers, cyclists all have one thing in common: the farmer blow. If there’s not one already, there’s bound to be a 2nd definition of Farmer Blow on the Urban Dictionary that has nothing to do with snot, nor a bike, but a whole lot to do with the art of rural love making. This is about the first definition: the act of dislodging a nose nugget with nothing but forced nasal air. Moreover, I cannot stress this enough, while farmer blows may be an accepted practice while riding a bicycle, doing another outdoor sport or gathering the harvest, it should not be practiced anywhere else…like say while wearing a designer suit just before a meeting with a big client. Yes…it happened. Yes…people were horrified. No…it wasn’t me and no I will never tell.
Personally, just like snapping with my left hand or rolling my tongue upside down, I can’t do a farmer blow. Part of it is the dexterity and body coordination necessary, the other part is I fear, unlike my ability to spit like a major leaguer in the dugout, I may lack control of the trajectory of something flying out of my nose. The last part is that, even though I still laugh at farts, I somehow think farmer blows are as gross as my cat licking the earwax of used Q-tips or my retired mother letting the parakeet rub its parakeet bits against her knuckle while sitting on her hand and dismissing it as “natural.” Still I envy those with the talent.
There are cyclists I know that can accurately fire a mucus missile better than most Redman users can hit a spittoon. Pa-bing! While riding at high speed they can deftly plug the unclogged nostril with one finger, and like a potato gun, can air-cannon the booger ball from the other precisely under their arm, above their leg and right into the sewer on the side of the road. Two points! I’ve seen it. It was so amazing and spectacular I nearly applauded. Bravo Maestro of the Mucus. Bravo!
It just so happens that one of these mucus maestro cyclists was traveling on business. Dressed in the finest BananaRepublic.com can deliver and headed into an important client meeting, they and their boss parked their shared rental car and gathered their laptops and folders. With the traditional “is there any spinach in my teeth” pre-meeting checks taking place, the at-work cyclist checked that the shoes weren’t scuffed, finger nails were clean, put finger to nose and pulled the trigger. Mmmph-phoop. Oh yeah. Then, like a best man adjusting himself in front of first-time family, the reality of the situation overtook the cyclist. At first, the cyclist thought, “maybe the boss didn’t see it.” Which of course lasted all of 1.4 seconds when the boss asked, “did you…uh…just…,” without finishing the question. Yes. Yes came the sheepish admission. For splayed on the lapel of that freshly dry cleaned high end suit jacket lay the shrapnel of proof.