The Dirt On The Snow

The novelty of snow in Portland has become the norm. There is a good 12" with a solid inch of ice smack in the middle of the accumulation from a freezing rain a few nights ago. Wind has pushed some of the snow into some big piles in different parts of the yard or against the cars, etc. I wouldn't say Portland is shut down, just that the landscape has changed.

It's been 10 days or so now of regular accumulation. Even the media folks are tiring of themselves. I always wonder in these events what the line is between actual news/journalism and some moron standing on the side of a shut down highway reminding a television audience who'd rather be watching something else, that it is cold, windy and snowing in Troutdale. One local station shows Youtube clips of kids reporting the same information, "It's snowing, look a bird! It's still snowing."

Gavin is too young to appreciate all the snow and I still get more improvement from moving dumbbells or giant rubber bands around in the basement than running around in the snow like Rocky in Siberia. So I really haven't been out much. There is not much need either when A keeps making pumkin cookies, bread, pie, and ginger snaps. I pretty much do the rehab workout or ride the rollers for a bit, change the laundry, then head back upstairs to eat whatever just came out of the oven.

Yesterday we ran out of formula, coffee, and a few other necessities. I dusted off the skis, dug out some winter riding kit and made my way to the grocery store. The tire tracks were snowed over enough that they merely acted as rough ski tracks. I saw two cars and a half dozen skiers. Mine weren't the only pair of skis leaned against the wall at Safeway either. The good news is that I was just able to fit my Gore-Tex pants on and that the skiing didn't hurt nearly as bad as walking still does. On the down side, I forgot the grocery list.

Tastes Like:

I’ve never been a big fan of the specialty “energy” foods. Perhaps it was my early experiences with PowerBars back when they were still developing the recipe in 1986, which tainted my opinion. I recall a hot and windy road race in the desolate foothills near Walnut Creek, Ca. An area surely covered by track housing and strip malls today. The PowerBar leaked out of the wrapper like some sort of high density, fudge milkshake, covering the inside of the center pocket of my wool jersey. I was young and impressionable. Highly concerned about fitting in. Getting dropped in a bike race and looking like I crapped myself then stuck the poo in my pocket was not going to win me friends and it was pretty much crystal clear that I couldn't win races.

My next PowerBar memory was the following winter on Skyline Road above Palo Alto, on a group ride with Eric Heiden, the speed skating Michael Phelps of the 1980 winter Olympics. The whole ride is fodder for a different story, but suffice it to say; still hypercritical of my presentation, I bit into the bar while riding next to the 7-Eleven team rider’s left leg which was as big as me. I about broke my jaw because the damned bar was frozen solid.

As I developed as a racer I tried again the trendy bars and gels but found the specialty stuff to ignite my digestive track and clear a motel room of all 5 or more of my roomies. I learned about ham sandwiches, Fig Neutons, Pop Tarts and pastries of all varieties. I further justified my desire for “real” foods on long rides and in races because that is what the Pro’s ate. Even today, a mussette bag in a Grand Tour has more pastries than gel packs.

I still maintain that Pop Tarts, the cinnamon ones, are one of the greatest snack foods in the world. I love Pop Tarts. Cinnamon Pop Tarts. Sans Toaster.

I’m fast approaching 40 and not riding my bike. Exercise, as rehab isn’t burning the calories like regularly riding a bike. Last month I had to buy new pants in a bigger size. FOR THE SECOND TIME THIS YEAR! I can’t get away with eating the way I am accustomed to any longer. I need more salads, more whole grains. Fewer Pop Tarts.

Last week, I found High Fiber Pop Tarts. They have a dryer, less cakey taste than the white flower variety, but match the same sugary, cinnamon spice nectar. I imagine on a long ride they won’t offer the sugar spike like the traditional tarts, but again; I’m not riding my bike so what do I care? I can wash them down with a beer while stretching out the exercise band and watching TV if I get the knock. Besides, at this point in my life and past impaction experience, a little extra fiber can go a long way.

Not sure which is funnier...

...the tiny hat or G crapping in TK's hand?

Snow Day

Some years, the talking head meteorologists tease us with threats of snow that never come to pass. This year we got a home run on the first pitch.

The day after Thanksgiving A had me set the tree up. Years ago she wanted a fake tree. I conceded on the condition it could be spotted as such from a good distance. I think it's pretty clear that this tree is more closely related to a coat hanger than timber.

I realized that Trike and I are much the same. He used to love playing in the snow as recently as his 15th year. He would chase his Kong and slide all over as well as try to dig the sidewalk up from under the snow to make sure it was still there.

Yesterday I let him out and he went to the closest bush to pee then came right back in. When the whole Newmaforma briefly ventured outside, he hid under the plastic tree and refused to even get near the door. I can't disagree with his wanting to stay inside where it's warm. I could feel the storm coming in both my pelvis (for the 3rd winter now) and my hip.

Gavin seems unimpressed by the whole snow thing. He was more interested in bouncing on the mini-trampoline in the basement.

A took the day to bake. Like any good husband, I ate.

Thankful

In joining the masses in giving thanks, I am not suprisingly thankful for things like hip and elbow mobility, a healthy child and a wife who was tough as nails through post-childbirth complications that nearly killed her. But today I am thankful for left overs and pumpkin pie for breakfast!

Called to the carpet for misspelling rug

coif
noun
1. the arrangement of the hair (especially a woman's hair) [syn: hairdo]
2. a skullcap worn by nuns under a veil or by soldiers under a hood of mail or formerly by British sergeants-at-law

VS.


quaff
–verb (used without object) 1. to drink a beverage, esp. an intoxicating one, copiously and with hearty enjoyment.
–verb (used with object) 2. to drink (a beverage) copiously and heartily: We spent the whole evening quaffing ale.
–noun 3. an act or instance of quaffing.
4. a beverage quaffed.

Three Pompadours

Travolta: Legendary coif gets the girl



Wilfred Peeters: now retired baddass Flemish bike racer is forever tough enough to do whatever he wants with his hair.



The future of coiffure.

State of the Newman

Okay, so it's election night not the State of the Union night. Regardless, I figure you dear reader are due an update with more content than drivel such as, "I -heart- bike paths" or similar crapola.

 Friday I get a call from A that Gav had grown out of his recent constipation by taking a crap as big as one of his arms. The punchline? There was some blood involved so she called the MD who wanted to see our boys' butt hole asap. Turns out he just powered through and tore himself a new one. I'm kinda proud of him for that given my previous experience, but after what I saw on Thursday I moved on quickly without much fanfare. Besides, we had Halloween plans that night. Suffice it to say, Gavin is a true soldier of pain. A good skill to have in this house.

Tim has pics of G here. Friday he started out in his cowboy outfit -of which we purchased before he was born and he grew out of soon after he was born. He looked like a monkey in a too-small set of chaps and a mini Stetson. No pictures were taken as it was an embarrassment.

His second costume was the Bad to the Bone kit. This really fits into the Newmaform model as it will make for a good insulation layer come winter. The suit is fleece and the hat kinda makes him look like a Longshoreman.

A is healing. Chest X-rays show diminishing lung butter. The blood thinners are starting to settle down and give consistent blood level readings. Her usualness has returned (see my last post!)and in my opinion each day is better than the day before.

I had been feeling pretty confident with my hip and arm improvement until autumn really hit last week with chilly temps and rain. I think the first day of rain aged me about 40-years.

G, Trike and I went to the cyclocross race last Sunday for man-time. Trike hates crowds, prefers grass to walk on vs. gravel and detests being wet unless swimming in a lake in summer. The race had its usual crowd, was in a gravel pit with many mud puddles and we looked on under thunderous skies. He was not a happy dog.

On the other hand, it was good to talk folks and be reminded of everyones' concern for A and my recoveries, but mostly her. Some aspects of the local bike racing community I miss.

For the most part we hung around the waffle tent where Trike and I shared peanut butter waffles and talked about kids with Josh. For some reason I kept forgetting my umbrella there when we'd walk away. Every time we returned I figured I may as well get another waffle.

Lastly, I have beer in the garage fridge that supposedly will expire on Saturday. The goal is to rally all week...

Confession

Tonight at Dinner A came to a personal truth.

A: I truly believe I am a freak.

NF: Oh, Really.

A: Yes. When you fall asleep before me, I am lonely. When you stay awake watching TV, while I am trying to go to sleep before you so as to not feel lonely, it bugs the crap out of me.

NF: These biscuits taste really good.

More wall art

All the Italian bikes I've ridden -save one- have broken.

The Atala was nostalgic to a brief team experience in 1987. Primarily a fixed gear for winter training in recent years, I found a cracked lower head tube lug the other day while cleaning the other bikes I haven't ridden all year.

The trusty winter work horse Scapin, which did me well at Copperopolis during it's single race season, served mostly as a winter bike in California, Washington and Colorado but had one French race appearance at the Grand Prix Lillars. It had a crack around the brazeon guide for the rear brake cable at the front of the top tube, like a loose tooth, for a number of years. I stashed the Scapin in an attic in rural Flanders with a suitcase of clothes and a sleeping bag; never to be retrieved.

My Bianchi; the only bike I was ever paid to ride, fell apart at the head tube AND the bottom bracket much like the rider who starved on it.

The Bottechia Time Trial bike cries of dated technology akin to a DeLorian. Ridden by multiple riders including future champions, it's song ran out and landed with me. Now hanging in the attic with the rest, it's the one bike that is not broken but is completely useless with it's tiny front wheel and 1988 Swatch-watch paint job. Like a leasure suit that is not only out of fashion but long since grown out of in the waist, its fun to look at and think, "That was state of the art?"

A fork blade on the Guerciotti Cyclocross bike severed from the crown like a femur from it's head at the hip joint. The bike disapeared to a new home some years ago with an American made Serotta replacement fork. I still use the fork blade as an extension lever on socket wrenches to loosen super tight bolts. I think the broken blade is more useful than the bike ever was complete.

Next to these beautiful but broken and useless machines in my attic is another collection, one of crutches, canes, a walker and a geriatric portable toilet. Coincidence?

A Good Day at the Dairy

On Sunday, 1200 or so people raced at the Alpenrose Cross Crusade Cyclocross race. Which is good if your into huge crowds at bike races. I took G to watch. He mostly slept. It was a good day.

I've had good and bad luck at Alpenrose. Both on the velodrome and at cyclocross races. Never an average day, just the extremes. My first good day there was in like 1975 when visiting my cousins. Kathy was there for a horse riding day-camp and my aunt took Kevin and I to pick her up. Kev and I were like 4 or 5 then and we played in the mini-western town and looked at the velodrome and the people riding on it. Bikes on a track were well over my head but the experience of visiting had a subconscious positive impact.

I had a good day in a cross race there in 1999. It was dry, cool, windy and I had the kind of legs one rides all summer in search of. While racing through the mini-western town 20+ years after my first visit, I remembered clearly playing there with Kevin on the wooden sidewalks. On the back side, the northerly dirt side of property, I put some hurt to the pedals every lap, purging my anger of losing Kev. Around the ball field, onto the pavement and back through the western town I fondly remembered us as kids, all while I whirled through the turns on soft, knobby tires.

The top of the heap bad day was rolling the only tubular (tire glued onto the rim of the wheel)I ever have and breaking my shoulder on the track. That was 2003 which was a crap-tastic summer all the same. Neighbor Dave and I were growing mullets and A wasn't too happy with me for that; much less getting banged up bike racing. She came home, saw me lying in bed with ice on my shoulder asked what happened and immediately turned around leaving the house. When she returned she had a case of Henry's and said, "This is your sympathy; you can drink it all at once or milk it as long as you can. But when the beer is gone, so is my compassion."

The following Saturday she came home again, around 10.30 from having had coffee that morning with a friend. Finding me trying to mow the lawn wearing cut off shorts, a cut off sleeveless T-shirt, flip flops, bed-head mullet and a Henry's in the hand of my bad wing as a reminder not to use that arm to push the mower. She called me an embarrassment to the neighborhood, sent me inside and finished the front yard herself.

The picture up top is from the 2005 Six Day which takes the cake for best days since it was a week long. Bill and I rode it together in the heat of his Captain America phase. It was the week after I graduated from PSU and it rained every other day so we didn't even have to race all week! I spent my days casually looking for a job, watching movies, napping and my evening riding with perhaps my last descent legs. We finished second when it was all said and done, beat only by a duo containing perhaps the best loved bike racer in Oregon teamed with a guy I was coaching. So that was kind of a personal victory as well.

Regardless of my past, Gavin had a good day Sunday. Perhaps the best nap he had all week. I showed him off to everyone I knew, barely gimped around the course with friends I haven't been able to ride with all year, and watched a race I was okay with not being in this time around.

Sleeping or Lounging; she keeps her cool until I bring it up

I knew it would happen and I was okay with it. Mentioning it was my downfall. The dialogue went like this when I got home from work yesterday.

Newmaforma:I see you are still in your pajamas. I am glad to see that you've been able to just chill with G around the house today. (Opposed to trips to the MD on most days for blood tests, etc, etc. -ed.)

A: These aren't pajamas they are LOUNGE WEAR. (Pointing from shoulder to toes with both index fingers while shaking her head in a bobbling motion that is a sign of attitude and a coming "discussion".)

NF: They are pajamas...it's what you sleep in.

A: No. I slept in a night gown, I changed into this at two-oclock.

NF: Oh, you changed INTO them? They are pajamas.

A: Yes, I changed into them. They are LOUNGE WEAR as I am wearing them in the daytime to LOUNGE IN and I am wearing underwear as well.

Then we were done.

Upping the Anti for the Reconstruction

Forest Park here in P-Town has a 30-mile-or-so long trail from the Zoo north to Germantown Rd as well as numerous other routes along the way. A and I strolled a section casually during our first date. Stu and I miss-calculated the distance from G-town Rd to the swank NW 23rd and achieved an epic day on many of the trails. N'bor Dave and I found a lost dog and got a case of beer as reward for re-uniting dog and owner on the Leaf Erikson. In the past, when I have had time enough to hike or trail run beyond a quick trip to Mt. Tabor; I've gone to Forest Park.

Today, E, Gav and I made a short trip of it on the Wildwood from the Zoo to Pittock Mansion and back. This was my first outing beyond the pavement of our neighborhood for rehab. E barely broke a sweat, I about bonked from my gimp condition and Gav sucked down a bottle of formula, took a crap and a nap before getting tired of smelling my stink.

Hiking with baby lesson #1 is to never pack the butt-wipes with the ice pack that keeps the bottle of formula cold. Clearing crap from around his junk with a frozen block of wipes is totally ineffective.

G Rated

A Totally Different Year

This time last year I was getting amped up to race cyclocross in an effort to gain some fitness for one last season of racing on the road and track prior to Gavin being born and an indefinate bike racing/coaching hiatus. For my swan song I even got a bunch of 40+ men to don spandex zebra suits under the guise that they looked cool! They thought they did...but they didn't.

Clearly my plan was derailed. The irony is that even the day before the hip was broken I struggled to motivate myself to go for a ride. Instead I built a workbench. I was gaining weight; not losing it, and certainly not putting in the necessary base miles for my expectations. The broken bones and rehab zeroed out my odometer of perspective. All of it was merely build up to handle the Hell month that followed Gavin's delivery.

But Hell month is over and we are all home. Cyclocross season is just about to start and it is safe to say there will be no old men in Zebra print this fall. Even the young one is excited about that.

I -heart- PDX bike paths

Home... Again

A is home again from the hospital. Unlike a kid hopping off a rollercoaster and running back through the turnstyle for a repeat lap, we nearly hurl at the thought of continuing this ride. There will be more monitoring, office visits and blood tests in the coming days and weeks to ward off the patented Newmaforma trip to the ER followed by being admitted 9 hours later. Maybe this time next month we'll have wrapped up the 16th Fall Beach Classic with Officer B Conti.

One Month

G is a month old today. A should be out of the big house in a few more days. Speaking of House, DL says her case should be story line for the show. One of her MD's looks sort of like the fictional Dr. House but is not a tool.

G, Trike and I have been walking. The neighbors all think it's cute that a dude walks a dog and a kid. I don't get it. Trike thinks it's akin to being security detail for a candidate, G just sleeps, and I am sly enough to know that the stroller is really a camouflaged walker. It's still all about the rehab.

Now I am getting suspicious

For all the poking, prodding, testing, admitting nurses asking me point blank what her birthday is, CT scans, organ removal, blood thinning, 18/28 days away from home and her new son, etc, etc, etc, I am beginning to wonder if in-fact this is all just a rouse to rondevue with a hot MD? I swear...I wrote one story about a hot nurse...

Man Time

Saturday night we got a little more help from some friends. All the crazy-ness settled down just long enough for the boys to get some Olympic man-time. I dozed after Phelps showed yet again that he can swim the 100m faster than I can check the knot on my locker key at the waist of my swim trunks.

Done with the Hospital Sunday...

...went much better than Finally Home From the Hospital Friday. Even if quickly followed by Monday.

Not Funny Anymore

The question was asked of me yesterday, "What are the odds of A being back in the hospital?"

I posed the more relevant question, "What are the odds we get our own frigging parking place at the hospital?"

It's definately gotten old.

Finally out of the hospital Friday

Today, exactly two weeks after going in, A is home from the hospital. Not a shabby photo for a phone either.

How Polar Fleece Changed My Life

Neighbor Dave passed the fleece on to me with the experienced advice that it was the greatest thing ever.

I agree. The fleece wrap or sash or boy-bag or whatever it is; is Awesome. Now I can make coffee, brush my teeth, do some work...

What isn't awesome is G waking up for a 4 a.m. feeding then not wanting to sleep till 6. The same time I need to get out of bed and try to get something accomplished for the day. That last 90-120 minutes are the nectar of quality sleep that I am robbed of.

I hope Karl is reading this. His time is about up. I've changed more dirty diapers in the last few days that haven't even been on Gav long enough to stick the tabs together than ones that have been on him for more than 30-seconds. It's like putting white bar tape on with greasy hands then being upset that it's smudged when the job is done.

The good news is that Gavin has pissed in his own face more than mine. Justice is sweet revenge.

good pics

Tim took these last friday. much better than me and my treo. His photo blog is linked on the right as nuovo petite photog.

slumber party

Thursday Gavin and I went home. It was a rough night so friends have been staying over each night. Nancy and Jessica got Gavins room and gear all organized, cleaned and inventoried so I know what I have, need and what stuff is for. Saturday was pretty well documented. Gavin and Hadley waited for their dads to pass out, then hooked up.

First night is the worst night?

The hospital staff moved A to a different room last night and released Gavin to go home. A’s mom spent the night with her and played the heavy to keep from getting inexperienced or bitter nurses involved and to make sure the MD called the specialist who actually turned a plan into useful reality during the night.

Gav and I had to stop off by A’s folks to get Trike. I was worried Trike would feel put out with Gavin; Quite the opposite. Trike see’s the positive in that while he’ll get less attention than a baby, he can play with more “stuff”. In the photo is a foam pillow called a Breast-Friend used for nursing. I’m using a giant syringe with a hose and my finger to feed Gav, so Trike took to the Breast-Friend and found it very comforting.


I had plans of a poker game, or teaching Gav how to ride the rollers or glue up tubulars for Cyclocross season. Turns out he mostly ate, pooped and slept. This morning I didn’t feel up to dressing him in the clothes with the hospital name all across them that they sent us home with. We decided to just let him lay low in his camo blanket and wait to pounce.



I’m off to brew another cup of coffee.

I should have paid more attention

I'm not much for memorizing anything more than a 2 item grocery list. Thus, I don't know a single nursery rhyme or bed time song. Once, for a nephew I sang REM's "The One I love." For whatever reason, soon after first holding Gavin and looking at him sleep, a U2 song I haven't heard in years popped into my head. Now, he calms nearly instantly when I hum or sing this to him.


MLK

Sleep, sleep tonight
And may your dreams be realised.
If the thunder cloud passes rain
So let it rain, rain down on he.
So let it be.
So let it be.

Sleep, sleep tonight
And may your dreams be realised.
If the thunder cloud passes rain
So let it rain, let it rain
Rain down on he.

...and in the near corner,

...weighing in at eight and one half pounds and a full twenty-one inches,



...Gavin "I Grunt When I Poop" Newman!!!

Counting the Days

I'm back to work two weeks now. I have a handicapped parking pass which helps, but mostly I try to find the route of least resistance through facilities to where I need to be.

The cane has been getting less and less use. First around the house, then leaving it at home when walking the dog, limping around the neighborhood. Finally, leaving it in the car when going to the grocery store or where ever. I think in another week I'll be fully free of elderly devices. In the garage I have a shower bench, a walker, a portable toilet, a four-footed cane, a pair of crutches already.

Going back to work has made the days pass much more quickly. Of course when I get home I barely stay awake through the Tour De France coverage. Having the Tour to watch is a God-send too as it keeps my mind elsewhere while A and I wait for the kid to get a burr up his butt and come out to join us. Any day now.

The little man has been estimated to already weigh 9 lbs. One has to turn the page back in both our genealogies to find that kind of bulk. A has uncles, cousins and a grandfather who'd make better kilo riders than climbers. I know my cousin Kevin was a chubby kid. When we were 19 or 20 he wasn't too much taller than me and much leaner than when we were 10, but as kids he could sit on me and it meant game over for me in whatever disagreement we had.

At any rate, I have work and Le Tour to fill my nervous energy while we wait. It would sure be nice to go for a bike ride though. Even just along the Spring water, either to the end of town or to the waterfront. Just to turn the legs. To feel the wind and hear it pass while the chain makes it's subtle rhythm. I'll Probably not experience that until next spring with the kid in the Dutch cargo bike I'll have by then. But first I need to stop walking like a pirate.

New car or new motorcycle

My brother came by with his new 'car'. According to the DMV it's a motorcycle. That seems to be a stretch, maybe a scooter is a better description.

Four

Call it coming to terms with mortality, learning of the relationship between action and reaction or simply a crash course in physics. Whatever it was; I learned it when I was four. Un-related also at the age of four, I learned that adults, the ones you look up to, lie. Four was a big year for me.

Tough as it might be to get up every other day of the week, Saturdays have always come early for me. As a kid I mostly would watch cartoons and catch the week in review news which was 99.9% totally over my head. At one point there was a story about Smokey the Bear, a bear who was saved from fire in Yosemite. The bear was at a zoo and I hoped to someday visit him.

The Saturday before Mother’s day that year was a windy day in the suburb. Standing on a neighbors fence, coat stretched out and held cape like at the bottom end of the zipper with my hands, I could jump from the fence and land on the grass further away than if I simply jumped from the same height. In my mind that was proof enough that I could fly.

The flying game went on for some time that afternoon. My neighbor friends and I took turns jumping to see who could fly the furthest. The experience was the essence of childhood play. Late in the afternoon something went horribly wrong. I landed with my arm straight out, the forearm snapped as if I had two elbows on the same limb.

Weeks later, my mom enrolled me in a pre-school. The teacher was a Mother Goose like, retired elementary school teacher. She gave off a vibe of safety and comfort; someone a kid could trust. I was excited to spend my days doing whatever activities were planned. One particular day the teacher said, “Tomorrow we will have a special guest; Smokey the Bear.”

Excited beyond words, I woke up the next morning having pee’d my bed. Unfortunately the laundry was not up to date and I learned going commando was. All through breakfast, during the drive and as we pulled up to the school, my mom continually reminded me, “Don’t forget to go potty and be careful when you zip up your pants.”

Class went on for what seemed like forever until we all sat on the floor in front of the chalkboard for our afternoon special guest. I could barely contain myself. A fire truck drove into the parking lot and we were told that after visiting with Smokey we could climb all over the truck.

I could have cared less about the truck. I wanted to pet and play with Smokey. After a few songs and a game called “Let’s see who can be the quietest,” for which I never won, in walked a fireman. Then another, holding the hand of what looked like a guy in a bear suit with a ranger hat and holding a shovel. Other kids pointed and yelled Smokey’s name. I raised my hand then screamed out at the top of my lungs, “That’s not Smokey the Bear, that’s a man in a costume.”

Obstinate, the teacher quickly sat me on her lap. The guy in a furry suit told the class to not play with fire. I thought maybe the firemen should not have toyed with the emotions of kids. The rest of the summer went okay.

Watermelon Feet

The cool, wintry spring this year has been a blessing. But now it is summer. 100 degrees on Saturday. The kind of day one has a hankering for watermelon. A though, has watermelons for feet. 25 more days or so to go!

The Bixby Canyon Bridge

I recently bought the new Death Cab for Cutie CD; Narrow Stairs. It has not left me disappointed. The first track is titled, “The Bixby Canyon Bridge.”

The song pays respects to a dead friend while realizing that while the place is the scene of death, it is for most, a blink of the eye while travelling through every day life. At least that’s how I interpret it in 32 words.

At 16 I went on a church bike trip from San Jose to Disneyland. The trip was a stage for me as I was a social wall flower. On the bike though, I was comfortable. Cycling was my escape and bike racing was a way to vent my adolescent angst. I was good at riding a bicycle at a time when everything else in life seemed difficult.

I crossed the Bixby Bridge with Lorinda, a well matured blond who that season was my single thought while doing intervals or climbing hills as hard as I could when my mouth tasted metallic like blood and the legs burned like hot irons.

Amazed that I was totally comfortable next to her, we rode together for miles. She laughed at my jokes and shared her thoughts. My hands rested lightly on the hoods, legs spun smoothly, loosely. That moment was easy. Off the bike, in contrast, I stared at my feet, tripped over my words or avoided her all together. As we crossed the Bixby Bridge, everything was right in my world.

Unfortunately, just after the bridge, my eyes firmly set on her, we crested one of the many peaks along the coastal highway. I failed to see the giant boulder in the road and hit it straight on, collapsing my front wheel into a heart shaped pile of aluminum.

A few years later, Chris and I did an inland trip to Paso Robles and back up the coast. Riding cyclocross bikes fitted with racks and not nearly low enough gearing, we spent 3 days trying to drop each other with loaded packs while he extolled the virtues of college life.

Both of us thought the other brought a can opener. We ate canned soup and tuna opened with rocks our first night. Crossing the Bixby Bridge from the south on that trip I enjoyed the approach, the vista and the moment for what it was. The wind chilled my sun burnt skin. I thought 19 would last for much longer than it did.

So it was without forethought, after reading Henry Miller and the Beat poets and having developed a respect for the Big Sur that I would finally accept the loss of my cousin Keith, and mourn the tragedy of his brother Kevin during a 72 hour bender at Pfeiffer State Park. The power of nature on the Big Sur was the prologue to the hardest block of my life. I was powerless as even the fog engulfed me and I shivered in front of a camp fire I could barely see.

For the past 3 years the Tour of California has crossed the Bixby Bridge in rightly the harshest stage of the race. The bridge is a must-take postcard shot for the photogs. One might look at those pictures and see the race as a bridge between Euro Pro Cycling and the growing domestic Pro scene. Mostly, the Bixby Bridge reminds me of painful blisters that callus sensation-less so as to continue crossing the chasms that otherwise seem uncrossable.

Hormones or Loud and Proud?

The Mrs. seems to think that no one reads the comments on the blog posts. She may very well think that no one reads the posts either. She might be right on both counts. Either way, she e-mailed me today to make a clarification. Being 37 weeks pregnant she seems to have alot to say and say loudly or emotionally so at first I took her statememt with a grain of salt until she backed it up in person as how she truly feels. I just don't know what to think.

"I would appreciate it if you would amend your blog - I actually AM into the show Walker Texas Ranger and was royally pissed when we lost the Hallmark Channel and I could no longer watch it each night as I mentally gave a round house kick to my work day. I am not ashamed of it; am quite proud of it actually, and would like your readers to know. =)"

At least she put it out there that we no longer have the Hallmark Channel.

I love you too, A.

A Week

It's been a big week. Last Saturday, Markie took me to a crit in No-Po. Tuesday, Kent and I went and saw the new Indiana Jones movie. Save your money. Better was getting to see some Architecture projects he's eye-ball deep into while sipping a tall boy of the champagne of beers. A and I completed our birthing class on Wednesday. Saturday was another class called "Newborn care." We (mostly A) got the nod to have a baby.

Sunday A had a baby shower and John, Eli and I hung out. Eli showed me his mad 1 year old skills.





21 months ago, when Cadillac Jack broke my pelvis I was gifted the complete Chuck Norris movie catalog. When A had her surgery last summer, she was gifted the first season of Walker Texas Ranger. Dave the P/T has me working out on a Total Gym as well. Yesterday, the Newmanugget was given this t-shirt. The thing is, we really aren't that big of Chuck Norris fans. But the T is awesome all the same.



Okay, I may have, in the past, submitted my very own haiku to www.chucknorrisfacts.com but really, I'm not that into him.