Prep Work

Thursday, A texted the above picture to me. Her and G were baking cookies for Santa. G has begun to understand Christmas traditions and thus was eager to make the best cookies for Santa that he could. The best cookies are seperated from average cookies by the amount of frosting caked onto the cookie and sugar sprinkles generously poured onto the frosting.


Friday, Christmas Eve, G woke early, a day early, but was greeted with the gift of his very own skis. This of course after he broke the yard stick in an unsupervised Warren Miller moment on the basement stairs.

The ski's were a hit and G took to the flat trail easily. "Wow, this is slippery!" was all he had to say. A few hundred yards later he was ready to get into the sled with his crew.



The testing of his athleticism now behind us, it was time for dad to get to work. We made good of two hours and G slept some and ate some. When we returned to the car and I pulled him out of the sled, he handed me the last cookie from the bag once filled with a half dozen or so. "Here Daddy, I saved it for you." The sandwich, apple and granola bar were untouched.

About 20-minutes into our hour or so drive home he said he didn't want to make our usual DQ stop for a corn dog. At the forty minute mark he said his tummy hurt. He usually says this when he's hungry so I payed no attention. Not that I turned the radio up to ignore him. I just gave the comment as much credit as a kid riding down HWY 1 saying he just saw a killer whale jump out of the water with a tattoo that read, BMX RULES on its' side.

A few minutes later as we came into town and were stuck behind a city bus calling on every stop, block after block, G said he was going to barf but was interrupted by his own hurling of way too many sugar cookies.


Now, to digress for a moment, any potential or soon to be parent reading this, I give this golden nugget of advice: Learn how to remove the straps and padding of your child seats BEFORE trying to work around the pool of vomit.

At any rate, later in the evening at the Christmas Eve service, G proudly told everyone who would listen that "Today I skied and I barfed!"

Just before bed, he was excited to leave Santa a cookie but was slightly apprehensive that Santa too, would barf. So was Santa.



As with many times in life, the best way to get over a bad experience is to get back on the horse, have a little hair of the dog, put your nose to the grindstone, or soldier through. Today G and I did all that. We talked in great detail on the drive up the mountain about why he barfed. I reassured him that by not eating cookies for lunch his odds of barfing were drastically lowered. I expanded about sunscreen and skin cancer but lost him. Then I promised him a reward if he in turn promised to be brave.

Back to Normal

Life at the NewmaForma Service Corsa is getting back to normal. After our brief toe dabbing back into the world of Cyclocross earlier this fall, we have transitioned to Cross Country Skiing for the winter. The less damp mountain air is a little more gentle on my joints just as the softer snow is more forgiving than say, pavement. G and I were both too amped up to take pictures on our first voyage of the season until finally, as we returned home, he was calmed down enough for the above shot. Once in the house, he rallied, stood on a yard stick and skated around the living room, re-enacting our adventure, screaming to A that we had gone skiing. Thus ending her morning of peace and quiet.

Met Wind Komt Sterkte

For all the analogies, pigeon English gesturing and completely illogical logic that I heard from the old Belgian bike racing aficionados who had a (generally fatalistic) answer for everything, one nugget that has stood the test of time for me is;

"It's not the rain that makes you strong, but the wind. The rain only makes you wet."

I interpret that to mean it's not the obvious but the subtle that forges us. For example, it wasn't the physical running of the stairs to the Philadelphia Museum of Art that got Rocky Balboa to go the distance against Apollo Creed but rather getting up at 4:30 every morning to do it on a diet of 5 raw eggs (fiction).

Adrienne lost the baby last week. There has been a lot of wind and rain for us over the years, but this experience has enabled us to look at, act on and appreciate real hard our faith in God, our love for each other, and our family and friends.

In classic form, there is a back-story. On Sunday night around 10:30 all three of us started puking. So violently that I thought any one of us might not just bear hug the toilet while kneeling in front of it, but rip it out of the floor and throw it through the window with a single contraction of the abs. It was that bad. Gavin and I fought over a garbage can to sink our heads into at 3:30 in the morning while watching Mickey Mouse's Clubhouse over and over and over again. A stayed up stairs having dibs on her own bathroom. This lasted for about 10 hours. Every 15-minutes. Some forty bouts of heaving times 3 people. Then the fever, misery and diarrhea lasted another 7 days.

An E.R. ultrasound on Monday showed that baby Quattro (the 4th Newmaforma) had a strong heartbeat and even fingers, toes and a nose. Friday night, after another day in the hospital for fluids and monitoring, A went into labor and early Saturday morning, A's birthday, Quattro passed. The rest of the weekend was like a semi-conscious hang over from our viral induced week of sleepless fasting and purging. Monday night, 8 days on, we finally sat down to dinner as a family, a Newma-trifecta, for a meal of soup and crackers. Another 4 days of doctor visits, surgery and consults between her 3 specialists and A seems to be out of the woods.

When we explained the risks of this pregnancy to friends, the most common response was that there was seemingly no good ending. Watching daily the pain A was in and the process of shots and blood draws from her tiny, hard to tap veins, I wondered how she was going to fair through another 6 months with no guarantees of longevity for her or Quattro.

We had to talk through various scenarios I would rather not consider. Reflecting on previous struggles through our 13 years of marriage and marveling at how God has provided and reassured us through it all we realized how resilient and trusting of him we have become. Things work out. One scenario or another there is always a positive. Quattro missed a life on earth, instead skipping straight to Heaven. A remains a part of our family, but the more subtle positive is that over the last months, through heady conversations and in passing, I have been able to tell her how much I love her.

Here We Go Again

As a family we don't do well with the execution of vacations. Extended weekends have served us best. Weird things go down when we plan and execute a full week off. Last month we took a whole week, planning to stay home and simply relax. We made it to the part where I was making coffee on Saturday morning, thinking of the stress-less 7 days ahead. Then, like a train wreck, A walked into the kitchen with a pregnancy test in hand, crying hysterically. All I could do was laugh.

In all seriousness this is a heavy situation. We almost lost her after G was born but have since been able to identify and manage some pre-existing issues that were unknown while she carried G. The fact is, we are crazy blessed to have her today, before even discussing another pregnancy.

I believe she is safer with this time around given the team of doctors watching over her. She's had 3 ultrasounds in as many weeks. Watching the development of the baby has been reassuring. Because of the Coumadin, the initial concern was if the baby would even thrive. Initially there was no heart beat. This set the stage that we may be dealing with a potentially unsuccessful pregnancy. When we went back for another ultrasound expecting a miscarriage, the baby was thriving. A is certainly on a rough road, but the new kid and all of it's in vitro accoutrement seem to be hanging tough. Literally.

A's home now on bed rest already. She's absolutely miserably in pain and nauseated. Much more so than with G. We're nearing the end of the first trimester. Six months is a long time to just hang around the house. Especially for A since I suck at cooking. Gavin is gonna be a master BBQ and short order cook as I've already trained him on the gloriousness of cereal and p,b&j.

Prepping For Winter

Gavin has been mesmerized by the Squirrels running around on our fence with nuts to stash away for the winter. His Spider is fattening up too. Despite wind and rain storms, he's hanging tough and eating plenty. I can't wait for this spider to finally go to "the farm". In the meantime, every morning, G is anxious to check on his spider friend.

Cyclocross

Cyclocross season is in full swing. For background, Cyclocross in Portland is more popular than any other type of bike racing. I've done a cross race here and there over the last 20-years, but not until I was rehabbing from the Cadillac Jack Attack did I commit to a full autumn of cyclocross. I find myself on the band-wagon like so many others for the fun factor as well as the ability to fit in training much easier with a family and work than say road or stage racing.

Earlier this fall Gavin and I made some trips to watch a couple of races. He really enjoys cheering on friends and of course the waffles. He can smell them from across the venue as soon as we park the car. His favorite points of interest are the food vendors, play structures and barriers in that order. If he could sit in a swing, or on the top of a slide, eating a waffle and watch racers go over barriers, he'd be fully satisfied.

During the latter part of the summer and through this fall, I have been checking and testing what my hip and arm can handle in terms of stresses that are included in Cyclocross racing. It's been touch and go and has included loads more recovery time than simply being out of shape.

So as October approached, I swayed back and forth on whether I should try a cross race or simply do some rides in Forest Park. Adrienne confronted me, asking what my plan was. I told her I might try a race and see how it goes. Then the day of the first Cross Crusade race at Alpenrose, 2 hours before the start, she persuaded me to give it a shot.

Navigating through huge season opener crowds at Alpenrose to buy a license and register to race, friends I saw all asked where G was. Between registration, peaking at the course, changing and warming up I found myself repeatedly explaining, "he's taking a nap, I'm here solo. Yes, this is my first time to try this since getting messed up."


Last week I felt recovered enough to give it another go for the 4th race of the series. A friend who hasn't raced much at all this year due to work, etc. wanted to give it a try as morale support. Saturday afternoon he dusted off his bike after about of year of neglect and brought it over to borrow and install some needed parts. He had last set it up as a fixed gear and it took us a half hour and a chain link fence post as a lever to get the cog off.


With my good for muddy conditions clincher tires on his bike, I was forced to ride my better for muddy conditions, only used once, tubulars that were last glued in 2007 and have since hung from the basement ceiling. I've never used tape adhesive on tubulars, and after inspecting them, the traditional glue job I did in '07 was still holding the tires just fine.

Ironically, since I've chosen to race the Single Speed division, Gavin misses watching me due to his nap schedule. Sunday also happened to see the first real storm of the season, leaving the course at PIR with an amazing batter of mud to navigate through.


Had he skipped his nap to play in the soup at PIR I don't think he would have cared what Dad was up to. He may have even foregone the waffles for a mud-pie.

Gavin has a pet spider

Gavin has a Spider Man action figure.
Gavin knows the words to Little Miss Muffet
and Along Came A Spider.

Gavin's pet spider has 3 giant webs
anchored off the patio
and from a corner of our house.

Gavin's spider has grown from a little tiny spider
to one that hisses at me
when I walk around its web to mow the lawn.

A won't let me smash Gavin's spider.
"Gavin looks at it every day" she says.

"Gavin looks at the moon every night, but we've put a foot print on it!"
I respond.

The Sweetness

The summer of 2010 will go to the books noted as a short one. A wet, long spring plodded to the 4th of July before cleaning up the spent fire works and suddenly it was Labor Day. Now with leaves starting to fall, Jimmy Storm and the Farmer's Almanac both call for a wet autumn and winter.

As short as the summer was, I think it was one of the best I've experienced in a long while. Except for the part where we all got pneumonia, but let us focus on the positive.

There was a big push in gaining rehab ground. I had more progress than over-doing it and ending up back on the couch. I'm anxious for my favorite fall and winter activities as last year's attempts at cross country skiing with G in tow were a ton of fun.

G learned of the sweetness of summer and ate Otter pops after every boat bike ride, every trip to the park, every ride on his tricycle around the block and every time we entered the house through the garage, passing the beer/ice-cream/Otter Pop fridge, which was almost every time we came home from anywhere. In the summer that he learned to climb the vertical ladder to the play structure at the park, he also learned to suck the sugary nectar from the frozen Otter pop until the ice remaining was white from a lack of colored syrup.



He learned to appreciate the taste of water from the hose, water from a drinking fountain and to swallow warm water back washed with food, from a bottle for hydration 3 hours into a 5 hour bike ride. He ate Fig Newtons, smeared Fig Newtons, threw Fig Newtons and sat on Fig Newtons. He even found where mom keeps the Fig Newton stash.

We went to the weekly series at the Velodrome for the 'kiddie kilo'. And of course the ducks and horses kept across the pond behind the track too. Talking him out of his disappointment that he couldn't actually ride on the 43 degree banking on his tricycle was an entertaining conversation I ever expected to have.



We had family outings for ice-cream, pizza and just to enjoy an afternoon. A received compliments on her bike as well as her fenders at Bridge Pedal and G thanked Jesus for Baja Fresh at bedtime on more than one of my nights to cook.

We did a handful of 3+ hour boat-bike rides. Rides that on a single bike might take a little more than an hour. G practiced his animal names from a book, learned to make sounds with a harmonica, waved at people and played with my keys. He explained to me what each key was for and asked about the ones that he didn't recognize. He knows the Willamette river from the Columbia from Johnson Creek. As well as which parks we pass if we make a left out of the driveway instead of a right.

We transitioned from using the merry-go-round as a hip strengthening rehab device in March to the best venue for a 2-year old to tempt fate.



Summer might well be behind us now in the NW, but the mud puddles of autumn are only days away.

Salsa y la familia de la mantequilla del pulmón

The Big Sick and The Big River

A has pneumonia. A wretched nasty lung buttery case of it. I spent last weekend trying to simultaneously keep G clear of her so she could rest, take care of her, and keep G occupied.

Friday evening there was an EMT and Police incident in front of our house. G and I were heading to "monkey bar park" when two cop cars, a fire truck and ambulance all showed up for a passed out individual that none of us neighbors knew. Ultimately G missed out on the park before dinner but got to live large with sirens, lights and ladders.


Saturday he and I went to a nearby bike race at an industrial area around a bakery. The bakery was giving away free bread. We got to see the tail end of the Masters race and the the first part of the Women's race. G was anxious to get home and make toast to help mom feel better.


photo courtesy of Oregon Cycling Action

Sunday we went for a boat-bike ride and found ourselves in the middle of the Portland Triathlon run/bike exchange and Start/Finish area. Granted, from the waterfront the only way for us to get onto the Hawthorne bridge was to pass through the crowds gathered for the event. It was a little embarrassing but G shamelessly played his harmonica as we rolled up to the bridge.

Then we came across the Portland Century fun ride on the Springwater trail. The 25 and 50-mile events were using the path system around Portland for their route. The trail has been recently repaved so the draw to ride with the event was pretty alluring. We stopped at a park for G to play for an hour, watched airplanes descend to land at PDX, ate Fig Neutons, and changed his diaper. Some text messaging with A revealed she was not feeling any better.




G was getting tired and ready for his nap. The conundrum was that while he will sleep soundly in the boat, he won't wake then go back to sleep should we arrive home midway through his nap. So I convinced him we would take the slightly longer way home and see "the big river". Not to be confused with the "down town river" he see's from his perch regularly.

Sure enough, soon after getting to the bike path along the Columbia, he was sound asleep. The good news was that it would be quiet, smooth pathway all the way home. The bad news was the headwind and the dark rain cloud ahead of us. The Portland Century riders passed above us on Marine Drive in drafting clusters of 4's and 5's. We stuck to the waters edge knowing there was no one interested in sharing the work with a boat bike.



Watching him nap always reminds me to pedal smoothly. Looking ahead, the pathway was visible for miles. Miles of headwind with white caps of river waves to remind me of the wind should my legs forget. I could see the thunder cells building over the west hills and knew eventually we would face a shower. I considered the fatigue in my legs, the pain of my hip, the light lunch at the park and how much back-washed Gatorade G left for me to drink. As we got closer to home we stopped under an over-pass to let the harshest part of a thunder shower blow through. I texted with A and she was still in the same misery. G was fine as he got to watch MAX trains speed by. The break gave me a second wind to continue to power us home at a respectable pace.

Monday A finally got some antibiotics and prescription cough syrup. That afternoon G and I rode to "monkey bar park" of which we missed on Friday evening. He went straight for "the big slide."

The Night Spooge Ball Went Electric

Thunderstorms, humidity and electrical wire interference over the side yard court didn't stop Spooge Ball 2010. The photo above was not the first, nor the last time that someone hung their balls and Spooge had to climb up from under them and yank 'em down.



While there was plenty of trash-talking, there was a definate lack of booing and heckling unlike when Dylan went electric in '65. It was game on from the get-go and maybe the trophy lady had a little something to do with the fact a rookie girl took home the spoils.

Walking into this year's tourney felt a lot like the scene from Hoosiers when Gene Hackman measures the court at Butler University to show the kids its the same size as the hard woods back in Hickory. In fact, one of Spooge's neighbors got lost driving up the alley and thought she was at Wimbledon.



The nuts and bolts of the ball tossing classic is that while I beat the Mrs. in our first round, she surfed the losers bracket all the way to the semi's before finally losing in a sharp tongued battle of trash talk with none other than the bride of last years champ. In the end the Snooze-fam couldn't claim back to back titles.


But no joke, I lost to this guy while he held his kid most of the game. The only time he put her down she took G's balls.



Ultimately I was not disappointed to fail at repeating last years rare-feat performance. After getting the axe from the losers bracket I hung out with these guys and told them about the time my friend Mark met Steven Tyler.

These guys stole my look like U2 stole the Alarm's sound

Age Of Chance - Kiss
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Spooge-Ball Tournament of Champions / Athlete Profile #5

Il Campione


The curse of success is a bitter lust for a ghost of sweet love.

Undoubtedly the preparation ball-tossing for the follow-up Champion season gets compromised with celebrity obligations. He’s proven he’s the head tosser but now there's a target on his back. No rest for the winner. The Snooze-man swears he'll draw the line and focus on training after one last interview with Oprah, or a final photo-shoot for Sports Illustrated. But behind the smile he knows the competition is preparing single-mindedly to knock his balls off.

Spooge-Ball Tournament of Champions / Athlete Profile #3 & 4

The 1...2 Toss













Had Bobby Riggs and Billie Jean King paired instead of opposed each other in the famed 1973 battle of the sexes tennis match, they may have stood a chance against Eric and Jess at the low-down, dirty sport of Pairs ball tossing. Imagine a cross between reality television show, "Dancing With The Stars" and a Chuck Norris Round-House Kick, and then another one.

Spooge-Ball Tournament of Champions / Athlete Profile #2

La Dolce Doppio

Italian for "The Sweet Pair."

Yes, she's made the semi's twice. Like getting stranded on second base when the cops' flood light fills your rear view mirror.

No, she's never stuffed a performance under pressure or augmented a game to hit the showers early.

Maybe, she just might bust out a big performance this year.

Brass tacks? Who cares what her stats are, just watch this girl's game.

Spooge-Ball Tournament of Champions / Athlete Profile #1

It's been a pretty exciting spring and summer thus far with Ivan Basso's personal redemption in the Giro di Italia, World Cup Soccer and a crash filled Tour de France still to conclude. Behind the scenes of all this mad-cap athleticism, offical invites have been issued for the 2nd annual Spooge-Ball Tournament of Champions. Read the recap of last year's event here.

As with all PRO sports, the elite are an honored few among an army of contenders. Amateur leagues have ringers every few years and a constantly changing line-up of future champions and pretenders. In the PRO's, the Kings and Queens of the sport know each other as well as themselves. My next few posts give you, the average fan of ball swingers a chance to meet the elite...the gifted at tossing balls.

Randy the Bo-finger

Originally from the Emerald City, Randy came to Portland for true love. And to see REO Speedwagon. He's a consistently top ball tosser and general good time guy. No longer a roofer, he can blow the lid off any party. Rumor has it Randy once won a game of Spooge-Ball in a triple over-time sudden death match on top of the Space Needle on a diet of only Olympia Beer and Oberto beef jerky.

Country Music

A friend has been promoting a stage race in Eastern Oregon for the last few years after taking it on from the original promoter. Initially it started as the classic bike club desire to "give back" and ended as a FUBAR mess where the majority of volunteers flaked out like dander off of Ally Sheedy in the Breakfast Club. Word gets out that the monotony of holding a stop/slow sign at an intersection of farm roads in the middle of nowhere for 6-hours is bad for ones fitness so said bike club volunteers disappear Selsun Blue style.

This year I decided to join a few friends who have come through for E-Racer in years past and helped put on perhaps the best little stage race around. With the gimp hip I figured I'd be working a fold-out table with the officials doing such menial tasks as picking numbers from the finish line photos. Maybe handing out primes after the Saturday night Criterium. Was I wrong!

When I saw this car I thought I hit the jackpot. Maybe I'd get to drive the lead car for the category 1&2 field?


For a short time I got to drive this little jewel. Perhaps because I can drive a stick or maybe because the only cars I've ever owned that didn't get stolen or wrecked were Subi's. I take that back, I did have an 86 GL get stolen but it was found. Anyway...



Eventually I found my niche driving a 1985 Ford F150 and towing porta-potties to the edges of deep no-where and back. It was surreal for a number of reasons but mainly because the loaned vehicle came with a single cassette tape of Thriller by the late gloved one, Michael Jackson.



I've NEVER been a fan. The Jackson 5 hasn't helped me find my soul nor has setting my hair on fire ignited a taste for Pepsi nor have I had the need to dress like Corey Feldman . But when the disdain for MJ was thrown out by truck co-pilots TK and Strader, I laid down the law that the cassette could never be turned off. Turned down...perhaps. Turned off...never.

Amid warm, cloudless skies, a quiet open road in the middle of nowhere with Beat It audible over the trucks idling, TK and Strader tried to hammer a coat hanger into packed rock on the side of the road meant to hold up a 3k to the finish sign with a roofing hammer. They were about as successful as home schoolers on a field trip to Watts passing as locals. Watching their display pained me. I turned MJ's best work to full volume, limped across the highway and pounded a hole into the rock with a 2 ft strip of rebar, inserted the sign and told the fella's to get back in the truck.

At the 2k to go, TK tapped the rebar into the rock deep enough for it to stand on its own, then swung the hammer down on it without a bracing grip. The rebar shot off onto the highway almost tearing the tapered leg of his designer brand distressed jeans. Strader chased after the rebar like a puppy and ultimately had better luck punching a hole into earth. About an hour later the MJ cassette went out the passenger window to spite me.

The weekend wore on like a dry frat party. We spent 70-miles following the slowest women racers in the state. Two of whom got dropped on a flat road 2 miles after the race got started! All that driving at 15mph made me hungry so we stopped and ate.



Back in the truck we started up the big climb of the stage and continued to eat as the girls suffered over the top and toward the finish. Our job was to pick up trash, water bottles and fried racers but the girls all rallied and made it to the finish just as the finish line equipment disappeared down the road in a trailer behind another truck.

For the final stage there is a respectable climb after 100 miles of riding into banjo country. I once found an Elk skull on the route and hung it in my backyard. Eventually the skull was stolen.



At the summit finish area a local brew pub throws a party. Pretty cool except for the fact we drove the last official race vehicle and only got to the top as the party tents were being put into the trucks. The sign of a good party is the aftermath and I suppose the same goes for a bike race. Especially one in Oregon where bike race and beer tent go together like ham and eggs. Except for the vegan population. So as we cleaned up, the question came up of where to put the forgotten bikes. Yeah, you read that right! Who goes to a bike race and forgets to take their $5,000.00 bike home? The safest place to stow the thing I figured was where no other equipment would do any damage...

Poor assimilation

During the spring of 1994 I was able to race bigger one-day events and stage races in France, Holland and Germany. But come summer, The team director bumped me to solely race the kermis events in Flanders. Maybe because having already stolen most of the cash, start money and meager winnings I had, he knew I was tapped. Or because I was so abundantly skilled at tail gunning the General Classification at week long stage races. What I am sure of is that any of us were lucky to still have our passports for all the riffling through our duffel bags while we were busy racing.

So for the summer, Johnny would pick me up in his Ford Escort station wagon each Saturday and Sunday. He insisted I sit in the passenger seat while he set my bike in the back of the car. He always fumbled with the same old wool army blanket over the frame, then put both pairs of wheels one for the race and a spare set, one wheel at a time on top of the frame, each with a layer of blanket covering.

En route to the race he would tell me course details and stories of the race or nearby races from the past. He spoke Flemish and I could only pick up a few words. He also never rolled the windows down in the car, which had no air conditioning. He just sat there in slacks, a short sleeve dress shirt and sweater vest talking, sweating and driving. I barely had a clue of what he was saying. Sometimes he would use hand motions. When he would count, he always used his thumb for the number 1. I’d nod and smile but mostly I hunkered down toward the air vent hoping the warm moving air would somehow refresh me. If we drove past a hops farm, he would point, and then say, “For bier.”

Once in the race town Johnny would wait in the car in front of the bar where the registration was for the race. Only when the car was stopped would he roll the door window down. Upon my return with a large vinyl race number peppered on each corner with holes from years of being pinned on hundreds of other riders backs, I would point and tell him in pigeon Flemish where the changing rooms were. He would nod, say something and drive straight to where I needed to be.

The changing rooms varied from back rooms of bars to auto mechanic garages, to sport center gymnasiums or best of all, the actual sports center locker room. Mostly though, people offered up their own garages or houses. About half the time we went to the home of someone that Johnny knew. Like Johnny, the host was usually old. After I changed, Johnny would squat in front of me and massage my legs with some sort of embrocation cream. The cream would vary based on the weather, but always I raced with an oily sheen on my legs.

After the races the routine was similar. He would wait for me at the finish with a jacket or long sleeve jersey, no matter how hot it was. Then jog with me as I rode slowly back to where I had changed before the race. Once I showered, we would drive back to bar where again, he waited in the car while I returned my number for my deposit of 200 or so francs and collected my winnings if I placed in the races classification. Then back to the car where he’d roll up the window and drive us home. Always making sure to point out the potatoes or hops or whatever while replaying my race, counting with first his thumb, then index finger and making a fist to describe how intense the selection of contenders was as we passed through the village during the race. The routine was the same, both days, every weekend, all summer.

My Flemish slowly improved. One or two days mid-week I would ride to a race on my own, testing my new language skills by asking for directions at every round-a-bout. At the race I'd change with the other riders in the back of the race headquarters/bar or in the shadow of a Citroen needing a new transmission. I’d massage my own legs with warming oil and tell jokes with whichever other English speakers showed up to race. But the weekend races with Johnny were special in their own humid, stale air way.

On Monday evenings he would come to my house with his daughter to translate. We always sat at the table, Johnny across from me, his daughter to the left. He would explain how I needed to train that week. Counting first with his thumb and punching his fist into nothing to emphasize hard efforts. “Driving,” meant riding hard. When he tapped his chest he’d call it his “ticker.” I was instructed to either keep my ticker low or high. That's it, no 5 ranges of heart rate or wattage or types of effort, just "Umph, or Shhh." Each days training advice was written down in “Huers”, which gear to use and what rpm to maintain. His daughter, 19 and not so pretty, translated in a bored, monotone voice but mostly watched MTV, the only non-BBC channel I could watch in English. It took a long time to get to September.

Chapped

Apparently the photo of my previous post took away from the view of A's bike. if you couldn't see the fenders from the mud-flaps, below are a shiny pair to gaze at.

Family Bike Ride

Over the winter A decided she wanted fenders for her bike. Mostly to look AWESOME. Notice how hot that white "mixtie" in the picture is with the fenders?

It took me months to locate the exact fenders required. Getting them as a Christmas gift would have been like her buying me a copy of "Never Been Kissed" so I abstained.

Come my birthday when spring was almost in the air and the bank account almost full enough for me to have access to, I decided since it was my day, I could buy whatever I wanted so I may as well spend waaaay too much money for something originally designed for practicality but taken to a much better looking and (surprise) far more expensive level than necessary. Understand, I've zip-tied, riveted and duct-taped pieces of $30 plastic fenders back together to get me through thousands of winter miles over the years. I also thought, before getting married that tuna straight out of the can as a meal was just fine too.

A of course is the same lovely lady who put Derby Day effort into getting primped to walk the neighbors dog along the "promenade" at the base of Mt. Tabor when we were first married. My point is, she didn't want the fenders for the sake of having fenders to keep the rain off, but specifically she wanted Tanaka Brass Fenders because they look friggin RAD and I'll admit, she has a good eye for cool.



At any-rate, I found the fenders on-line, pulled the trigger and they arrived in a big, brown, discrete package as promised. It took the better part of an afternoon, power tools and beer to get them mounted. A's bike has the biggest, smoothest tires possible and even though my measurements added up with the info on the website, the fenders were a tight fit with the tires and the frame spacing. But whoever thought a tight fit and fashion were any worse a match than peanut butter and jelly?

As I was installing her latest desire into reality, she decided her "Womens' Specific" seat was a piece of crap and wanted to go old school with the heaviest saddle ever made complete with steel springs.


I am 100% supportive of anyone having a comfortable bicycle seat. If it doesn't fit... you won't ride it. The problem comes with the theory of breaking in a real leather saddle. Trust me, I've tried to sleep with a new baseball mitt under my mattress and been as cranky as Billy Martin the next day. I also know all about spending 6+ hours in crappy wet chamois on an equally wet and chaffing bike seat. What I tried to tell A was that come the weekend, an hour from home with a new, stiff, rawhide, saddle I wasn't willing to hear the "Go buy me a hemorrhoid pad, then come back and pick me up in our car" blues.

With the fender project done and the Brooks B33 saddle mounted, she was off to test for tire rub and butt chaffing through the neighborhood. The good news couldn't have been better. In-fact as it turned out, the old school leather seat with the crazy bouncy ride was much more comfortable for her than her modern "especially designed for a woman" seat with feminine graphics in the logo.

So Saturday morning dawns and the Newmaforma is off for a family bike ride. We do our usual loop. A few joggers pass us. Then we pass them. People riding and jogging comment about the boat-bike. Drivers pace us weaving nervously close giving a hands free from the steering wheel thumbs up. Yell out the window asking where I bought it. They say at traffic lights that I should ride to their office because a guy 3 cubicles over likes to ride his bike and would love to see it. Gavin stays unimpressed with the public interest. Usual stuff.

The hill that can't be avoided near the end of the ride is a bit of a bear no matter which street you go up. About half-way up the way we usually go is a park. A bench. A tennis court. And a bursting with life emerald green plot of grass begging for a toddler to run on. Just after the park is the steepest pitch. A narrow serpentine stretch of road that from the lower slope seems to end abruptly at a large brick fireplace on the side of an otherwise forgettable house. When you get there, the road turns and the climb continues unmercifully for another block. An eternity at the end of a long ride.

A decides she needs to stop. Sitting on the bench, her back to the tennis court and feet spread wide apart, elbows on her knees, hands holding her head as she stares at the space between her feet, she slowly forms words. Her bike is lying in front of her, derailer side up, brass fenders shining gold in the sun. Gavin points to the open space and wants out of the boat. I go through the list of things that might be wrong. Saddle sores, sugar bonk, blisters, etc., etc.

"No one said anything about how pretty my bike is."

"What?"

"I'm riding a bike with a 40 lb seat and RAD brass fenders and all anyone says is 'nice boat!'. "

She pauses.

"At least my butt knows this is the sweetest bike in town."

I remain silet. Watching the shadows of the moving tennis players behind her.

"And for the love...I can't feel my legs and I have to climb this friggin hill? Ugggg."

Then she got up and I kid you not, drilled it up the rest of the hill leaving me, G and the boat-bike in her wake.