Man Time

Saturday had all the ingredients for an epic adventure. We planned a ride to OMSI with our riding buddies Max and Seth, came across the Christmas Steam Engine, crossed paths with a biker gang, managed a 3 hour ride on a day that never reached 40 degrees and the hip didn't even give any grief adding to my optimism for the coming winter.

Playing at OMSI was great, but as soon as Seth and I floated the idea of leaving to the boys, their only question was, "Can we see the train again?"

I was hoping we could drag race the locomotive but by the time we came across it, the crew was on lunch break. This worked out for the best as the boys were able to check it out up close as the engine rested, hissing slowly and letting off steam as if the old, cast iron beast was merely taking a nap.

Saying good-bye to the Steam Engine was more difficult that leaving OMSI. But 10-minutes down the road, Gavin was fast asleep in Thomas. We split off from our buddies while G was still lights out. I opted to ride through nap as he wouldn't go back down once woken up. It's been months since I've done a ride more than 2 hours so I was happy to keep rolling as long as I could.

Finally as my legs were turning to mush, we came across the Toys for Tots Motorcycle rally at a busy intersection. The bikers all started revving their Harley's and yelling out how they liked our ride. Of course this woke G up, and asked if we rode to California, thinking he heard Stu on his Road King.

Rough Spot

The first time down a rough road, you're overwhelmed by every bump and hole and uneven patch. You swear you will never go down that road again, but in life you go where the race takes you. The second time through you know where the big holes are, the highest spots you may trip on and the lowest that you can sink in or buck you ass over tea kettle. You avoid those, but the rattle from the constant pounding grinds on leaving you fatigued and near empty from the ordeal just the same. Season after season you maybe get better, maybe just thicker skinned. More efficient in ignoring the white noise of metal scraping against stone and bodies landing in a muted thud in the manure and mud. You find a rhythm to fight against the pounding. You stay on the ridge, but the beat down remains every time through.

Then it ends as abruptly as it began. You arrive on the tarmac, the smoothness a near silence. Almost with weightless ease, life is a vacuum. Within the confidence of your accomplishment, the aches slowly gain volume. The crosswind becomes a steady gravity and then life punches you in the belly again with the harshness of artillery. You justify the crumbling walls as just cracks in your foundation, desperately trying to hold together with a veneer of calmness.

Under the gaining fatigue, the safest line, the crown of the road, requires too much effort. The low tracks with their unexpected drop offs and fallout of ancient stone surface is easier if not more harrowing. You take the low line only when the desperate path of soft shoulder diminishes, regardless of the risk. In the back of your head you tell yourself that maybe the risk will end your race prematurely, ending the suffering abruptly. But that permanency has haunting repercussions longer lasting than the moment the decision to unpin your number was made.

We don't quit. We fall and get back up. We stay in the race. We get through the shit. In the moments when life quiets down and becomes calm, we check our wounds, reflect. We look to the group around us for protection in the wind. We eat and we drink and prepare for the next rough section knowing we made it through the last.

I already miss the brief acknowledgment, the glance of eye-to-eye respect upon the exit of the rough sections. I wish I offered you even more protection from the wind so you could better regroup between the the rough spots. I wish you were still in the race, but I will remember you for the sections you led through and the family you loved.

Happy Birthday

It would behoove me not to publicly wish the lovely A, my bride of 14 years a happy birthday. But I'm a day late. Not that I forgot; no of course not. I was busy pampering her, allowing her to relax, being a good husband. Besides, public accolades can be embarrassing. She is a humble woman. A Lady.

Today in contrast, is the 57th birthday of Le Blaireau. My adolescent hero and one of the toughest Mo-Fo's to ever pedal a bike. So I wish them both a happy birthday as well as satisfying and enjoyable years to come. Despite their differences, I admire both for their strength, determination and resiliency. And my guess is that A is a much better kisser.

Wabbit or Coyote?

photo courtesy of teamJVA.com

I've heard numerous references to this article recently. The point taken is that we all rise a little with some healthy competition. Setting the bar too high can break one's spirit or even worse harm one's physical health. But reaching 2% seems to be the magic threshold. 3% I guess turns the Rabbit into a Road Runner and nobody wants to be Wile E Coyote.

In the movie, For Love Of The Game, Kevin Costner shuts out distractions by reminding himself to "Clear the mechanism". He then is able to focus solely on the task at hand as a (fictional) MLB starting pitcher.

The last 6-months I've worked through more PT with the hip to allow myself to get back on the bike for more than just easy pleasure rides. However, the motivation comes in irregular flurries.

Putting myself out there to "race" is humbling as I know what I need to do to compete and I also know what I am doing. The two are not intersecting.

A month ago the Newmaforma packed up and went to the first cyclocross race of the season. I rode around a tree with G instead of properly warming up. I had a mechanical and only rode 10-minutes of the 45-minute race due to previously working on my bike while playing with G in the garage and not focusing on tightening the parts correctly. The thing is, he didn't care. He got to ride the kiddie race, ride around a tree for an hour and eat a Nutella waffle.

The next chance to race rolls around and I'm off to it alone. All I need to do is finish to better my record of anonymity. I try to "clear the mechanism" and just ride the course consistently each lap. I want to improve on the technical hiccups and be smooth through the parts I am competent at. I'm alone off the back of the group quickly so focusing on the mechanics is really the only thing I can do. What I can't do is let my mind wander. If I do that I'll end up in the parking lot, quitting.

But competitive people like to have a gauge. Some want to compare themselves to others or to what could have been if this day was 5 years ago, 10 years ago or more. So by averaging my lap splits and that of other categories and being the math genius I am, I figure I would have finished:

@5th in the beginner mens race
@Last, 5-minutes behind the actual last placed rider in the Master A group
@72nd, but not last, in the Master B's
@35th in the Master C's.

What is more scary is that while I would have completely dominated the Junior Girls race, I would have been a mere 5th against the Junior boys.

Ten of the age 35+ women would have beat me. And even though I don't weigh 200 lbs but am still 25 lbs heavy, I would have managed 12th in the Clydesdale stampede. But worst of all, I would have been smoked by two old men in the 60+ race.

So all that just confirms to me that a 2% improvement is far less important than the half of the battle of simply showing up. Chasing anything at this point will only get me to ride myself off a cliff like Wile E. Coyote or as frustrated and empty handed as Elmer Fudd chasing Bugs Bunny.

Suspect Summer Lessons

G has been concerned about the fact that when we get to the park in the evening it gets dark sooner and he can't complete his routine round of adventures before dinner. Lately, it's dark by the time we make it home.

Two years ago we could do a quick lap of the park before dinner in the boat bike. Last year he was wise to the play structures and mastered climbing the ladder, spinning on the tire swing and drinking from the fountain. This year he graduated from tricycle to Scuut bike and discovered the paved path that descends into a gully and the lower part of the park.

The gully has a patch of trees and steep grassy slopes. After descending the paved path at full speed (10mph) wearing Crocks, no socks and no covering over knees, elbows or hands, I decided he needed to learn how to crash a little before he fully ate it and traumatized himself with major road rash his first time fighting gravity.

He dubbed the gully "Thunder-dome" and that's where we went nightly with the ambition of a lightly skinned knee or elbow.He loved coasting down the hills, around the trees and walking up the other side of the ravine a little further each night made for some fast descents on his plywood bike. Until he ate it.

I was so proud of him. He bounced down the hill using his feet to center himself like pontoons as he built up speed. Finally, near the very bottom, at maximum velocity he hit one last bump that shook him enough to want to stop. So he did. He put his feet straight out in front of himself and cartwheeled over the bike, flipped a couple times as the bike landed on top of him and stopped in a haze of dust.

I rolled down the hill and jumped off my bike to pick him up and dust him off. By the time I got there his shock turned to tears. I checked him over to make sure he didn't break anything. He hadn't even scratched himself. We talked about what happened and I convinced him to laugh about his "rad" crash.

A week or two passed and his confidence was restored. Full speed descents into Thunder-dome were a mere warm up. Yet after only a handful of rides through the trees he would stop and look at the purple sky and ask why it was getting dark. His astonishment at my explanation of the sun setting behind the hills summed up the look on his face as crying bullshit to my answer. Explaining the solar system and orbits only furthered his conviction that I was full of it.

He'd stomp back up the hill straddling his bike for one last free-ride descent before I'd carry him home on my shoulders, pushing my bike and his, strapped to mine with our helmets buckled through both bikes. He'd point to the moon and call out stars or airplanes or street lights. Explaining to me that street lights stay on at night because they are not behind hills and that airplanes fly over hills but that we ride our bikes down hills. And stars are just street lights on roads really far away.

Road Trip

Scott needed to go to Canada for a wedding. He was home from U.C. Berkeley the same summer I was figuring out what to do with myself at all. The previous autumn I returned from Belgium and found myself in Portland reconsidering my life's ambition. By the following spring I had been through Mono, Pneumonia, a failed attempt to get fit for the coming Cycling season, a broken foot, simultaneous day and night shift warehouse jobs, and an asleep-at-the-wheel collision in my mom's car. Emphatically finalizing the destruction of all my morale and financially wiping me out completely.

So I returned to friends and the familiar comfort of free-couch-surfing, inland of California's Central Coast. Scott's option of being in a wedding was his most vexing immediate decision. His dilemma was that he had no car. When I offered mine and the scenerio of dropping me off in Portland to meet up with a girl I met the previous winter, amid my failed attempt of residency; he committed.

The girl and I dated a couple of times before I dismissed the northwest and returned to the bird farm of San Juan Bautista to keep it a-float while the Bird Man took his family on a cross country vacation. Bird farming had in the past, been an ideal flexible, part time job for an aspiring bike racer. Feeding, cleaning, shoveling and whole-sale delivering of birds was less my forte than Cycling and Cycling had broken me. The bird business made sense as a part of the whole equation, but was hugely depressing as a stand alone reality. I was free falling in a void of ambition and being a bird farmer was not helping me fly out of my dispair. A do-over in Oregon, even for a few days might be what I needed to reset my clock. I hoped.

The details were decided that we would need nearly as many cigars as gallons of gas. And a third contributor to bring the total cost down to something two penniless twenty-somethings could afford. I opted for hitch-hikers but was over ruled. My Honda Civic, purchased from the original owner, a large, single, Samoan women, had low miles considering the wear. Given my palmares and lack of SAT scores, the car was a shining asset and often 2nd home. The driver's seat was beat down and torn apart like a bike racer who had given up. The rest of the interior was mint condition 1982 blue-vinyl. The car needed suspension replaced on the driver side and a new carburetor. The body was in good shape but the paint, well, the paint was blue oxidized crap.

Customization's I made included a melted, improvised ashtray on the driver's side view mirror fairing from extinguishing cigars and a Candle Box cassette stuck in the tape player. This was 1995. Besides the car, I owned one pair of shoes, 3 shirts, 2 pair of shorts and one pair of Gap Khaki pants (for formal events), a sleeping bag and the complete REM catalog to date on CD but no CD player. I owned 3 books; On The Road, The Subterraneans and The Bible. As well as two suitcases stuffed full of cycling clothing for any season or weather condition. I had zero continuity.

Stu was happy for me to go, mostly because it got my free-loading apathy out of his house for a week. The twist was him choosing on the fly to go with us. Perhaps for bonus marital credits as it gave Doreen some serious solitude. Stu, 12 years my senior had been (and still is) a mentor and sounding board since I was 17. He was a Butcher by trade and as good if not better than any old, cigarillo chewing drunk Belgian at motor-pacing bike racers as well. For the trip, Stu would be let off in Tacoma where his brother would pick him up. A week later he would fly home. Scott would connect again with me in Portland after witnessing the nuptials.

During the drive up, I don't remember much other than Stu naming each song on the radio within the first three chords, and Scott reciting literature and grinding into me with each quote that I needed to get myself together and go to college. The Civic had no A/C so the oven hot wind pounded through the car as we each yelled whatever needed to be said. I'm not even sure how much I drove.

Portland was the briefest of rest stops for my companions as I quickly stranded myself so as to guilt my brother into let me into his house. The plea of, "I have no where to go and no way to get there" was enough to squat in his basement for a few days. My plan was to shower, call the girl and hope for the best.

Unfortunately Scott and Stu drove off with my shoes still in the car. Knowing that without shoes I would likely hang around the house longer, my brother hurried me into his car and chased down my friends at the Chevron station on Powell Blvd, half way between I-205 and the Ross Island Bridge.

The week passed quickly. The girl kept me entertained with a trip to the coast, walks in Forrest Park, a Toad The Wet Sprocket concert in Washington park and dinner with her parents one evening. The blunt questioning of her father from across the dinner table, surmising my sub-standard state, "So, you work on a bird farm?" confirmed my suspicion that I was likely the lowliest rescue his daughter had ever brought home. At the very least, I could not disappoint.

Four days on, I sat on my parents porch on a Monday, watching cars drive past on the wooded, rural highway. I don't recall if it was under the guise of wanting to visit them or if I had maximized my welcome at my brothers house prematurely as to why I was there. Regardless, by the time Scott drove up the gravel driveway, I was well into the 3rd Cuban Cigar of the dozen I brought home from Europe and stashed for special occasions. His tardiness didn't bother me so much as the fear I would still be sitting on the porch when my parents returned from their days work.

Scott had been held up at the border. Apparently when you are 22, a resident of California but driving a car registered in Oregon to your "friend" and there is no registration document in the vehicle, you don't profile well and your mother country isn't convinced they want you back. Fortunately for me, the 6 hour drive once he was released, to where he picked me up, allowed him to process and see the experience as a valuable life lesson and not want to choke me to death. But I still sensed some tension.

Nothing calms the nerves like a good Cuban and we were back on the road before dinner. Again, much of the drive is long lost from memory, but what is still vivid is the re-kindled motivation that comes with a goal. The optimistic, youthful conversations of a future you know nothing about, the glowing red light behind the ash of a cigar mid-drag, and the almost cooling night air in August on I-5 at 75 mph sometime after midnight.

I walked into my local bike shop and apologized before even saying hello.

"I never thought the words I'm about to say would ever come out of my mouth," I said.

Then I said it. It was easiest to just get it out and take the judgement that was sure to follow. I even closed my eyes while saying it.

"I need a shorter stem with a higher rise. So the, ahem, basket will fit."

The shop owner who I've known for years took a moment to digest my words as well.

I continued, "The basket hits the fender and stops the front wheel. Particularly when it's loaded with 'girl accessories'."

"You mean like Tampons, and Midol?"

"NO! Her camera, three shades of lip crap, kleenex, sunscreen, cell phone, snacks...you know...lady shit..."

"Is this for her sweet Buena Vista?" He replied.

"Yep."

We settled on the stem and he rang up my purchase. "You know", he said, handing me my receipt. "The basket you put on her Soma should probably be understated. You know; so it doesn't detract from the giant toy train on the front of your bike."

Point taken.

On Any Sunday (in portland)

I got an email last monday from a friend about a Cargo Bike Criterium at the Mississippi Street Fair. When I had the time to look into the race, registration was full. I emailed a photo of Thomas to the promoter and was promised race details on Wednesday.

In my head I imagined a traditional Crit with Gavin as my co-pilot. The details of the race indicated an abreviated course from the actual race route later in the evening. Then the part about no kids under 18 and that each lap racers' had to pick up "cargo" from a recycled home improvement store on the course. Thomas would not work, I decided. I would need to put the boat back on the Bullitt bike.

To stir the pot, I then found this promo post with racer bio's. No pressure! I decided the boat would not work as it weighs 58 lbs. I needed a new boat.

I called my dad and persuaded him and his crew of two grandsons to take a day off a bathroom remodel and build me a new boat. They worked off the original and were done with construction around dinner time on Friday. At which point the finish work was left to me. I sanded, primer'd and painted on Friday night and Saturday morning. Then bought another shade and re-painted Saturday afternoon as the first coat of "red" came out orange. Sunday, race day, the paint was still tacky but definitely red.








The boat turned out great and only weighs 15 lbs! That's 10 less than Thomas and 40 less than the first boat.

The event, the Cirque du Cycling, is a fantastic neighborhood celebration including far more than just a criterium. There was a street parade, a family bike ride, freak bikes and generally freaky people. Imagine the Santa Cruz Crit as part of the solstice parade at the Garden Mall. Freaky for sure.

A made the banner for Thomas on Sunday morning for the parade while I finished the boat and G found his conductor hat. Then lost it. He then made sure Thomas was polished and parade worthy. We were off to circus right at nap time and to his credit, G was a trooper. He waved and blew his train horn during the parade and decided he would do the race instead of me.





For the race, we were staged in 5 rows of 3. I drew #13 meaning I would start at the back of the pack. It was difficult to tell who was fast and who was not. Much of the competition looked road-wise from being messengers by day and daredevils by night. I may have been the only one without a tattoo.





When the whistle blew I had a big job to fill gaps and move to the front of the group. The pack was more like a group of humping water buffalo than a smooth peloton. I nosed the boat through small gaps between riders and came out of the first U turn on the front to put my head down and drill the pace the 3 blocks to the cargo pick up pit. I was first in to grab a sink, throw it in the boat and race on.



On the 2nd lap a guy in a much larger gear, but on the same model bike ripped past me and I knew I could't match his pace. The Bullitt bike comes stock with a 39x20 gear on a 8-speed internally geared hub. A 39x20 is about a 50-inch gear meaning for every revolution of the pedals the bike goes 50-inches. With the internally geared hub you get variation based on that sized gear. Regardless, I took the 20 tooth cog off last year and put a 23 on giving me a lower 44-inch gear. This is better for climbing as it's less torque on my hip. The guy that blew by me, come to find out, took his standard issue 20 tooth cog off and put an 18 on. An 18 makes a 56-inch gear which ultimately means he can blow by me faster than I can pedal. Which is exactly what happened.



I knew then I wasn't going to win but 2nd was possible. The guy I was racing for 2nd with was styling a full aero kit and grinning ear to ear. He was fast. I couldn't simply ride away from him, but my bike was shorter and could corner tighter. It was also lighter and I could accelerate quicker. None of this mattered however, as for the last cargo pick up, I thought I could grab some dryer vent tubing on a fly-by and put an unclose-able gap on him.



It didn't work and I almost capsized the boat. Ultimately losing more time than had I stopped for less heroic pick up. At this point the 4th place guy was nearly half a lap behind so I rode a less painful pace for the final lap to complete the race in 3rd. Yet in my haste to collect cargo I forgot one of the mandatory pick up items; a automatic door closer hinge. So in the end, I may have been DQ'd. I will never know for sure as official results have never materialized and the legend of the race will surely outlast any factual results.

Gavin was excited to get back in the boat and ride around some more after our race. Though when it was finally time to leave, before the category 3 race, he was not on board. For the first mile or two home, all he wanted was to go back to the race. Then he fell fast asleep for my tired ride home.




photos courtesy of ANewms, bikeportland.org, and sam_churchill.

"but the thing is...see...I need to ride my bike."

Every time we return home from anywhere, whether by car or Thomas-bike, G requests 2 things like clockwork. #1 An Otter Pop. #2 to ride his own bike to the park. Below is a pictorial of how we roll.

Pedaling up stream

lifted from www.copenhagenize.com

Feeling pretty cheeky with the Thomas project, I found this story from Denmark.

Gavin's new ride

G has a thing for trains. Train sounds, train tracks, wooden trains, passenger trains, freight trains, steam trains, diesel trains, MAX trains, Zoo trains and Thomas the train. Not so much to watch the show hosted by Ringo Starr, George Carlin, or Alec Baldwin, but to play with his toy Thomas, Percy, James, Emily, and Toby. He builds tracks, rotates who hauls what cars, and which train crashes in whatever scenario he has concocted in his mind.

In the midst of winter as we skied around Trillium Lake most weekends, I pondered the eventuality of spring (which has still yet to materialize) and the days warm enough to go for bike rides but too wet to have a kid sitting in an open row boat. My conclusion was that we needed something with a windshield and a roof for theBullitt bike.


Just after Christmas we got started. What I had on our side this time around vs. building the boat was experience and time. I wasn't in the same hurry to finish for his birthday as I was two years ago. Experience was a double edged sword in that I knew not to make some mistakes over again, but I dreaded the actual process of the project. So it was decided the best option was to descend upon my dad's shop an hour or two, a couple times a week for as long as it took. What took an entire Saturday, much beer to calm my anxiety and a poor selection of power tools and work space in my own small, cluttered garage; I could get done in a mere 60-minutes at the old man's. Besides, my mom has a never ending supply of gluten free cookies which meant G and I could always have treats in hand while cutting, sanding, gluing and hammering.









As completion got closer, a local group ride to celebrate the spring classics of Pro Cycling grew near. This gave me enough of a goal to push through where many projects fall dormant. My dad, being retired, truly has time to watch paint dry. So after a coat of primer and a first base coat of blue, and the tedious taping for the pin-striping, he handled the top coats that truly make the colors pop.

We finished on Thursday evening and the big ride was on Sunday. Saturday was a test run on the waterfront before the sun actually came out for the homage to the punchy, cobbled climbs of Flanders. For the day, I wore my old Gentse Velo Club jersey but to be honest, the ride itself, abbreviated for weighty bikes and young boys, led to little thought of the roads I raced and trained on long ago.





Ronde photos courtesy of Dave Roth

Instead, I watched G as he busily turned knobs and "drove" the train up hills and down. Pushing Thomas onward with morale support up the hills and giggling through his calls to go faster as we went down. We did most of the ride with friends Seth and his son Max. A well timed break at Washington Park to play and eat lunch gave us both the reprieve to blast to the top of Council Crest before descending home to other chores and obligations.

Last Weekend's Race Report

photo courtesy of Athletespath.com


A few years back I was re-hab'ing after getting run over by Cadillac Jack and did the weekly Mt. Tabor series in the 3's. I had some really good days and some really bad days. I was wildly inconsistent. Midway through the series was the weekend version of the race. The Saturday race is much longer but the course has always suited me and the added laps more so as well. I was optimistic but as mentioned earlier, I was wildly inconsistent day to day.

Midway through the race I was comfortably near the front and never stressed up the hill. The sprint over the top, through the hair-pin was just an exercise in getting out of the saddle to stay loose. I was optimistic. I'm not often a real positive thinker in bike races. Bike racing is cruel and rarely just.

Some friends stopped warming up for their race as they watched. They were happy that I was back on the bike after taking such a licking from American Steel. They cheered for me and motivated me. But about that time, as the lap board counted down the legs failed me. I had nothing left and in frustration dropped out, pulling off the course with 2 or 3 laps to go.

I retrieved my jacket, leg warmers and a fresh bottle then turned away from the park to ride easy and contemplate my failure having lost complete sight of the bigger picture. The fact that I was racing again after having been run down by an old man in an El Dorado in a hurry to get his lawn mower blade sharpened.

Waiting for me at the course exit point were a handful of friends. They rode with me and reminded me that the race itself is less important than the time spent with one's friends.

Fast forward 5 years to another rehab, another first road race in a long while and I find myself off the back of a Masters 40+ race over the first big climb of the course. Fifteen miles in to a 60-mile race. I get over the top and watch a group of other not-so-fit-old-guys start to work together in an effort to chase back on to the group. My heart is in my mouth and I'm content to sit on the back, not contributing until I was sure I wouldn't barf. While sitting there I notice the numbers on each riders jersey and the ribbon differentiating the 50+ guys from the 40-49 year olds. I figure I am the youngest guy in the group and I'm barely hanging on!

A few miles pass and I start to take my turns on the front. Our group is working fairly well together and we catch another couple of riders who got popped out of the main bunch. By the end of the next lap most of this laughing group has decided to peel off and head back to their cars. I made the decision to stay in and keep chasing nothing as by this time the race is far out of sight. With me is one guy who says it's his 50th birthday and he just wanted to get a good day in because all he does otherwise is commute the same route to work and home each day.

So we soldiered on. Another 20-miles catching guys left behind by the race proper. This guy Joe and I doing the bulk of the pace making while others sat in to recover before eventually taking their turns. As we approached the finish hill, guys in the group started sizing each other up as if we were the leaders racing for the win. We were at best going to be sprinting for 50th place in the combined age-group field, likely 20-minutes behind the winner. I stood up as the sprint started, both legs cramped and I sat back down and watched grown men race each other for absolutely nothing.

Joe "won" the bunch sprint. He said the big guy in Orange almost had him but faded as the line approached. He rode back to the parking lot with me and said how great it was to "win" the sprint on his birthday.

I took 2nd by a tire in a 3 up sprint in a criterium on my 21st birthday. That was bitter-sweet. My mom got a picture of it. Go figure. But I can't imagine being so stoked to ultimately get 17th out of 20 in a race where the common thread of discussion is retirement. Regardless, Joe had a good day. Should I decide to do another road race in the near future, I look forward to getting dropped with my new friend Joe.

As for my placement? I was misplaced as 8th in the cat 3's until that was sorted and corrected. At which point the officials simply deleted me. At least I didn't DNF.

Forty is F'd Up!

Initially I was informed I would have a work audit performed on my birthday. This being my 40th, such boring, adult activity sounded par for the course. Then in a stroke of luck the audit was pushed out.

My birthday is a special day in history. Not only is it always the 1st day of the 2nd week of the 3rd month, every year; on the evening of my birth, Joe Frazier gave Ali the beat down while earlier in the day Radio Hanoi played Jimi Hendrix's rendition of The Star Spangled Banner. Important stuff.



I was pumped to (be able to) read on the calendar hanging from the fridge, while eating breakfast that my birthday would fall on Fat Tuesday. Pretty rad. Not so rad was that it would also be International Ladies Day.

In staying my course of optimism for officially being old, last Saturday A surprised me by gathering up a group of friends to take me out for a good long bike ride. This was sweet of her no doubt and my friends certainly savored getting to drag me over hill and dale for the first time in 3 1/2 years. I think they most enjoyed the shocked look G and I shared as they crashed our Saturday morning cartoon time with derogatory name calling and threats for me to get off the *&^%ing couch.


Ironically, I wasn't the one who bonked blocks from home. I actually fared well. All those boring evening rides on the rollers in the basement and weekend ski trips with G prepared me well enough to get back into the swing of big bike rides.

The flip side was that while I was out with my aging spandex clad posse, her and G bought paint supplies for me to paint and carpet the stairwell I've been blowing off for 10-years.

Which brings me to last night and the sobering vision of falling from my poorly engineered scaffolding as I reached the high corners of the stairwell with a 20ft telescoping pole complete with a soaked sponge and paint dripping onto my face. In full color I could see the wood shelf the ladder was supported by, breaking from too much Newma-weight and my getting tangled in it as we both fell, hitting the last 3 steps of the staircase and tumbling to the basement floor, breaking my legs into 4 or 5 pieces each.

Ultimately painting the far end of the stairwell went okay. It was the cutting in at the landing, the part where all I needed was a step ladder that I did the most shoddy work. I rarely sleep well as it is, but last night I tossed and turned to dreams of paint dripping from the ceiling. In reality it was in the corners, the easy to reach corners where the drips got the better of me.

Last night was a busy night for someone else too. In the morning as A and I were both heading out the door for work, she saw that someone had broken into her car. Tin snip cut like opening a can of soup under the door handle was the access point to steal the air bag out of the steering wheel. They also took her Sheryl Crow CD which is odd because Sheryl Crow sucks.

Just Standing Still

It's pretty rad as a parent to get a compliment about your kid. A is the one who really reads the variety of child development books to pick and choose what strategies or routes we take with G. I'm more of the "throw mud on the wall and see what sticks" approach. So when someone shares something positive about G, I know they really mean for me to pass the compliment on to his mother. That pat on the shoulder? That's more for me being able to keep him in one piece thus far.

Some of the compliments revolve around G in public. Trust me he has his moments. Melt downs at the grocery store happen. The big dump he took at Home Depot? He freaked out about walking from the bathroom through the checkout, to the car, commando style. It was a confidence builder. A father/son teaching moment I reveled in. I reassured him it was fun to sometimes not wear underwear. Like a joke that only you know the punchline to. He didn't get it but I can't expect much understanding of my analogies; he's only 2.

All this to say that recently I've received some compliments about how he goes everywhere and can handle situations that some kids wouldn't stand a chance in. We don't need to boot up a laptop with movies at restaurants. He sits in his sled for 3+ hours AFTER the hour drive to the trail head. He likes to look around.

Last summer he caught me being more motivated than aware on occasion. Twice, for whatever reason, he hadn't been to the park in a few days and simply wanted to play. I wanted to ride the boat bike a solid hour before any alteration. But both times, he explained that he just wanted to swing and slide. So I let up and we rode a few blocks to the park and played. Would I have had more fun riding? Sure. Did we have fun together doing his favorite things? Absolutely.

My logic is that if sometimes I give in, he'll continue to enjoy the times we go big and do long, epic adventures. If he always has to tag along doing what I want to do, he'll hate the things I enjoy when he's old enough for us to really enjoy them together. Right now, he could care less about my V02max or FTP. Will it matter when he's 17 what my max sustainable power was when I was 40? Doubtful.

The tricky times are situations like last Saturday when we committed to driving to Mt. Hood, changed into proper XC-Ski gear, packed the sled with his current play list of books and animals, made it a mile down the trail and he says, "I want out."

"What?"

"I want out."

"Do you want to ski on your ski's?"

"No. I want to walk."

So we walk. 10 or 15 minutes pass. He's walking like I used to walk to school (before I rode my bike as far as I could in the other direction!). Long marching strides until something big enough to kick or step on grabbed his attention. He'd kick a snow ball or pick it up and throw it. He laughed a little, but kept walking.

Until he stopped.

Usually when he stops like that he clinches his fists and his face turns red. I thought about that and the prospect of changing his diaper on snow. I patted his butt but felt nothing. Whew!

"Are you okay son?"

"Yeah."

"Are you trying to poo?"

"No."

"Are you trying to pee?"

"No."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm just standing here."

And there he stood. Watching the clouds move and open a window like view of Mt. Hood. Watching the trees sway and drop piles of snow to the ground. Watching me get colder and shiver and mumble about the one time I didn't bring extra wind shell pants or jacket.

It annoyed him that I'd interrupt his silence to ask about getting back in the sled or strapping on his ski's.

"Seriously, why are you just standing there?"

"I'm just standing here."

So I let him just stand there.

After about 20-minutes he was done standing there. He climbed in the sled and slept for 2 hours while I trotted around the lake and thought about the value of stopping to just stand still. To be perfectly motionless and watch a view of a snow covered volcano open up right before you while not hearing a single sound. That is pretty epic. Even if your more than 2.

The Basement and Beyond

The last 2-months I have been able to ride consistently a few nights a week in the basement staring out a small window into the darkness. In 2009, I first rode outdoors again on the boat bike but often that was too much stress on damaged joints. In 2010, the bulk of my outdoor riding was again with Gavin at the helm. Much to my enjoyment our family rides grew longer and faster but I was still far from putting the kind of pressure onto the pedals I have taken for granted over the years.

So it has been rewarding in a weird way to see progress of how hard I can ride going nowhere. Almost enjoyable enough to lull me into thinking riding inside is fun. But sweating in place while staring out a window is not nearly the same as being knackered from a ride traveled beyond what can be seen from the comfort of home.

Skiing has been great, but even G has been asking to go for rides. He talks about riding along the river, going to the velodrome, watching cyclocross and cheering at racers flash by in a criterium. He's as parched and hungry as any racer just before a new season. He's even taken to asking to watch bike races I've DVR'd instead of Mickey's Club House.

So Much For Resolutions

A made it 3 days into 2011 without a trip to the hospital. This time it's kidney stones. In case your keeping score, this is her 7th surgery/procedure in less than 5 years. She still has her tonsils and appendix though, so anything is possible.

Fred Factor

Cross Country Skiing with G has been a blast. At home when he's not playing with trains, hot wheels or just being wild, he watches The Mickey Mouse Club House. On the show is Mistletoe Mountain where Santa lives. Driving to Mt. Hood he relates to going to Mistletoe Mtn. so thus it has become.

He's gotten pretty good with his own skis too. Not that much is expected. Mostly I just like that he looks forward to the adventure.

A big draw for these day trips is that XC Skiing is the one sport other than the bike that I truly enjoy. Yet I have put very little effort into it. I first tried it 18 years ago in Boulder, CO after being advised to by Andy Hampsten. His pearls of wisdom were practical and effective. My first pair of skis were a used 3-pin set that I only recently upgraded from. I think those classic skis were faster than my touring skis now, but it doesn't really matter since I'm pulling 45 lbs of kid and sled and snacks. The sled is by far the most opulent non bike item I've ever owned besides a leather couch. It's been worth every cent since G likes our trips and it allows me another way to knock out an escape on a weekend without being wet, cold and arthritic on a bike.

All the bike racers I've seen skiing so far, I know. They are easy to spot with their winter cycling kit sans bike. I've been dressing the same but am considering a heavier outer layer. When I stop to help G sort out whatever he has misplaced or lost I lose heat pretty quick. That said, I warm up equally quick again just pulling him along. But the more we stop, the longer it takes to warm back up each time.

I'm considering going to the Camelback hydration set up instead of the classic, bottle in the jersey pocket. While I can take off leg warmers, booties and what have you on a bike, I can't seem to grab a bottle while shuffling through the snow without tripping over myself. Who wants their kid to see that?

In terms of geeking out, I keep reminding myself to bring a pedometer but never remember till we're well out of town. Not too sure if it'll work, but having some sort of gauge of accomplishment would be useful until I have more frame of reference on our trail loops. As it is, I know good skate skiers can cruise 50 miles at about 10 mph and stay aerobic. I'm on much slower touring skis and pulling a one-diaper day care at 3.5 mph at the same heart rate. G and I did 3:45 on our last trip, 10-miles with 800 ft of climbing. Of course I only knew the time we were out for until I checked our route on mapmyrun.com after we got home.

To be honest, the best way I can tell how long we've been out is by my feet. Under 2 hours my feet feel fine. 2-2.5 hours they get hot spots. Over 3 hours I get blisters.

Hours on the left, minutes on the right.

At least next weekend I'll have some history to compare to. But the conditions will be sure to have changed as well. Of course, by the time I get the hang of this and feel confident that I know what I'm doing, it will be time to start putting long rides in on the boat bike.