Croup-aforma

Looking at the calendar awhile back, I made a goal of my own private, Thanksgiving -long holiday weekend-get back into shape training camp. The good Dr. H and I had been making progress on the hip/leg mess before I got sidetracked with home re-models and moving and such. Finally, by early November, after not having done any rehab excercises or riding since June, we seemed to be back on track and I was walking without a limp or much pain for the first time since before the Cadillac Attack in 2006.

From my DIY training camp, I experienced the two steps forward-one step back curse in that my long weekend left me with better legs than I started with but also a head full of mucus, sore throat, fever and a cough as thick as a southern summer. This of course after getting a flu shot.

The cough is hanging on and now G has it too. His is worse as he whistles when he breathes in his sleep, waking up A who consoles him.  Amid his feeling under the weather he is lamenting not getting to ride his bike as he drips, coughs and wheezes.

Yesterday the sun was shining. While resting on the couch, watching Dora The Explorer, he looked out the window and said, "Aw man; It's nice out and I really want to ride. Dad, I feel better can we go ride?  I won't go crazy, just a ride around the block? It's just my voice that's bad, we don't need to talk while we ride."

Explaining to him that sometimes we have to rest in order to get strong again, or that sometimes the best plans or intentions get derailed by the unexpected didn't really get through to him. Finally, I told him that he had germs; little tiny bad guys in his chest and nose and that he needed to rest so his body could build enough little good guys to fight the bad guys away.

I think he got it as today, when A took him to the doctor and the doctor asked if his throat was sore, G pointed to his chest and said, "my heart and neck are sore because the bad guys, that usually live in my butt, are coming out my mouth."

Perpetual Motion

Six weeks straight we've been visiting the Lumberyard. Sometimes twice a week. 3-4 hours at a time. When it was time to leave during our first visit, G ran away from me and hid under a half-pipe. Since then, it's not gotten much easier to leave but his skills have grown expedentially. He's not carelessly brave but he's not timid either. He works it out, watches older kids then dives in.

There's only two places in the re-purposed bowling alley that he has yet to master: A steep descent of a fly-over bridge that he just slides down, and the bigger, more technical, Blue ramps and pipes where kids do flips and aerobatic tricks that require one to be older than 4 and have pedals on their bike. He'll drop in on these ramps, but needs a push to get up the other side. A few more pounds and a chain driven bike not made out of wood and he'll be doing flips off "the wall" before he sleeps through the night with a dry pull-up.

Despite how much fun we are having, what keeps me bringing him back are the 8 or so other 3-5 year olds showing up regularly. The first time I took him on a weeknight without his buddy Max, he wouldn't ride. Taking A to watch was what broke him through to showing up without his best riding buddy. Yet today, he was high-fiving kids of all ages and knew them by name. As another dad said, "What else can you do with your 4-year old where you both work through challenges and build skills?"

                                                   The faster the start...the bigger the air!

                                   A rare look at his focused face. I usually just follow the blur.

                                                                 Rock gardening

                                    Thumbs up before dropping down the steep log descent

                                     Run it up then slide it down and do it again on the next ramp!

Every Tool Needs A Shed

The main updates to the Cold War Dream House have mostly been wrapped up. I'm still uncertain why a house actively being constructed during the Cuban Missile Crisis was not amended to include a fall-out shelter. Khrushchev  had already proven that brick and mortar work can be done on the fly. I guess that floor plan update will have to wait until my lottery numbers align.

More importantly though, I need a place to put the yard tools. It's a slippery slope piling gear in the garage; I have an agenda for that square footage. At the Cold War Starter Home, I simply bought A a car that wouldn't fit in the tiny garage.  Lawn mowers only add clutter to my garage vision. I needed a Dojo for gardening.

Location was an issue, the best place for a shed was straight across from the living room window. The ground was most level and highest elevation, as well as the least amount of shrubs to remove. There was a gap in foliage to the rear neighbors deck that would best be blocked, and I had multiple shades of left over paint and an art interest spurred by youthful cycling heroes.



Unfortunately my inability to read a tape measure was highlighted as I made the doors way to big for the space. Of course I didn't measure the doors themselves until after I had glued them together, taped and primed them.

I had to make a run out to my Dad's shop to cut, router, pucker and rebuild. At one point, he told me to grab a chisel to clean out the routered groove in one of the joints. I asked where a chisel might be and he responded, "On my workbench."



 With the doors fixed and ready to hang, I had a vision come to me during a dream. But first a little back-story; A's Grandpa had a thing for shellac. He put a glossy coat of chemical preserve over EVERYTHING. The brick chimney in his basement had a candy coating as if it was made of red M&M's.

So in my dream, I was spraying shellac all over the kitchen with a pesticide pump sprayer. A was yelling at me to not spray the windows, but all her knickknacks on the counter and window sill had a shiny preserved coating and it looked HOT.

 Of course the dream clearly meant that I needed to shellac the inside of the shed. And so you know, a pesticide sprayer works great for spray sealing. I brushed it out with a broom because everyone knows if you paint with a broom you're a Bad ass.



Dreams Do Come True

As a girl, A used to play with dolls. Figures, she was a girl. Oddly enough though, in her fantasy doll scenarios (FDS to the hardcore) her doll was always a Ninja, Detective or a Ninja-Detective. I imagine Laura Ingals with a Mr. T complex. "I pity the Pioneer..."

Come to find out that things don't change much. I now imagine she had some really L.A.M.E. college parties with her "doll friends." I found in the mail today an American Girl catalog. A ripped it from my hands and ran off as if she beat me to the chance to read through it first. Cause I'm all over that like newsprint in a birdcage.

As she hurriedly flipped through the girl-child catalog, I had to ask; "What the &#@ is that and why is it in this house?"

"Just a sec...just a sec!" she said.  Waving her finger of justice at me without raising her head from the estrogen scented girl mag.

"I've gotten this catalog for 10 years, since ordering a Christmas present for our niece. But that's not important right now. What is SO GREAT, THEY FINALLY MADE A DOLL THAT LOOKS JUST LIKE ME AND SHE COMES WITH A PONY! OH, YEAH!!!!

I turned my head toward the bedazzled print and sure enough...

The Business

This blog is big business. The demands from it are incomprehensible to the little people. Readers from all over the world. It's humbling. Google though, in their infinite wisdom, decided I was too young to blog. Under age for such mature content. So they shut this outlet of enlightenment down cold like a kid crashing after a day at the circus. I'm gonna be totally honest; I'm over 40. I haven't even been carded when buying alcohol in years.

The damage though was to you dear reader. Your heart felt like it stopped when you saw the blank page on your work computer as you desperately tried to avoid the eyeball bleeding work that you do. And I apologise for that. I am mature enough to know the pain my alleged mistake of transposing digits to make me 3 years old on the Internet brought to you.

So I did what any graying forty-something would do; I yelled for my wife of a decade-and-a-half to bail me out. Again, with the honesty; I'm no technophile.  I chase a kid on a wooden bike with no pedals around the block and never seem to catch him.

A danced around the ring with her laptop for a few rounds, found Googles weakness, then stuck one to the breadbasket and shazaam! La Gazzetta dello NewmaForma is back. Now get back to work!

Settling into the Cold War Dream House

I can honestly say that remodeling a house to sell, remodeling a house to move into, moving 15 years of marital bliss and 23 bicycles is probably not much different than the effort it took to put a man on the moon. Rest in peace Neil Armstrong.

Speaking of Space Race, while the new place was being worked on I had a dream that I neglected to check the basement cabinets for a portal into a backyard bomb shelter. I woke in a sweat, heart racing at 3 a.m. figuring how it would totally make sense given the slope of the lawn, the patio cement slab and access from said floor to ceiling cabinets. I raced over to the new house the next morning to check, but alas there was no subterranean survival center. The contractors, (a great group of guys that felt more like friends helping with my project, only better, as they showed up on time, finished on time, didn't eat all our food, but wanted to be paid with more than beer. Go figure.) all laughed when I explained my dream. They agreed with the logic that it would have been a great place for a bomb shelter and offered to bid the job.

So we're mostly moved in and getting a feel for the neighborhood. At the old place when G and I would ride to Thunder-dome there was an occasional homeless guy sleeping under a tree but never any other signs of degradation. It was never a problem. I expect so much from a Portland City Park that resembles a campground with the soft ground, tall old trees and such.

At the new place, the park doesn't quite compare, so G has taken to making a "race course" around the surrounding blocks. On the backside descent to the tight, off-camber corner near the retirement home, we've already found used condoms in the street. I guess it makes sense that these old guys are popping Viagra like PEZ and taking Grandma on a walk up the hill to the gazebo that looks out over the community garden. Just the other night the retirement home had a Luau that went well past 9 p.m.

With the Luau in full swing and G and I watching his favorite movie, A decided to hit the grocery store alone in hopes of some peace and quiet while shopping. Turns out, after dinner Friday night at the Fred Meyer's is as much as a meat market as the retirement home.
She got back just as G and I were walking upstairs to get ready for bed. I had the living room windows open and the house smelled of smoke. The neighbors have consistently been partying on weekends and have a fire pit so I gave it no thought. In fact, a week after we moved in, the retired neighbor lady came over to tell us of her parties and apologize if they get too loud. Apparently backgammon after dark gets a little rowdy.

A was flustered and complained of the smoke just as I was processing that it smelled a little strong. I closed up the windows, looked out the kitchen window to see a glowing house a block away filtered by heavy smoke just as she asked if I hadn't heard the sirens.

She then went on to explain, in her animated way, her shopping experience and the guy in flip flops pushing a flatbed cart that she couldn't shake through the store amid the beer buying maze of party goers. In fact, her story was so intricate that she had to sit at the kitchen table and draw a diagram of how it all went down while barely able to contain herself.

The guy left the store about the same time as A and, as chance would have it, they were parked right by each other. By now his cart was loaded with a way-too-big-to-fit-into-his-car, boxed bistro table set. A loaded her groceries and watched puzzlingly as he opened all the doors of his Crown Vic and tried to jam the box unsuccessfully into each portal one at a time.

He got it jammed partially into the trunk, took the cart to the cart corral, walked back, jumped on the box some more, swore, tried to stomp his frustrations but was emasculated by his own flip flops. He then brought the cart back, held it from rolling down the slope, pinning him against his car with a fully extended leg and his big toe against the handle of the cart while now standing on one leg and attempting to pick up the large box, pivot and set it back on the cart behind him. I think she said he swore some more.

As sweet a soul as A is, she decided that 10'oclock at night was no time to offer to help or tell the guy to just take the table and chairs out of the box.

"It was so obvious the thing wouldn't fit! He didn't even need to measure anything to know the box wasn't going into that car. He was so angry, he finally stomped his flip flops and pushed the beat up box back into the store, presumably to return the thing, and I just threw it in reverse and floored it to get away from the guy."

Now, standing in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by empty grocery bags, eyes ablaze with her story, she turned casually to see out the window at the glowing house a block away, "old people are having sex, houses are burning, what's next: pets' heads falling off!?"

Swan song

As best as I figure, tonight was going to be G's last evening at the local park he calls Thunderdome, as residents of the neighborhood.

The neighbors along the four blocks or so to the park have become accustomed to his tearing down the sidewalk on his skuut bike with me next to or right behind him on my own bike. The one guy around the corner especially, who recently told us that riding bikes on the sidewalk was illegal. What keeps me entertained about him is that every day that we ride by his house, Gavin asks, "Is the cranky guy happy yet?"

Cranky guy sits in his living room next to an open window reading the paper every evening. I answer, "We can only hope so son."

So tonight I had visions of G riding through the park, down the grassy hill, circling around giant redwood trees, not understanding the magnitude of this last after dinner excursion. I imagined it a summary of all the riding and playing we have done there over the last 3 years.

Instead, he wanted to walk to the park...wait for it...with Abeeee in her stroller.

I thought A threw that stupid stroller away months ago. At the very least in the last few days while packing. I admit I am the one who caved and bought it for him after he earned a trip to the toy aisle at Fred Meyers for not peeing his pants or eating all his dinner or something.

But alas, my lovely wife, the mother of this fine child, had not thrown it away. Leaving me to walk to the park with my son, his doll and her pink stroller.

Cranky guy was happy this evening.

The dog walkers, other families making their way to the park and most everyone driving by, all smiled. Some pointed. Some shared how great they felt it was to let a child express him/herself.

I was impressed by G, not for wanting to embrace his feminine side, but for being able to launch Abeeeeeee down every slope we came across. He pushed evenly never tipping her heavy either left or right. She did have a few jettison moments with curbs though.

He was careful to look for cars before letting her "cross the street by herself."

Once at the park, G found a cool stick, ditched Abeeeeee and ran around till he was dripping with sweat and finally broke the stick. I sat on a bench consoling her while talking with another dad whose daughter regularly wears a super hero suit consisting of purple snow boots, butterfly wings and a cat mask made from a paper plate.

Abeeeee thought the stick breaking was pretty awesome and that G had it coming after dropping her like a homely prom date once the slow dances started. We had to discuss her attitude before it got the better of her. Bitterness is ugliness.

Then G and Super Girl found a Hot Wheel car under a pile of bark dust and Abeeeeeeee was indignant. So much so that when it came time to walk home, Abeeeeeee wanted nothing to do with Gavin.

It's one thing to walk to the park with your son while he pushes a pink stroller with his 'daughter' in it. It's totally different to carry that stroller yourself while your 4-year-old gets to cradle a rad, lime green Ford Mustang Hot Wheel car.

Believe it or not, as a red blooded man, there is a right way to carry a toy stroller and a doll. Unlike carrying your wife's purse which is just plain wrong. First, is the fundamental chin up, chest out. Good posture is the foundation of confidence.

Next is to palm the stroller like a basketball. Squeezing the flimsy pink plastic handles together with just enough force that they may break, but not until your close enough to home that you don't have to carry a broken girl toy with your son for a distance further than you could throw the stupid thing. Despite the grip, the girl toy should hang casually at your side like how the old timers carried their lunch pale into the factory every day.

Lastly, is to acknowledge passers by with a subtle sternness. A look that says, "Yeah, I know that you see me carrying a girly toy and walking with my son, but wouldn't it suck if you got beat up with this stupid, pink, pre-school play thing?"

It worked. As Gavin stumbled over the uneven sidewalk, not watching where he was going, while analyzing the car in his dirty, sweaty, little hands, the same dog walkers and new parents who walked in a haze with their precious babies asleep in real strollers, looked at us again but instead of smiling that cheesy, "oh how cute," smile, gave me the nod that men give men out of a silent respect.

Then we got home and each had an Otter Pop while G told me knock knock jokes that all ended with Abeeeee farting.

Crime and Punishment

A sorted through her purse today and found a forgotten gift card.

"Sweet!" you might say.

Or "Big deal."

But here's the thing: 'We,' have history of saving gift-cards. Not really hoarding; hoarding is too strong a word for this. And hoarding gift-cards doesn't have the same dramatic effect on TV as say, hoarding garbage does. If she were to buy loads of crap with gift cards based on late night infomercials and then never throw any of it away, and the Fire Marshall couldn't find any of my dozen or so bikes from underneath her hoarding ways, then yeah, that would be a problem that could make for good TV. But this, this is not hoarding.

Yet there is a strong historical trend of hanging onto gift-cards or gift certificates well past their expiratition date while all along being too gun-shy to pull the trigger because next time/month/year there might be a better deal/sale/need where that twenty-bucks might make the difference of us eating or not. Then the odd day comes to clean out the purse and low and behold; a stack of free movie passes, coffee, dinner or $$ off at select stores, all as valuable as East German currency.

Anyway, she found a gift card today from like 3 years ago and decided to test it to see if it worked. She logged onto her favorite on-line retailer and bought earrings.

"Good for you," I said.

I would have done the same thing. Except I don't carry a purse or let any amount of money in any form last for more than about 12 hours in my possesion. Except for the one time I carried a single $1.00 bill for a month. It was when I stumbled across another $1.00 bill on the sidewalk that I remembered I had the first one and immediately bought a cup of coffee.

At anyrate, A buys the earrings and the total, including shipping is more than the value of the card. Except that, and here's where the story really gets good, the charge goes through. The card worked at 101.4% of it's original value 3 years ago. Gift cards as I am aware are not an investment. Worse case, they lose a percentage value over time until they are worth nothing (at which point she tries to use them). Best case, they are worth what say they are worth.

So now, she's really amped. She also feels a wave of guilt. As if she just kicked The Man in the crotch. She becomes distraught. Then excited again. Then a fire truck drives by 6 blocks away and she thinks its the cops coming to arrest her. Then I walk in and she spills her guts of the whole thing. Knowing that telling the truth should set her free she remains torn, frought with emotion after her confession and is now additionally processing her anger at me for laughing at her.

"The true cost of these earrings," she says, pointing her finger of justice at me,"No, the punishment... no, both the cost and the punishment, is my conscience. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to wear them!"

The Bitter and the Sweet

In recent weeks Gavin has now experienced the bitter and sweet of lifes' highs and lows first hand. As with any good story it's a three part play.

Act I



Portland has a rose festival. The Rose Festival fireworks show was where A and I first moved from casually knowing each other to the phase where I screaned her calls and she stalked me. Thats not entirely true. Regardless, part of the Rose Festival is a childrens 'junior' parade. I've never paid much attention to it, filing it under cheeky kid stuff. Turns out it's a big deal. Real big deal. Live TV, Beauty Queens, marching bands, the works.

One of G's friends happened to have her 4th birthday on the same day as the Junior Rose Festival Parade. The plan was for her to ride in a cupcake bike trailer/jogging stroller and for her beu, Gavin to be her escort in Thomas. As previously mentioned, I was clueless to the magnitude of the event or the fact that each of the parade entries were judged. G and I showed up, ate some PB&J with our friends then were told we won our division and awarded the Blue Ribbon while in line for the porta-potty so G wouldn't pee himself during the parade propper. What a great present to get a Blue Ribbon on your birthday. Not to mention that Brian's cupcake work was pure genious.

Act II




Busy as we've been with the details of buying/selling houses, it was a rare treat for us all to be home and have eaten dinner before the sun had set. Given the rare time we had, a family bike ride to G's favorite park and Thunderdome was the unanimous choice. Gavin was exstatic to show off for both A and I at the same time. We raced around the tarmac playground on our bikes before he lead the ride down the hill to Thunderdome, his grassy free-ride gully beneath Redwood trees.

Full of confidence and brimming with pride to show his mom Thunderdome for the first time, G raced spectacularly down the paved path on his skuut bike before launching Steve Austin style from speed wobbles and using his body to stop his inevitable impact into the chainlink fence that surrounds the public pool.

First was the shock. Then the pain. Walkers passed by and from behind his tears I could see his embarassment. Next was his anger as we walked slowly home, G on my shoulders cradling his arm and spot of road rash. Finally acceptance, "I really wanted to play at Thunderdome with you Mom."

The next morning he was still cradling his slightly swollen elbow. I squeezed and moved it, just as many doctors and medics have done to me many, many times before. A and I deliberated but weren't convinced it was that bad. We also weren't convinced it was okay. A doctors visit, X-Ray and lolly-pop later, G was the proud owner of a tiny fracture and a sling that he would wear for a grand total of 3 seconds. The next evening,we rode a lap around the block but he still lamented missing the chance to show his mom his moves in Thunderdome.

Act III




My Dad wanted to take G and I to an outdoor model train exhibit. Various backyards around town dedicated to trains. It's been planned for months. Given that G rested his arm for next to no time at all; this would be a great way to pass a day and keep him from trying to climb, wrestle, punch or othewise over-use his bad wing. G dozed as we drove from house to house and fought from leaving each one, fearful that the layout at the next house would suck.

I'll spare you the dozens of bad pictures of cool model trains and the back of one redhead kids' mellon. But the trainsets, landscaping and detailed features of each yard were all amazing.

Epilogue




The doctor said to try and use a sling if G will allow it but to otherwise let him use his arm but not to over-use it. I'm not sure how to express 'over-use' to a near-four-year-old, but I think if he can manage to swing a hammer while waiting for Mac & Cheese, he's gonna be alright. Did I mention that the new house is halfway down a steep hill?

Racer Boy

In his usual way, G wore down his grandparents today like a stage hunter in a long break-away full of lesser domestiques, before finishing solo arms raised, legs fatigued, smile full, alone in the picture.

He took them on one at a time. Divide and conquer. Feined interest in their chores, tasks and playfulness until they needed rest. He then turned to the other with the same strategy. Targeting the opponent and keeping them in the wind a little longer than himself for each rotation of the echelon. Repeating methodically until they fell off the pace; Napping, horizontal in an aged reclyner.

But then the mountains came late in the stage. Literally. He climbed me. Little hands gripping mine, little stinky feet pressed against my shins. Against my thighs, into my belly, barely stable on shoulders until finally atop my head. Over and over. "Again, Daddy, agian!"

He descended, a giggling ball of weight flopping onto the couch lacking form yet always quick to big-ring another ascent. But the scenery changed. The course profile was not as he expected. Burgers, pinball, video games and ice cream came into view over the horizon.

He approached each with the same strategy as he conquered his elders. Taking on one at a time. Divide and conquer. But the quarters ran out; his pockets were empty, energy sapped. I saw through his poker face as the finish grew near. His nodding and fighting to keep focus. Todays' would not be his to win.

Finally in the finishing straight, snuggled into the couch, for the first time since he was an infact, he fell deep asleep snoring in my arms. Midway through his favorite movie, even before his usual bedtime. Gangly, weighted limbs, any of which heavier than his whole as a tiny baby, rested against me uncomfortable, cutting off circulation to my own limbs.

He is no baby any more. He is a boy. He is boundlessly full of energy and imagination and wild adventure. As I carried him to his room, he labored his eyes open, glassy and still asleep, smiled, then closed them again. I will savor this victory.

Cold War pimpin' Dream House

As first time home buyers we were asked to make a list of desirable features. Stuff like marble ceilings, full wall mirrors in every room, an indoor swing, bomb shelter and Lion head door-knobs didn't make the cut. That stuff costs big money and try as we did, none of it was found in houses in our meager price range. Except for the swing. But that house made me feel like I picked up a venerial disease just walking in.

So the second time around we have more strategic desires. Now we know despite how Mike Tyson might decorate, marble goes on counter-tops and entry way floor, not ceilings. Mirrors go on ceilings. Duh.

All I really want is a little more shop space and not to have to make the same improvements yet again on a different house. And of course, Lion head door knobs. A would be happy with kitchen cabinets that allow her to reach the top shelf. G wants train tracks in every room and tunnels through every wall. I can't fault either of them.

So all that said, here are a few highlights of our options:

This basement was 'move in ready'. I thought it would be a good place to have an 'under the sea' prom -after party at.

The finished garage is a classic. I would put the tv facing the parked car though so as to also get that drive in feel on date night.

These were the finest ceiling tiles I've seen by far. Not a new install either! This whole house was a time machine. I kept waiting for Christopher Walken to come out from around a corner as Calvin Webber from the movie Blast from the Past.

Dew-drops along the basement stairs.

This basement was the best man-town I've seen. The downside, not pictured was the furnace which was as big as an SUV.

Seriously, the pool table matches the paneling. The poker table and matching Joker light = good times. Off to the right is the wet bar. This was the only part of the house that didn't need work!

Remember her for later...

Gavin said there was no way he could pee in a girls bathroom. So had to scratch this one off the list.

I think the dirty perv bathroom got some movie time in the 70's.



Okay, this bed...friggin RAD! Imagine the cheesecake oil painting in the same room. A and I both wanted to buy the house just to get the bed worked into the deal.

Friday the 13th Special Guest Contributor Edition

photo: Getty images

One doesn't undergo seven surgeries in five years without spending some serious time at the Dr's office. Like piles of base miles to a world class cyclist, the fundamentals of reading year-old magazines and staring at the carpet while passing time in waiting rooms are the ham and eggs of a professional patiet such as my lovely wife A. Below, as a special guest contributor to this blog (whose only real rival is, of course, The New Yorker) is an email she sent me recently. Enjoy...

So I'm at Dr. S, my gastro-guy (he's the upper one, not the lower one) and there is a dude in the waiting room with me worth telling you about. First he spent about 10 minutes texting someone with a really old phone (where to get a letter "c" you have to push the correct # key 3 times). What made it awesome is it beeped really loud for each time he pushed. And it was a long text.

Then he got up and went to the water cooler and drank a Dixie cup of water like a maniac, gulping it so fast water trickled out the sides of his mouth. The cup holds like 1 ounce of water so I could not figure how he managed this. Then he belched loudly, repeatedly and LONG (no 'excuse me').

Next his phone rang and he told the caller that if they didn't stop texting him he'd change the number and call the cops!!! He was pissed! While he's screaming into the phone he's also trying to get some Tums out of a bottle and drops a bunch on the floor. So he picks them up and eats all of them. I'm talking about 8 Tums!

I'm trying so hard not to laugh or stare 'cause now he's back to texting but now it's angry texting with a very jabby pointer finger and muttering. I'm guessing he's at the doc today because of the hole he's burned in his gut from being a rager.

Incognito

A few weeks ago G and I were at Home Depot and amid the excitement of buying project supplies he pee'd his pants. Sucks, but goes with the territory of late. It seems he's been swinging at bad pitches and watching the good ones pass over the plate without even flinching. He'll stand or sit at the porcelain with no action, then do the cowboy walk through the doorknob aisle with urine seeping out his shoes.

"It's all a process," I told us both trying to be an example and stay cool as we left the store. People laughed at his scowl or asked,"Why the pouting, little man?" I didn't understand that one as anyone only had to look at his soaked pants or the trail of urine droplets from his Lighting McQueen kicks to figure out why a 3 year old might turn foul. Hell, my smile would be upside down if I drained my bladder into my Samba's in public.

Two weeks and some heavy head colds pass and G and I find ourselves back at Home Depot to pick up some small bits to finish our project. It's pouring rain and snowing a little so I say to him that we gotta hurry so we can get back before the inside of the car gets cold again. He agrees but stalls while insisting to put on his sunglasses.

I'll be honest; I don't care if the kid wears pajamas to church. He's got a doll named Abby that's either his sister or daughter depending on the day. Abby doesn't bother me. Abby's mom is always A so him being the dad gets a little dicey, but he's also got a Rocky Balboa action figure and fire trucks and helicopters so the doll doesn't shake my conviction that he's all dude.

Suffice it to say the shades have no effect other than slowing us down. Inside the store people point and laugh. Ha, ha, funny stuff, a kid in shades on a rainy day. Great, I'm in a hurry. G's a good sport, keeping up and not wandering off to collect stuff he thinks we need. What we need are 2 electrical plug covers and one more tube of paneling glue. We get through the store unscathed and back to the car before the seats even got cold. All is well.

Then at home it hit me. He wore the shades because he didn't want to be recognized as the kid who left a puddle of pee in the store two weeks ago. I wish I could buy him a beer.

Keep it Simple

A friend recently decided that his SRM power meter wasn't helping him gain the performance advantages he sought on his daily commute any longer. So he sold it and we discussed the virtues of knowing what gear one is riding in and being aware of cadence. It's amazing how when the chatter is muted, the fundamentals of training are timeless.

Another friend, who is preparing himself for post-apocalyptic survival, called one recent evening for a pick up as he had flatted 3 times and was out of spare tubes and patches while on his training ride. Part of the discussion on the 10-minute drive home was about thinning down the spare tool bag from multi-tools, 3 tubes, patches and a spare tire to just a tube or two. "Back in the day," we decided, we didn't have cell phones so we had to actually be self reliant.

When I was 17 and 18 I was lucky enough to spend most of my training time with a Pro racer who had prior lived in France and Italy. Rob and I crossed paths on rides a few times before he called me and said to be at his house at 9 sharp the next morning. I showed up early. The interaction wasn't formal, but was succinct. He sat me down at the small kitchen table, across from a Graham Watson calender on the wall, made me my first ever doppio espresso, then left the room to get dressed.

Not previously being a coffee drinker, I drank the espresso without milk and despite it's flavorful strength wondered why it was in such a tiny cup. He walked back into the kitchen dressed for training, sat down to put on his shoes and said simply that we'd always leave at 9 and to be prepared for at least 3 hours, sometimes 7 but almost always 5. When I asked about structure, his response was to ride at least 3 hours, almost always 5 and sometimes 7. Pretty simple.

Last weekend I got out to ride with friends both days for my 2nd and 3rd rides in 6 weeks, my first in 3 weeks. We saw both cars below on the same ride. Given all the years of improvements to handling and performance, paying attention seems to remain fundamental.

I wonder if the Asia cassette is still in the tape deck?

Nice parallel parking job by the Miata.

5,000 views to this ramshackle little corner of the inter-web as of today. Should I be proud? Is that a substantial number? A quick review shows views from every continent over the last 4 years or so. The most active month of views was last April after rolling out Thomas. The most popular post by far is the one about a guy taken into an ER by his pregnant wife, then meets a HOT nurse and a bottle of KY.

What started as a joke, became a place to journal childhood memories while in bed and house-bound after my 2nd major accident in 18 months. Then a way to leave updates on A as she recovered from likely the most messed up, life threatening baby delivery ever. A place for me to write down the moments I don't want to forget while trying to not remember many of the realities we've faced. 8 surgeries to get A through the last 4 years we've navigated. Rehab starts and stops for me and learning and relearning the boundaries of what activity level I can sustain. Geez, this blog is bad luck!

The good is so much more. I never anticipated getting home from a bike ride with a 3-year old and having to explain why we couldn't immediately go surfing. Or when he was 2, going to Builder Bear workshop and seeing that his only motivation to build a bear was the Skateboard accessory kit. Hearing praises of parenthood directed at A, then getting a pat on the back with, "Oh, and you're alright too."

A few 'real' writers have commented privately that I lack a focus of subject matter and that my blog could be so much more. Maybe flashing, annoying advertising in the side bars for rubber gloves or Fiber? I remember the early thought that this blog would help me write more. Like I did in college. Then I consider the fact that since it's my blog, I can do what I want. I think in hindsight, I chose poor, starving bike racer over poor, starving writer. Crafting words is pretty far down the priority list these days. Maybe when I retire this blog will have enough content to fuel a bigger writing fire. So 5,000 or 5,000,000 hits doesn't really mean much. But that's still a lot of people the world over reading mostly the one story about HOT nurse and her long, thin fingers helping me take a crap.

For now, it's all about the adventures and projects of a guy, his wife and kid. I hope that is enough for you. And leave a dollar on your way out. 5 large can make a lot of cool things to replace Thomas.

Watch my icy hot super slide

We've been in a weather conundrum lately. Since the 1st of the year G has found it too cold to ride in Thomas, and there has not been enough snow to XC Ski. I've managed to get some long weekend rides in with friends but G has been left to put out fires with his Emergency Response Play Mobile Team: Funston, Crunch, Rick and T.C. (who pilots the chopper) or watch cartoons.

Now, suddenly snow is plentiful in the forecast. But until the accumulation builds we have opted for ice skating. G's Palmares now include skuut bike down hilling, swimming, surfing, bowling, skiing and trolling the ice rink to pick up 'potential baby sitters' at the mall.

The build up to our first skating venture was increased when after lacing up in the arena basement we approached the rink and found 50 kids leaning against the chain gate waiting impatiently for the Zamboni to finish it's laps. Gavin asked me in a whisper if this was a race. The 10-year old standing next to us looked Gavin down, head to toe and asked me, "is he any good?" I replied, "Yeah, he's kick-ass." Then Gavin asked if the kid was a girl. He was not, and turned away after saying so much.

After a half hour of steady left turns, G's grip on my hand was merely a light contact of a single digit for security. He was still doing more stepping than skating, but was finding his balance. His ankles never pronated nor did he hang onto the wall for security. Adrienne stood at the exit of the ice holding our coats and boots and hoped to take a zillion pictures. Some random little girl tasked her with holding her 20 oz. soda, so pictures didn't materialize quite so easy. Every lap or two the girl would skate up to the wall, "Lady, I need my drink." then try to set it down on the slanted railing to which A would save from sliding off and landing on the ice.

We were 45 minutes in before one of us landed on the ice. Every lap when passing the parked Zamboni, G looked over and called to it by name. Finally as fatigue began to set in, he slipped straight across my line and in an effort to save him from a fall, or from skating over the top of him, I gave him a spin worthy of Blades of Glory but landed square on my ass while holding him up. Scared by the suddenness of it all, he cried a pathetic cry to a high school girl who consoled him while I got myself up.

Look Dad, a Zamboni just like on the last lap!

For Markie

So a number of years ago, this friend bought an RV for something like $50 and some trade. He was really excited for his purchase but he had two problems: He's no 'wrench' and he had no where to park it. Like showing up to a Toga party and being the only one in a Toga, he realized about 10 minutes into proud ownership that the neighbors weren't happy to wake up every morning and look at a Randy Quaid-esque motor lodge out their window.

Years passed. Various friends' driveways, alleys, backyards and parking lots allowed temporary solice to the aboration of adventure. I rode in it once. We had to move it from one lodging to another and leave quietly. Call it driving to the start of our Saturday morning bike ride. While crossing the Ross Island Bridge and contemplating the roadway passing under foot, (literally, I could see the ground under my dangling feet from the passenger seat!) Markie told me about driving it to Burning Man, or rather driving it 20-miles to the edge of town where it asphyxiated itself in an attempt at an automotive hara kiri and he and his band of desert loving friends had to rent an actual RV to merely pass the county line.

Bottom line, the RV was a piece of crap. Old, abused, needing much work, its endearment was that for years, (i.e. Two presidents') full terms Markie couldn't unload it or justify fixing it. I always smiled to read posts on chat boards and facebook about its adventures. Travails like trying to donate it to various groups and organizations but being denied. Here's a tip when considering a used automobile: if college kids won't take it for free to drink in, (even if you fill it with kegs) don't buy it. Homeless advocate groups weren't interested. Offers on Craigslist; "Great running V8 complete with attached shelter" brought no interest. I was convinced it was meant to be with my friend forever. Like Johnny Depp's Winona tattoo. Or a disease.

Alas, I read in the below email tonight that the RV has gone to younger men full of grace. May their humor never wear thin or fever fall on their spirit.




To some the Hobbit is the end, but there is Lord of the Rings
To others Ketuvim is the end, but there is Mathew (Bible references, folks, look 'em up)
To some there was the 1918 world series, but others know of 2004 (they got lucky-go Yanks!)

And so there is a man, he is mortal.

If you prick him, he will bleed
If you tickle him, he will laugh
If you poison him, he will die
And if you wrong him, shall he not revenge?
(apologies for the liberties with grammar Will)

That man in Jens Voigt.
He is even my age, but yet he is ageless. He is two score with seven children.
A modern hardman in the tradition of many before him.

He has even influenced those who live 5,211.14 miles away from him (or 8,386.29 K for your euro-geeks)

A Team with vision, a team with verve and elan, and free Mohawks to all who wish them
Yea Verily, I speak of Jens Voigt's Army, the JVA from beloved Portland. Viz: http://teamjva.com/

Today, 1/5/12 is the end and the beginning (though not quite the Alpha and Omega- I used up my bible reference above)
Today, 1/5/12 a dawning of a new era is upon us
Today 1/5/12 a rebirth, as the mighty Phoenix, born from the ashes of it's own nest (Or leaky oil pan, dealer's choice)

Today JVA took possession of the Cross Crusade RV. It is now theirs to use as they see fit, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent owner may of right do (Apologies for the liberties with the grammar Thom).

They say they will fix her,
They say they will make her run well again
They say they will cover her in Paisley (as a fan of the Dead Milkmen, I wish they'd cover her with a Big Lizard, but she's theirs now, not mine, Eat Your Paisley was 1/2 the Album Big Lizard was)

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, I come to bury you all not to praise you, unless you are part of the JVA, in which case I salute you!

I can't wait to see what happens next, I've already bookmarked, "JVA, RV Injury, I told him not to do that" on youtube!