Do Pengiuns even blow bubbles?

I hate swimming. Let me rephrase that. I hate swimming in a pool. Swimming in a lake is fun like an old Mountain Dew commercial.  Beyond the community swimming pool nastiness, I find racing anaerobic toward a cement wall repeatedly almost as ridiculous as running across a freeway.

Swimming takes rhythm, buoyancy, mechanical awareness of one's body and the skill of not inhaling water while splashing around in a manner that propels one in a forward motion toward said concrete wall. To top if off, a middle aged fellow has to do all the above while being observed by either a really cute girl in short shorts,  red life guard t-shirt and whistle hanging from the edge of her lips or a pimply faced beef-cake man-child who'd rather you weren't in the pool at all so he could instead stare across the room at the cute girl with the shorts and whistle. Both potentially capable of saving your life.

Option B is to sit around the shallow pool in a humid line up with an assortment of other parents of kindergartners splashing around attempting to blow bubbles in the water. Moms and Dads stare at smart phones while the lap pool remains still like glass and that teen-age boy with the eyes for the other lifeguard cups his biceps with opposite hands and flexes his arms alternately. Teen-age boys have more muscles than brains. I'm not saying I was smart as a teen-ager, but what I would give to have had that physique in my youth. The swimmers wedged torso and voluptuous shoulders that I voluntarily forsook for strength and speed on a bicycle were like an express-lane to get girls attention.

"I shave my legs too!" I would retort in PE when the swimmers would point and laugh at my scrawny shoulders and tattooed tan-lines but the parallel stopped there.

As a father I want the best for my son. I want to give him the opportunities I didn't have. I think every father wants this. As both of you dear readers know, I have fostered learning to ride a bicycle with zeal. But I also want a well rounded son who can pay his own way through law or medical school. A strong, smart, well mannered, athletic son. I want his teen-aged angst to revolve around which scholarships to choose as well as how to decide on whom to take to prom without breaking too many teen-aged girl hearts. What father doesn't?

Enter swim lessons. The boy needs to learn to swim for obvious reasons such as not drowning and as exercise so he'll go to bed on time, without fuss and because we live 2 blocks from an indoor swimming pool in a place where it rains 9-months a year. But also for success in life. To develop his well-rounded sporting abilities, to challenge his fears and mostly to start the process of looking good with his shirt off.

The first night of lessons I sat with the other parents watching our little ones dance around in the water holding onto a hula-hoop and blowing bubbles into the heavily chlorinated water that killed the germs in the snot they all were flushing into the pool with each cute little not-so-synchronized curtsy below the surface. Don't get me wrong, I was proud of G and the effort he displayed after listening to and attempting each task put forth by his 16-year old teacher. But then I noticed the empty lap pool across the room. Class is 30-minutes. I barely manage to get 30-minutes twice a week riding the rollers in the garage well after G has gone to bed at night. The opportunity to get some exercise and blow off some steam while at the same time purging the energy of a 5-year old was too much to resist.

Other than high-school PE, swimming in the same high school pool Mark Spitz swam in, I have only swam for rehab after breaking an assortment of bones. To be clear, I have never swam for exercise while not medicated with narcotics, or as a puffy out of shape middle-aged man, or both. So I started. I started slowly like a water-buffalo wades into a muddy desert oasis. I moved forward, splashing with the vigor of a dozen 5-year olds holding onto a hula-hoop scared to submerge their noses. The weeks passed quickly, G looked forward to each swim night. I only missed one session. Finally, the last class, -graduation day arrived. All the kids got a certificate. I managed to swim a  clean, half lap without messing up my stroke/breath rhythm or inhaling water. Victory for the two-dozen or so half laps I stormed like a hurricane through.

Swim teachers are smart. They provide a certificate so each kid feels good about their water based accomplishments. But the teacher knows full well that 5 year olds can't read scribbled notes on the back of the certificate. "G can move onto the next class but only if he learns to submerge his head and blow bubbles under water."

So basically G failed swim class. He got the nod to move on if he does some extra practice, but really, he should be held back. Kind of like the high school math teacher that on the last day of school said to me, "Pop Quiz, do you know how to round up? Can 68.7% round up to 70%?"

Still riding high for my personal half lap of glory after 5weeks of not drowning in spite of myself, I let G walk tall back to the locker room as I came to terms that being not so strong of a swimmer might just be part of the genetic makeup. As a reward, I had promised him a stop at the vending machine we had walked passed every week for a well earned treat. His choice was clear. He wanted a Pop-Tart because, "That's what we have on long bike rides."

The Bro Code

The saying, "What happens in Vegas; Stays in Vegas" is over-done so I won't use it. Sometimes the details are best glossed over. What makes the kinship of friends through our journey of life so strong is often a knowing nod, a silent reference of understanding rather than a Odyssey-esque public explanation of say, a night of drunkenness that ended in a visit to a tattoo parlour, or a bike ride where some directionally challenged mates got too deep into the forest and ended up smoking pot with naked hippies in the Siskiyou's. These of course are just hypothetical examples to back up my point that on occasion, a scenario plays out whether planned or not, that is best stored deep in the cerebral warehouse where grey matter goes black. Like a vintage wine or a milk crate of old magazines, a particularly good story should be brought out for public consumption only after many years have passed. I guarantee you that a story about borrowing moms' car for a supposed trip down the coast to Santa Barbara that was really an all-nighter to Denver, goes over better 20 years later not the week after it happened. For example.

But how do you explain that to a 5-year old? To nonchalantly make the point, DON'T TELL MOM! My previous examples are of the Bro' Code. An unspoken commitment between friends that what goes down or is discussed on a ride along the river, for example, stays between the points of departure and arrival. Did Jeff Spicoli tell Jefferson to call his brother about wrecking his car? No, he remembered that his dad was a TV repairman and had an ultimate set of tools and that he could totally fix it. The difference between Bro's and Parent/Child teeters on teaching one's kid to lie. Enter my dilemma.

I can't say that all of my injuries as a youth are from bike crashes. Actually, bike crashes are in the minority of ways I've maimed myself. Race crash injuries even rarer still. One way or another, over the years I've sprained, broken, torn, cracked or separated pretty much one of every bone, joint or limb in my body. I've even been told that counting all of my concussions takes a full set of fingers. Some of which have been broken.  But for some reason, now in old(er) age, I've crashed more and suffered injuries that involve a little more that simply walking it off. So when I crashed out of a recent cyclocross race and couldn't move my shoulder but knew well enough that nothing was broken, I needed to explain to Gavin why I was out of the race early and convey the message that Mom DID-NOT-NEED-TO-KNOW without coming straight out and telling him to keep his little mouth shut.

His concern and questions only made his knowledge more of a liability. When Markie, who drove to the race with us, pushed that I not drive home, pointing out my inability to make the reach to shift to 3rd or 5th gears, G was captivated by the plot unfolding in front of him. It didn't help when G asked, Markie do you even know how to drive a stick-car? That my good friend answered back, I've done it once, I think I might be able to do it again.

By the time we dropped Markie off, the ibuprofen had kicked in enough that I was confident I could manage the cross-town trip home driving the stick-car myself. Markie unpacked his gear, G peed on a tree, we all said our good-bye's then Gavin said, Hey Markie, good job driving Red Car, especially since it was only your second time with the stick thing!

Finally home, I had G take a trip to the bathroom while I unpacked the car. Grimacing and finding creative ways to carry our race-day crap back into the house, I walked through the kitchen on my way to the laundry and over-heard from down the hall, G replaying the day to A while he sat on the toilet, NOT pooping. It went pretty much like this:

I made it all the way across the monkey bars, but Dad crashed bad and had to quit the race. It was a bummer because he was doing good. He wasn't in last place. He can't move his arm. I hurt my arm on a log. See that scratch? I might need an operation. It's probably broken like Dad's. Then Markie drove home because Dad couldn't. Markie has only driven a stick car one time before. He did really good though. I wasn't even scared.

The rest of the story is more of an altercation followed by a confession and later a conviction. It's not much of a story really. Maybe I'll tell you someday at dinner. In twenty years.

A Very Useful Engine

Sunday G and I went to the Fiets of Parenthood event at the Portland Art Museum. We showed up at the first FoP event a few years ago with the boat, but G was still pretty young and as baby's do, he changed our plans and we left pretty early. This year though was much different. He was fully committed to racing the Kid's Obstacle Course event as well as the Family Obstacle Course a few hours later. In between races we even got to step inside the Museum to look at bikes for a few minutes, make a Pinwheel, have some Salt & Straw Ice Cream and pedal on the generator bike that mixed $5 fruit smoothies. 

The side note to this post is that we recently got a GoPro camera. So until I learn to edit videos I will fill these posts with choppy raw footage. I was experimenting with camera locations and didn't realize until later that I can download an App to my phone that will let me see the POV of the camera. For G, I mounted the camera on his handlebars. On Thomas, I had 3 locations, on the side, on the roof and on the handlebars. I think the sideview gives the best perspective but unfortunately I only used it on the trip to the start of the event. 

Anyhow, we rode over to the eastside roll-out of cargo bikes heading across the river to the Art Museum. I enjoyed seeing all the different bike configurations and meeting families. G was a little embarrassed by the attention of rolling up on a group of 35 families in Thomas so he played that he was napping while a bunch of little kids checked our bike out.  He warmed up though and by the time we were eating sandwiches under the shade of the Park Blocks, he was explaining to passers by how we made it, how we ride it and the sounds he makes when we go down hills. For the latter, he would lean back, shake his head and arms and scream, "Whoooaaaahhh!". People who didn't have kids were kinda freaked out by this and looked at me with concern.

G got signed up to go last in the kid race. I was a little worried that he wouldn't have the patience to wait out some 30 kids before his turn. He was a champ and spent the whole time warming up on the vacant block behind the start line. The positive in his mind was that even though he went well after all the other kids in the 5 and under age group, he was able to pull down the hanging ring obstacle and ride over the jump that were only added for the 6 and older kids. Despite his hour long warm up, he managed to finish 4th even with the added challenges. 

 

He didn't do so well around the cones or over the curb, but he rocked the teeter-totter and the jump. Both of which he did extensive practice on before the race. Now he wants a teeter-totter of his own to ride over!

 

photo courtesy Travis Wittwer



 

 

 

For the Family race, we had to pick up groceries, ride through a tight slalom of cones, pick up a dropped kids toy, roll over the teeter-totter, skewer 3 rings with a Joust, drop them within a marked zone, stall for a pedestrian to cross the street and sprint to the finish.

 

The Newmastrategy was for G to ride Hobo-style off the side of the train to more quickly jump off and pick up our cargo at each stop. I was concerned he wouldn't stay on through the slalom but he was totally sold on the idea and did great. He may have a future hopping trains across the country like one of his Great Grandads did. The other actually worked on the Southern-Pacific Railroad. Of course, this is the part where my camera location choice was poor. Fortunately I've been able to get enough still shots to go along with the video to show how it really went down.

 

photo courtesy Ethan Jewett

photo courtesy Kristi Marleau

 

photo courtesy Ethan Jewett

 

photo courtesy Kristi Marleau

photo courtesy Ethan Jewett

 

photo courtesy Travis Wittwer

 

photo courtesy Ethan Jewett

 

 

 

We ended up 6th in the Family race based on time, penalty time additions for missing stops (we did not miss any which is an improvement over our last cargo bike race!) and time subtractions for extra kids being hauled. Though G's excitement of the race experience and focus on his part of the team effort felt like a win to me.

 

 

 

He was a champ as I strapped his bike back onto the side of Thomas and promised him a hard earned soak in the fountain on the way home.

 

 

 

Per usual on our day long outings, G crashed out hard on the ride home, leaving me to fantasize about a big meal and a cold beer while focusing on pedaling smooth circles to not rock him awake as we climb up Harrison and Lincoln and over Mt. Tabor toward home. 

 

 

 

The things that go through my mind on every trip home while G sleeps is rating myself on how close to bonking I am, adding up the total amount of weight I'm pushing up the hill, and calculating how the output on a 100 lbs of bike for 30 or 40 miles equates to a 16 lbs bike for 100 miles. Never had I considered that these rides have a shelf life. The thought kept getting louder in my head that this was likely the last big ride in Thomas. G is getting bigger and only likes to ride in the cargo bike if he can bring his own bike along to ride at some point, or to ride the tag-along bike. He's learned the freedom the bike brings as well as the camaraderie of enjoying that freedom with others. As much as I look forward to new family rides, I'm really going to miss the boat and Thomas. He's been a very useful engine. 



The Big 0-5

Remember in the movie, 'Cars' when all the cars raced through the water park and 'Mater was launching water balloons with his tow-hook?

Neither do I because I'm pretty sure that never happened in any of the Cars movies. But when you're 4 and planning your 5th birthday party, reality is sort of an after thought, like napkins to wipe all the cake off your shirt.

So it went then that G, -having missed a 4th birthday party due to it being the day we moved into the Cold War Dream House and the previous and following weeks being filled with all the pomp and circumstance of remodeling and selling and buying and remodeling homes,- had a good one coming for birthday number 5.

His plan was a Lightning McQueen themed party with his blow up slide, swimming pool and Slip'n Slide. Given that our yard has multiple elevations, the layout of it all would be awesome for sure. I envisioned a wave of water from a popped inflatable swimming pool washing a fence away at least. Possibly flooding a neighbor's basement. Certainly there would be some crying kids. To make sure that last one would happen, G insisted we also have plenty of squirt guns.

Then the coup d'etat request; A Tow Mater pinata. The Lightning McQueen paper plates, napkins and Disney Cartoon shaped cake were all optional. Finish line flags, NASCAR references, Jeff Gordon look-a-likes were all unnecessary. But the 'Mater pinata was the key to the whole party. According to the 4-year old.

G's birthday represents more to The Newmaforma than just a kid turning a year older. Without getting sappy or rehashing details, his birthday is a day of celebration of family and health. A lot went down before and after G was born and we are each blessed to be here as a family. So we celebrate.

This year celebrating as a family meant making a pinata. Earlier this summer I went to a paper mache' party where I wrapped a balloon in soaked, torn up newspaper and was "allowed" to leave the party early because I sucked at making a balloon shaped paper mache' thing.

We all sat for 3 nights after dinner at the kitchen table working on Mater. I roughed up the basic frame work. A did most of the paper mache', knowing of my previous balloon aberration. G painted with mostly a brown pallet. The funnest part, the late-night Mom and Dad time building Mater's details were the time that A and I had to really enjoy.

It's amazing what skills surface when you have kid projects to do. Before G, we didn't really roll with the paper mache' crowd. Cargo-bike family fun, riding from park to park wasn't really our thing either. Nor was staying up till 2 a.m. reminiscing about how we used to  sleep for gluttonous hours at a time.Yet, it was quality time to reflect as she painstakingly made Mater's eyes and I wrote his name on the doors. We eagerly showed each other our detailed work and then basked in our completed project before reminding ourselves that some little pre-school kid was gonna destroy Mater with a wiffle ball bat.

In the end, Mater was as G had insisted all along, perhaps the best part of the whole party. Each of the dozen kids got a few swings. Mater was torn from the string hanging him by a slightly taller-than-average kid and this fool had to get his hands all into the hard end of the wiffle ball bat to keep the pummeling for candy at peak interest. G, going last, was able to purge his energy into destroying the 12 hours or so of his parents' handiwork. The kids fought en mass ripping the candy from Maters' innards and from each other before ingesting as much as possible before their own parents confiscated what was unable to be gripped in their tiny little hands.

Happy birthday G.

Hook, Line and Sinker

G thirsts  for a single activity. Granted he still practices his "moves" (read: flips, spins and flying kicks) on the couch and needs a daily dose of tire swing. He mostly just wants to ride his bike. So much so that last Sunday he asked for a long ride (20-mile loop) to the river on the tag-along for his first real ride on it, followed by a family ride, each on our own bikes to the DQ 5-miles away. Included in that ride was an hour or so at the park across the street from the DQ. Don't fret that he's becoming one of those one dimensional performer kids. I'd make a lousy Pageant Mom.

After some arm twisting during some pretty awesome recent outdoor riding weather, I conceded and took him back to the Lumberyard where he decided being the only kid on a Skuut bike was no longer cool. Much crashing, tears and firm words to his bike to cooperate, "Stop being cross with me and just obey, bike!"  Led him to managing the Green Line with the grace of any 4-year old on a 12" wheeled Monkey toy.

 

Progress of course is bitter-sweet. With the gains in confidence and the self-motivated move to his 16" wheeled bike, G is more interested in the wondrous independence that the bicycle brings. This is exciting and certainly a happy diversion from trying to teach him to wipe his own butt, yet I was a little sad when I put the Thomas up for the summer and traded it for the boat on the cargo-bike. G will be too big for Thomas come Autumn and soon, the joys of the tag-along will outweigh the rides in the boat that have been about 90% of all my riding the last 4 years. The good news is that now I can officially start dreaming of a tandem. But in all honesty, I've loved riding the Bullitt so I'm sure it will still get plenty of attention.

These days are about over!

 

 



Souplesse

Literally: suppleness, softness, flexibility, adaptability, fluidity. On the bike: smoothness, a one-ness with the machine. Think of a climber dancing away on that steep section that leaves everyone else pushing squares and threatening to rip their handlebars off...

...Souplesse connotes style, but it also hints at a deep-lying efficiency, an elimination of non-essential movement. Much has been made in recent years of incremental improvements, the sorts of time gains made in wind tunnels and in customized nutrition plans. Souplesse has that same incremental value, except that it comes from within the athlete.
-courtesy of Red Kite Prayer


But how do you teach a 4 year old a one-ness with his machine? Hell if I know. What I do know, is what I didn't do, what I did do, and like throwing mud on a wall; what stuck. And of course the positive effects of peer-pressure.  So here is a top 5 list of what it took to get G and his best pal to seek their own Souplesse.

#1 Exposure through saturation. From the first exploratory ride around the block to see if bike riding would 'take' to regular rides on the Bullitt, making adventure part of the routine has been key.

#2 Balance bikes ROCK! Having a 2 or 3 year old start out on a balance bike is like a learners' permit to the freedom of riding. My happiest memories in recent years are of riding to the park G called "Thunderdome" and of cheating winter out of the dull-drums with all day sessions at The Lumberyard.

#3 Don't forget the pedals! From his first quad wheeled Radio Flyer thing until just recently, I didn't bother G with pedals. I should have. He was fast enough on his Skuut Bike and didn't want to slow down to learn how to pedal. Finally, in desperation, and with a broken elbow (Lumberyard while G wasn't looking!) I had Grandpa bolt the training wheel arms to the rollers. Two weeks ago I swiped the Big Wheel from Grandma and Grandpa's backyard to get G's pedals turning on our own sidewalk.

 

 

 

#4 Bribery. The idea came from a friend so I can't claim it, and I felt a little dirty and low-down presenting 'The Deal' of getting Optimus Prime for learning to pedal; -no training wheels, over the course of a 3-day weekend.  It was a useful with clear rules that G fixated on as the driving force to face his biggest life challenge since learning to poop in the toilet.

#5 Peer-Pressure. Along with bribery, the planning via emails, text messages, and discussions while the boys shredded the Lumberyard had me feeling kinda' sleazy like a politician with an agenda, but this agenda is AWESOME so I only felt a little manipulative. On Memorial Day, after two-days of trying, crying and frustration, we got both the boys together and once one of them was ready to try, the other stepped right up too. No joke, 5 minutes later, we had two boys stoked for their first parking lot criterium.

Mothers Day Special Guest Edition

In appreciation to the endless work of moms, this special guest edition post is the work of the NewmaMotha' herself. Not much else can compare to letting Mom write for this journal of enlightenment. Enjoy...

As a mom, I’m constantly trying to remind myself to have fun with my kid.  Sometimes that’s hard when the laundry is piling up, dinner ideas escape me, I need to take a shower and there are 137 emails in my in-box that scream for attention (I’m not actually that popular, but Amazon likes to tell me when new books by favorite authors are available and Bed Bath and Beyond wants to know why I haven’t redeemed my 20% off coupon.  Evil bastards.)

Anywho, tonight I planned for an early dinner and a trip to the neighborhood pool for Family Swim Night! The line coming out the front door of the community center should have been a give-away that a calamity was about to ensue.  It wasn’t until we got inside to pay and get our hands stamped that I clued in to the fact that it was $2 family swim night.  Let me tell you this right now; sometimes, paying LESS is not a good thing.  Because in this case when we paid LESS we got so much MORE.  Not in a good way.

Kids and people were everywhere.  There was nowhere to change or put our stuff and bodies were packed into the pool like minnows.  In fact some people that were at the back of the line never made it in.  They shut down admissions as the place was at capacity. We hit the wave pool first.  I was swept away following little G and Newms but soon we got separated.  A 10-year-old boy passed me awkwardly on the left and while I was getting out of his way, I got kicked, Michael Phelps style, right smack in the boob by some other kid.   Boob hits hurt.    I already knew this to be true because once I accidentally punched myself in the boob and it hurt so bad I passed out in the bathroom at work and was subsequently late to an important meeting.  But that’s another story for another day.  I sat out for a lap.  It was a war zone. 

The lifeguards were ever vigilant.  They paced and scanned from their perches blowing the whistle and pointing at kids who were pushing, shoving, rough-housing or generally being annoying (aka EVERY KID IN THE POOL) at 15 second intervals.  It was nerve wracking.  One whistle meant stop what you were doing.  Two whistles meant stop what you were doing and go find your parent.   Three whistles meant they wrote your name on a clipboard and gave your parent a final warning.  

Little G and Newms went down the big slide a few times and that was fun to watch.  I stood awkwardly in the middle of the melee protecting my boobage and waving.  Soon I decided my time would be better spent in the hot tub.  I settled in to the lovely warm water the lone female surrounded by 8 very large, very hairy and very scary fellas.  They did not appear to want to talk to me.  I know this because when I talked to them, they did not talk back.  The lifeguard standing above me overseeing both the hot tub and a portion of the shallow end looked a lot like Jim Carey in his SNL lifeguard role.  Turns, out he acted like him too.  Somehow a ding-a-ling parent wasn’t watching their toddler and the little guy attempted to enter the hot tub.  Toddler jumped in and before his little body was completely in the water, Jim Carey blew his whistle three times in my ear and leapt, hurdle style, into the hot tub to extract the kid.  He soared over my head.  As I looked up I saw Jim Carey’s junk.  Nuts.  Now I needed  a mind-shower.  He hit the water and scooped up the toddler in one move.  It was epic.  The parent was found.  A report was filed.  Jim Carey returned to his station which was directly over me.  The run-off from his swim trunks cascaded onto my head.  Before I could casually move, he jumped in for another rescue in the shallow end.  A kid, with a life-vest on being held by his mother got rescued.  It was intense.

About that time, a really really old, skinny dude, I’ll call him Frank, decided to hit the hot tub.  As he got in I noted he had two black eyes.  Somebody very recently kicked this scrawny guy’s arse. He was looking right at me as he descended the stairs and made a lot of ahhh and oooh noises as the warmth enveloped him.  I smiled.  Who doesn’t love getting into the hot tub?  But then I noticed that he was using both hands to massage his package while staring right at me.  Ah, I see now. Frank was a creeper.  Time to get out of the hot tub and find my family.  Just as I decided to make my exit, Jim Carey blew the whistle four times.  Now I know, four whistle blows means ……Turd. In. The. Pool.

We’ll never know who, (my money is on Frank) but someone really took the kids to the pool.  Jim Carey moved all the kids into the deep end (yes, this makes sense) while another lifeguard fished the debris out of the water with what must be a poop catcher.  This is about the time that I give the “abort” signal to little G and Newms, who were standing in line on the stairs to get one more run on the giant water slide.  In much the same fashion as we entered, an insanely large group of people left the community pool, a little less innocent than when they went in.

Bonus – they gave us free passes for our next swim.  So, it was a happy ending for all.  Except for maybe Frank.   

Rights of Spring, Boys of Summer and Americas' Pastime

In 1980 I was nine. In 1980 I was a New York Yankee's fan. For reasons still unknown to me, in 1980 my parents would not let me play Little League. I was the only kid in the neighborhood who wanted to -but was unable to be on a legitimate baseball team. Granted, I organized pick up teams in an effort to create a team that would somehow transcend organized ball-sport reality and win the Little League World Series. Unfortunately most of my draft pool were kids that were less interested in baseball and more motivated to just not be stuck inside, at home.  Not until 1983 was I given the privilege of riding the bench on a real life baseball team.

Regardless of my credentials, I needed to see the Yankees play in order to be a true fan. In hindsight the best guess I have as to why I chose the Yankees was because I LOVED eating Reggie! bars between throat freezing drags of a Slurpee on the curb of the neighborhood 7-Eleven.

During one of my afterschool 7-Eleven stops I learned the Yankees would be playing the A's in nearby Oakland in a few weeks. I discussed with my parents who in turn explained I would have to buy my own ticket and another for an adult to take me. My mind wandered for days as to how to hustle up enough cash. Finally my mom and I decided that growing flowers and selling the starts door to door in the neighborhood would be my cash cow.

So a flower starter I became. Styrofoam egg cartons each filled with just enough soil and seed were watered daily and left in a window sill to grow. And grow they did. All of my futures sprouted and as they were able to stand up on their tiny little green stocks, I drug my wagon throughout the neighborhood selling the shit out of my flower starts. I learned to have a solid, quick sales speech. To look my customer in the eyes. To enunciate to my customer and pray for divine sympathy that the mom of the house would answer the door.  I learned to not show the face of rejection from kids in my class who instead answered the door and flipped me crap calling me a desperate loser. Which I was.

I sold all my flowers in a week. I made $4.50 then called Ticket Master to order up two tickets along the first base line, close to the visiting team dugout. Words to this day cannot describe the tearing out of my soul I felt when I learned that $4.50 wouldn't pay for peanuts at a Major League Baseball game. I felt worse than when my brother pulled his Skylab stunt over on me. I was lost in an abyss.

Time passed and game day grew closer. Tickets appeared for the whole family to go to the game. This was huge as previous family outings involved camping and my dad napping or just my dad napping. My excitement was nearly the equal opposite to the disappointment I had felt from my pathetic fund-raising gardening experience.

On game day the whole family walked into the stadium, climbed up the concrete stairs in the cool shade to the concession level. I saw for the first time the ever so green and well mowed grass of the outfield as we walked through a tunnel to the box seat section. Then across an aisle to stairs baking from the late morning sun near left field. We climbed ever still to bleacher seats so high I could feel the breeze from the San Francisco bay. I had the same sensation as when one is on the highest point of a roller-coaster. I looked down to that emerald green grass and perfectly striped infield about the size of my 3rd grade hand and realized I would barely be able to make out any of the players. I accepted that I was in the cheap seats as my legs grew weak with each step closer to the heavens. Stuck at an altitude that if I fell I was certain to die I wondered if a car roof would cushion my fall.

Players came out onto the field. The National Anthem was played. The crack of a bat echoed. The Yankees come to find out, only wear pin-stripes in the Bronx. At away games they dressed in the same color as the primer on my neighbors unfinished GTO. My brother and sister argued, fought and made fun of everyone and everything. They both wore 3/4 sleeve tour 'jerseys' of Journey and REO Speedwagon. Lord only knows what my parents wore, but I know my dad took a nap. Beer was spilled on my mom by a drunk stranger, and I definitely smelled pot.

Billy Martin kicked dirt on an umpire, Reggie Jackson got on base, but Baseball -the experience I anticipated; was not the experience I had. Wise to the worldly knowledge of ticket prices, I estimated the cost of the whole family going to an A's game as I stared at my shoes through the late innings. For the record, the Athletics won in a year that history would show as a good year for the team. Likely it was a good game. But the cost, I figured in my 9-year old head, was far more than the expense for me to have played Little League that season. And definitely not worth the price I had to pay of sitting in the backseat sandwiched between teen-aged siblings all the way home as we were sun-baked and wind-burned from spending 9-innings together as a family in the cheap seats.

Lucky 13

I can confidently say we know a little about operating rooms. After all, the Newmaforma has a combined total of 13 trips under the knife in 6 years. Lucky for me, I'm number 13. 'Cuz with A; these things go sideways.

In short, the screws were supposed to become a part of me. I didn't like one of them so I jammed it through the bone, into the joint and tore up some cartilage for a few weeks. The good doctor said we may want to reconsider the added bling as excess. Yesterday he took them out.

A friend asked, How many did they take out? b/c I won't concede that you no longer have any loose screws, just LESS than before!

Here's the thing, yeah the incision hurts and there is localized swelling, the anesthesia and initial pain meds kept me dozing most all day so I didn't go to bed till 5 a.m. this morning, but what I'll describe as tension in the joint is already gone. I wish it wasn't such a chore and so risky to pull the junkyard of hardware out of my hip. If all of that metal could come out I imagine I might feel good again.

Post-op sleep while healing has been a subject of discussion and I agree there is something to it. I haven't slept for more than 3 hours straight except maybe 1 night a week when I get 5 hours in, since before the Cadillac Attack 6 years ago. I've tried to justify other stresses as being contributing factors, but between the rehab improvements in the last year with the hip and the contrast of the newly broken elbow this year, I've decided its the injuries not the outside stresses causing the lack of sleep. In turn that's no help with the attempts at rehabilitation. I am curious to hear more from people with similar experiences and sleep issues.

G took his favorite Transformer to school earlier this week for Show And Tell. When I came home with the bag of screws that came out from inside me, he was pretty stoked. Next week he plans to take the screws for Show And Tell. Should make for an awkward segue for his teacher to transition to the next kid.

Special Guest Video



A few weeks ago Bill and Nymbol came down for a visit from Langley, WA. Their first request? To do some laps with G at the Lumberyard.

 

 

 I think this is a pretty worthy video for my first video blog post. I'm finally catching up with the 21st Century.

 

Here is a link to Nymbol and the rest of his troupe.

Business Lunch



Maybe I took too much advice from the movie Tommy Boy, but there's really only one way to roll when it comes to the business lunch on the road. Lowest. Common. Denominator.

 



 

 This is the Buzz Inn Steakhouse. It has chrome on the building. Chrome is shiny and catches your attention.

 

 

 The inside is vinyl. Vinyl is timeless. Wears well and can be washed easily.

 

 

This is the Meatloaf sandwich with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy.

 

 

This is the auger operator cleaning out the sewer system out front after we were done businessing our lunch.

 

 

 



Saving the world with Burger Rain

 

 

I had a conversation with a friend a while back about our boys being maybe too aggressive from watching too much super hero-evil fighting tv shows. It was deep winter and with a broken elbow, television was in heavy rotation so don't judge me. The problem came up during a break in the weather when a little girl at the park wanted to play on the play structure thingy and the boys came running out from behind some Laurel hedges toward her with sticks yelling, "Slay the monster intruder."

The thing is, the glowing boob-tube is merely an accessory to the action and monster slaying that goes down during episodes of super hero crime fighting shows. Think of it more like the P90X for tots. Other accessories include a small trampoline, a couch and a carpeted basement for all this world saving to get done. And any other objects or people to jump on/over. As a father of a boy it is my duty to instill a sense of imagination, adventure and responsibility to take care of others. I think I'm doing a pretty good job. Besides, his mom started it with  the Captain America costume at 18 months.

Spiderman, Superman, Batman...the classics are great, but Ninja Turtles were a bigger draw. Until we found the Aquabats Supershow!  Even a 4 year old can see that Ninja Turtles are a cartoon and Aquabats are real. Who better to save the innocent from extra-terrestrial monsters than an aging punk band from Orange County? Anyone? Anyone? I thought not.

So while I was away for work last month, A came through again by making G some Aquabats goggles out of pipe cleaners. G thinks they're the real deal. He goes out of his way to take care of them so as not to bend them up too much. He wears them practically everywhere. Last week, when G asked,  I  took a break from other projects to crank out an equally official, laser shooting, electric guitar, just like the one Eagle Bones Falconhawk rocks. Today G took it to school for show and tell. But not the goggles. He was worried the other kids would jack them up.

Stay tuned for future episodes and more cool homemade Super gear.

photos via google  courtesy of the Aquabats Supershow! on the HUB. Watch it.

Project: Don't Break Bones This Week

Spring Break has greeted me with a to-do list that looks similar to the one in January I was progressing through when I broke my arm. One project in particular I have been looking forward to was a jump box or 3 as a warm up for some garage cabinets I'll hopefully tackle this summer.

The box was originally planned as an alternative to protecting my junk while sitting on the couch watching The Aquabats Supershow! with G as he jumped all over the couch and everything else in the room. Television is an interactive experience for that kid. In fact, I tried to sign him up for a gymnastics class after witnessing his prowess on furniture, and the conversation went like this while we dropped in to watch before signing up:

Me: Check it out, they have a giant trampoline and a padded floor as big as our house!

G: Yeah, but gymnastics is for girls! I'm a dude!

Me: You're totally a dude. Dudes' do gymnastics. See those rings and that rope? That over there is a pommel horse. Gymnastics is rad and will teach you to be quick like a Ninja and a totally better bike rider.

G: If I want to be a ninja, I'll go to ninja school. And riding my bike will make me a better bike rider.

I had no come back to the truth, so I caved and we left.

Anyway, today we went out to my folks and I told my dad what I wanted the 4 x 8 ft sheet of plywood to look like after I cut it up. He has a knack for planning and doing math that I lack. As it turned out, I could get 2 boxes out of one sheet of plywood. Lucky news for a buddy and his kid who likes to jump on furniture just like G.

Here's all the pieces. See, just like building cabinets.

I especially love my handles

The blur of stripes is G testing out the finished product. 

I expect to improve my jumping skills as well. Unless I break something. 

This box is 12 x 18 x 24 inches. I don't think standing it up tall to the 24" height is very stable for an adult to land on. I'll likely build a 24" stand alone box with a wider, angled base for that. 

Feeling Gravity's Pull

I haven't worn black dress socks with plaid shorts simply because it's been winter. But with jeans, and Adidas, I am guilty. I don't choose to, I just do. It happens. And I don't care. I'm old.

It didn't used to be this way when I was young and svelte. I didn't eat steak dinners with martini's then though. Now days I take a somewhat guilty pride in the fact that I can just see my black stocking toes extruding from the profile of my belly when I stand tall and look down to contemplate my core strength. It's been a long time since I lived by simply eating, sleeping and riding a bike. Anymore I don't ride or sleep, except in fits.

And when I can ride a bike, it seems I break bones. Twenty-year-olds break bones while doing crazy feats against gravity on tiny, 20" bikes. Not me. I use a 26" rental bike made for grown ups, attempting less crazy feats against the same gravity. While wearing black dress socks and jeans. Two objects of varying weight may very well fall at the same rate of accelleration, but the fat, old one breaks his left elbow to match the right one he broke years ago, when he lands.

I remember being 19 or 22 or whatever, and working through some early season tendinitis. For two-weeks I iced, massaged, and fretted over my aggravated knee. Fearful of what the loss of 10-14 days of riding in mid-January would mean come June. Anymore, I think of how two weeks (or 4 in my most recent case) off work will affect a family vacation in June.

I think about my 401k, politics and their effect on Social Security, war in the middle east, job security, schools for G, health care, the mortgage, etc. etc. until even with the painkillers for my broken and bolted back together bones, I can't sleep. Then it hits me; It doesn't matter if I wear dress socks with jeans or shorts, there's way more important crap to worry about. When will I be healed enough to go for a long bike ride again?

Maximum Wood

back when steel was real

Early last summer I replaced the tires on G's wooden Skuut bike. He had worn them to the threads, in about 18 months, which without a coaster brake to power slide bald spots into the tire, I thought would be impossible. Turned out it was from running them at low pressure so he could get more traction at Thunderdome. The spec'd tires weren't really meant for a 3 year old to take off-sidewalk riding. What he needed was more supple tread, a 12" tubular like FMB's  to grip the haphazard turning, like Velcro, for his slaloming around redwood trees.

The only realistic solution was a knobby tire, the same one every bike shop in town carries in black or white. G dug the tread, and what (now) 4 year old doesn't need boosted confidence in their choice of traction? Surprised that he went through tires at all, I figured that would be all the required work to his whip before a pedal bike made its' way into his life. After all, how much maintenance does a plywood bike with no gearing need?

As it happens, 3 months of ever growing air over jumps at The Lumber Yard reaps havoc on the press fit sealed cartridge bearings in the wheels -the only moving part of his bike. He rolls up to me like a F1 racer and says, "Dad, my bike steers funny and makes noise!" Before ghost riding it out from under himself, aimed straight at me, wobbling like a wooden missile ready to leave slivers of shrapnel in my shins. If I hadn't known any better, I would have thought he expected me to simply pull out a spare bike as if he was running through the pit in a cyclocross race!

Sure enough, the bearings in the rear wheel are simply gone! I explained the problem and that the solution was to step it up to a pedal bike. "After all," I reasoned to his tears, "you'll get more air when you can pedal on the jump line." 

It worked. A few days later, while his Skuut was with Grandpa getting new bearings installed, Mom, G and I  went to the shop where I used to work (15-years ago!) to get the boy-wonder the bike we carefully picked out based on his favorite colors.

I had no intention of re-introducing the Skuut until after pedaling had commenced. Knowing full well that he had no idea how to pedal, I reasoned that his drive to keep up with 14-year olds would be motivation enough.

Stoked, we immediately go to the 'Yard and he races to his regular jump line before I can even get us checked in. I chase him down and find him straddling his bike on the edge of the drop-in, lip quivering, fighting back tears in his eyes and a shaky voice, "Dad, I can't make the pedals go!"

Realizing his inability, he's totally unwilling to learn among his peers and heroes. This is homework that needs to be done before our next visit. He concedes to riding one of the rental scooter bikes on which he teaches himself how to Bronco after watching older kids do wheelies over the humps in the pump track.

Days pass and now we're a full week since his bearing blowout. I take him to the 'Yard on a snow flurry afternoon and he's adamant that he not bring his new pedal bike until he is fully skilled at pedaling it. I concede, recognizing his sense of pride. As we walk in, he has a full melt down and sits in my lap crying, mumbling and wanting me to snuggle him, tucked into my jacket. Finally after about 20-minutes he simply says he misses his Skuut bike. What killed me was that he said it like a kid being homesick at Granma's house. I felt like an idiot. He's known that bike for half his life. He's bled on that bike, tried to drop me on that bike at dusk when he didn't want to call it a night and go home and to bed. He's challenged, and beaten all of his gravity fears on that bike. That bike, now covered in BMX brand stickers and Teen Age Mutant Ninja Turtle stickers IS his independence.

A few days later, my dad brings his Skuut bike back and helps me mount his pedal bike to my rollers. G spent the entire next day alternating between riding his skuut bike around the kitchen and disappearing into the garage to wind up his legs on his new pedal bike.

 Best pedal stroke this side of 3rd grade

There is no 'Pain' in a Pre K Cave

 All was well this weekend as he had his wooden Skuut bike back to rock the big air at the Lumber Yard and his "trainer bike" to warm up on before breakfast. What could be more perfect?