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.

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.

Met Wind Komt Sterkte

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sweetness

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

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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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



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

On Track

I've been anxious to get this year over with. So anxious I'm writing about it a day-and-a-half early. This has been a good year, don't get me wrong. I've just wanted to get one positive year between myself and the year before.

Throughout this year we've had fewer MD visits, spanning further apart. Monthly check ups became quarterly, 3-month check ups became annual. Both A and I are healing. Life has slowly gotten back on track. Gavin's check-ups are a game of "how off the charts is he?" for weight/height.

Rehab exercises are more for recovery than harder than any lactate tolerance or VO2max test I've ever done. The other night I was flipping channels and caught a re-run that flashed me back to when I first saw the episode. It was after 2 a.m. the hospital bed was in the living room. Good and numb on vicodin, I pinned my arm in the frame of the bed-rails and lowered the bed flat to force my arm as straight as I could tolerate. Being the middle of the night, I muffled my screaming by biting the blankets under the glow of the TV light. I did that night after night as Dave-the-PT said I had to push through to get range of motion back if I ever wanted to throw a ball with my kid. He knew how to motivate me. That, I can now say, was more than a year ago.

We have summer of 2009, riding along the Spring Water with G asleep in the boat-bike to think back on, not counting Gavin's age by the same number of weeks his mom was still in the hospital. Tonight I was looking at pictures of G from last Christmas. How little he was, how much he's grown. How he still uses the same expressions, but now has a reason or an agenda with them. I can't believe he's a little dude now, not just a bottle sucking-pooping machine. He's a full head of steam going every which way. It's a job in and of itself just keeping him on the rails. We're gaining momentum and slowly turning a chug...chug...chug into a sustainable pace. Next stop...potty training town!

Nuts!

We bought G a new slide toy structure. I was ready for him to play in the box instead of the slide for a while. To my dismay, he dug up walnuts the squirrels have burried in the grass. I guess he really likes nuts.

Steve Larsen died

Steve, (far left, fiddling with his front wheel) taught me at 13 the unfairness of the world; that someone stronger, faster and better looking can also be too nice to hate. Whether beating up on a pre-pubescent junior field just after this photo was taken, or giving the time to meet and greet juniors I hauled to races 15-years later, Steve was one of the good guys.

Like(s) Riding a Bike

In the basement, in the rehab room, is a wall calendar where days exercised are ticked off with brief description by way of Sharpie pen. Not a training journal, nor a download of a Heart Rate or Wattage meter files to make bike riding akin to work in terms of graphs and charts and nonsense, but a simple reminder of general improvement, trends and routines I fall into or want to maintain. The calendar shows the rhythm of reconstruction.

I look at the rollers leaning against the wall or the bike bolted to the stationary trainer with disdain. I've spent more time in the last two-years riding nowhere than to somewhere. The little window fan covering the view of moss taking control of my crabgrass lawn reminds me that putting this Humpty Dumpty back together is now best done outside, not in a basement.

The bitter cold of winter is hopefully out of my hip. The dampness of day after day of rain soon to be shaken from my elbow. Bike rides are more regularly denoted on the calendar. Friends call after races they've won or epic rides they've completed. Anxious to share their accomplishments. I ride with them occasionally on their recovery days. They pedal slowly, and talk. I breath hard, my heart in my throat, the strong leg fatigues. The lactic acid burn is a reminder to force the weak leg to work. But slowly the supplesse is coming back...like riding a bike.

The pelvis pain is like new again after so much time off the bike. MMA fighters work to deaden the nerve endings in their forearms and shins in an effort to better take the fury of a fight. Cyclists need time in the saddle to toughen the soft tissue of contact points. Add a lump of bone mass that feels like a third elbow to the equation as well as knowing how much time and effort it took once already to make it tolerable and suddenly I'm more motivated to sit on the couch and watch Charles Barkley re-learn his game on the Golf Channel.

But the friends continue to call. Continue to tell of how awesome the new stage race was or how the coastal epic ride will be better next year if I am there to make fun of. They force me through threats of embarrassment to ride to the top of Mt. Tabor before heading home after pedestrian paced rides. I am reminded that the place where I feel most comfortable is on a bike.

Last week as the sun shone I put Gavin in the milk crate on the front of my Schwinn. He was content to sit and watch our block repeat itself lap after lap focusing on what landmarks we were passing along the sidewalk. I found more satisfaction hearing him make noises as we rounded corners than I have on a bike in a long time. Later, while running errands, we bought him a helmet so his grandmothers won't abuse me for him riding around the block without the proper protection. I tried an old leather Cinelli helmet on him, but he was more interested in chewing it than wearing it.

For What It's Worth

A few years ago I mentioned something to my mom about a recent bike race. Her response was, "You still ride your bike?"

Given the flurry of FUBAR I've had after a still sea of some 20 years and who knows how many hours and miles, I now hesitate when anyone; even my mom, asks if I'm riding, will ride, or if I've bought Gavin a bike yet.

The sorry truth is that I am getting more out of riding the trainer or the rollers as rehab/reconstruction than being out on the road. The days I do get outside to ride, it's because of the friends who cajole me. I miss riding with them almost as much as simply going for a ride.

The devil is in the details and cross training the weaknesses of having spent way too much time on a bike in the first place is doing more good right now than a 3 hour ride in the rain could. I'll be honest, I'm a fish out of water in any athletic endeavor off the bike. Except Air-Hockey.

Because of the rehab workouts I'm now standing up straight throughout the day, not rolling my shoulders as if looking under my arm for that front tire of the wheel-sucking sprinter. I can do pull-ups. The plyometrics are getting the hip strong and even balancing the muscles from the previous pelvis break. One lesson I learned from that experience is to not rush a rehab. Another is to lower my expectations of Cadillac drivers' spacial awareness, but that is an entirely different rant.

So the leg speed is returning, wattage is low, heart rate is high. Flexibility is improving. Desire to ride the bike outdoors is gaining. Desire to ride in the basement waining. I can time trial on the same ride my friends want to stop for a cafe' break. It's all starting to come around. And no, I haven't bought Gavin a bike yet.

Thankful

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

Called to the carpet for misspelling rug

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

VS.


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

State of the Newman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How Polar Fleece Changed My Life

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

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

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

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

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

First night is the worst night?

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

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


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



I’m off to brew another cup of coffee.

Counting the Days

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

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

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

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

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

A Week

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

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





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



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