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.