My New Favorite Cycling Team

Apparently I've been in an exceedingly bad mood the last week. Not sure why. I feel stressed and frustrated by everything. If this damned weather would clear up I'd have a better outlet for my pent up feelings. As it stands it's hard to get a refreshingly good ride in my bedroom. Plus, working from home doesn't provide a lot of outlets. I have a good, strong cup of coffee and pent up ire. I feel sorry for the Fed Ex guy.

I was planning on riding today but the winds are supposed to get gusty up to 30 mph. I might still go out, but it won't be a good ride by any definition. In fact, I can already feel the pain. And not the satisfying, good kind. Rather, it's the teeth gritting, praying that your muscles and ligaments are not actually separating from your bones type of pain. The fact that I consider it an option may clue you into the bizarre workings of my mind.

I'll do better. I promise. I'm listening to a mix of angry music that starts out with Pete Townshend yelling at an audience to shut up because this is a rock show, not a tea party. He peppers in a few expletives that spice it up. But, because this is a family website, I'm sure as shit not going to repeat that kind of language. No fucking way. I'm above it.

Now it's playing "Godzilla" by Blue Oyster Cult. I'm in a classic rock mood lately.

Anyway, I found my new favorite cycling team. I want to buy the jersey, but they are out of stock:

Worse, I was going to buy a t-shirt, but their purchasing function is broken:

Oh well. More fuel for the ire, I guess. By the way, you think that guy could have a few more veins in his arms? He looks like a heroin addict's wet dream. "Wow, if I had veins like that I could be like Keith Richards and William S. Burroughs combined! I'd be Superjunkie!"

Okay. That was wrong.

Something's Not Quite Right Here

While I'm sitting here typing up notes the manuscript for a first edition of a text book (Verdict? Very good! Only one chapter needs significant work before sending out for peer review. I think we should all be happy about that. This parenthetical statement has screwed up my sentence punctuation and I'm not going fix it.) . . . Oh, bag that sentence. I'll start over.

While I'm sitting here typing up notes on the manuscript for a first edition of a text book with Hong Kong Phooey on in the background a certain eleven-year-old is checking her stocks.

I know it's a school assignment, but I still feel like I was passed up along the way. She's mumbling about dividends and golden parachutes while I laugh at seventies-era karate dogs.

My Trainer Hates Me

We just got a new trainer. We moved from magnetic to fluid. Fluid resistance is progressive resistance. Meaning, the harder you go the harder it is to pedal. Kind of like riding against gravity. My old nemesis.

In one sense, the trainer is great. Gives a nice workout. Breathed new life into old and boring training programs. I'll find the sweet spots where I'm going as hard as I can without feeling like someone is pulling my muscles out and flogging me with them.

In a word . . . OW.

But in a good way. It will help me work on my weak spots. I'll consider this a rebuilding. We have the technology. I'll be that man. Better than I was before. Better, stronger, faster.

The Unexplained

I've been tired of the song for at least fifteen years. I wouldn't choose to listen to it anymore because it's overplayed on a daily basis around the world. I hear the opening strains and I think, "Enough. The world has heard this enough."

And, yet, get a few beers in me and a group of friends and "Piano Man" just happens. We draw on our shared communal memories and suddenly a group of inebriated goofballs are warbling "la la didi da."

Go figure.

Ahhhh . . . The Outdoors

I was able to ride outside today. Hooray. It has been a while. I'm not much of a cold-weather rider, so it's been a month or two since I'd been on actual asphalt. It was great.

It was warmer, but everything was not quite spring yet. The lake was still frozen:


In fact, the trail warned you that you could die. Awesome.


The trail was actually pretty clean, except for the bridge. The shoulders on the road, however, were littered with all sorts of crap.

Coming back down the ramp you could see a smaller section of the water way and how it's still frozen solid.


And the creek that feeds it:


Rinse and repeat for the next few days before we get a new blast of winter. Conclusions? Love my new tires. Bike's riding great. Me? Not as much. Seems that the first thing to go after some time off the road is handling. I was all over the place. Naturally, there was a drop in speed, but I felt like the endurance level was up from where I switched to indoor training. On familiar hills it took longer for me to bottom out than usual. Even in the chilly air, which usually makes my lungs hurt like hell. Ah, lungs.

And my nemesis was out. He rides for a local racing team and, I swear, the man has no joy. No joy at all. Plus he seems to have the same schedule and route as me. what's up with that? Maybe I'll start sticking my tongue out at him. As someone recently said, cyclists aren't noted for their upper body strength so I think I might have a chance in a slap fight. Though he has the long golden mane of hair. Which makes me hate him even more.

Holiday

Everyone else had the day off, so I took it off too. It's unusually warm, so mom, Gert and the dog are out walking while I make a pot of gumbo (surprisingly calorie friendly to two cyclists trying to get in shape for warm weather).

Sadly, today we finally accepted the fact that our trainer is dying. Admittedly, it was cheap. I bought it not knowing if I would stick with it. I did. And, now with two people using it and my switch from gently using it to abusing the crap out of it, it can no longer live. So, we decided to buy a new one and then laugh as our monthly budget mocked us. Stupid money.

For the hell of it, I decided to see if Matilda's bike would fit on the trainer. It did. This amused the hell out of Gert who immediately jumped on and, I kid you not, rode for 20 minutes straight:

As she ended up her impromptu work out, or if you wish to call it "playing on the trainer," she gritted her teeth, went into oxygen debt and kicked in "Gertie Power", the secret something she uses to blow away the neighborhood while they watch in awe and terror.

After re-hydrating, she relaxed with the cat.

Now she's laying on the floor in the garage, with her bike on top of her, claiming that she's stuck and in dire need of help lest she die a horrible death after being crushed by a 14 pound child's bike that, honestly, is barely touching her.

All in all a good President's Day. Nice work, George and Abe. Thanks for making my daughter's drama fit possible. Rock on democracy!

More Creepy Leg Photos

Well, only one. But this one is important! Today we noticed that, perhaps, I am being branded by my bicycle. Slowly I am developing a Specialized Logo muscle on my left leg. Weird.

Ahhhhhh

It's a good day. Had a great time on the trainer this morning. The laundry is almost completely done, it's supposed to get up to 67 degrees on Friday so I'll have a nice, snow melty ride outside (might rain too . . . don't care, that's why they have rain jackets), cycling is on TV (all week too!) and I have a tasty brew. Could there be anything better?

Seriously, I am riding outside as soon as enough snow melts that there's room to ride. I'm going to look like crap when I get home and my bike will need to be cleaned daily, but I don't care. I'm so sick of riding inside.

Flickr

Might want to avoid Flickr for a while. Looks like they are having a minor problem with some photos being replaced with others. For example, some not so good material is popping up. Fun!

So, sorry if anything weird is showing up over on the right.

Looks like it's fixed.

My XML Valentine

There are few things I do well in this world. I'm reasonably good at my job, but nothing to shout about. I can ride my bike, but not well enough to race. I play several instruments, but none of them with any proficiency. I can read, but since laziness is my greatest motivation these days I rarely even do that.

I can recall stupid bits of information about music, and can remember stunning detail about songs as well. However, no one really needs to know when the bicycle bell is featured in Pet Sounds.

I cannot dance, though that may be a blessing. I can't run very far without getting winded. I'm no good at painting, photography, origami, sculpture, sketching or any visual medium. I cannot sing, nor can I write songs. I've never been good at navigation. I frequently get lost in malls and they are, generally, circular in arrangement.

I can not do carpentry, or anything with tools for that matter including: tuck pointing; welding; soldering; electrical work; sawing; hammering and general leather work.

I am good at pissing people off and alienating them. However, I accept this because generally the people I piss off and alienate are people who suck my time dry without offering me much in return. I have a family and they come before me setting up some schlub's home theater for them. So I cut them loose citing a drain on resources. Harsh, perhaps, but there are so many hours in a day and only so many days in a life.

I used to consider myself a decent writer. However, I haven't lately. Most of what I write is poorly thought out, incomplete and nonsensical. Or, worse, it's just bad.

That being said, there is one thing I am exceedingly good at. Loving my wife and kids. Their presence in my life, even during frustrating times, is the light by which I can guide my life. There is nothing more that I love in this world than those three people. And donuts. But donuts come in a close second to the family.

So, for Valentine's Day we always exchange handmade gifts. Since I'm not good at much of the visual aspects, I always eschew cards and rely on my two strengths. 1. Love of my family. 2. Remembering music.

The girls each got "Radio Daddy Jamz" which is a compilation of all their favorite songs from the radio. Oh yes, I purchased pop music. Gert hugged me for two minutes straight because of one of the songs is her "most favorite song ever." So take your indie cred and suck it music snob (you know who you are).

My wife's mix is different. I actually spent two months working on it and it spans two CDs. I don't think I've made a mix like this since we were dating. It actually says what's in my head on a daily basis.

We've been together for 9 years and, sometimes, even with a dictionary and a thesaurus I run out of words to describe my feelings for her.

I can't share all of it with you, but you can listen to the highlights on the new Radio SFT playlist. Enjoy.
ETA: The radio thing isn't currently working. Will try to fix ASAP. Okay, it's fixed. And looks new and fresh.

My New Cycling Shades

Clearly I've been wearing the wrong thing while I ride. This is better.

I think?

Mike Love, Not War

Matilda has taken up the cello and is currently performing in the sixth grade orchestra. Since first playing the instrument in August, she has really gained some excellent control over it and is producing some quite melodious sounds. In fact, the only issue is that mom nearly has a heart attack when it needs to be tuned because she has no familiarity with a stringed instrument. She seizes up like a 1985 Chevy Celebrity on a 12% grade.

Not to fear. I can tune stringed things. From guitars to ukuleles to cheeses. A cello isn’t that difficult. It also helps that I’m lazy and own an electric tuner.

Matilda has gained enough confidence that she is entering a small ensemble and solos competition. She’s working on a piece with her friend who plays the violin. It’s pretty cool to consider. Next stop is the supergroup of minimalist quartets.

Last night was Matilda’s Festival of Strings, where the school district brings together all the orchestras from 5th through High School. They each played a few selections and then together gave us “Ode to Joy”. Not the whole movement, mind you. Just a few bars.

Matilda had been working really hard on her selections and I recognized a few. But there was one they were playing that had her especially excited. One that she knew would also have me especially excited.

So last night, as we sat in the audience the sixth grade orchestra played their first two selections. Two very nice songs. Then they rocked “Fun Fun Fun” by the Beach Boys. Matilda smiled the whole time. Matilda knew how excited I would be to hear Brian Wilson as interpreted by 11 year-olds.

The reprehensible boor that sat behind us (that’s another story) scoffed, “They’re playing the Beach Boys! Those kids don’t even know who they are.”

I turned around and said, “Mine knows who wrote this song, much less who performed it!” Boorish Oaf Lady didn’t care. I suspect because she assumes the Beach Boys are really some guy in a hat with a nasally voice and not really the genius of Brian Wilson.

As the final chord faded, the crowed clapped. I cheered the loudest, I suspect, because I know I was probably the proudest parent there.

Matilda gave me the thumbs up when it was over. She was very proud to be playing Brian Wilson for me and she took quite a bit of joy in it too. I doubt there were many other parents and kids as proud at that moment as the two of us.

I think I’ll let her keep the T-Bird for a little while at least.

Le Balloon Rouge

While Gert was picking up her man-sized burger at Dairy Queen on Sunday she also acquired a brand new red balloon festooned with the DQ label. Gert has an unnatural love for balloons. She will do anything for them. The gift of a balloon is better than a diamond for her.

After she ate her man-sized burger, she began playing with her balloon. She was in her room, dancing with her red balloon. Hannah Montana blasted out the tunes and Gert boogies with Mr. Balloon. They dressed up as cheerleaders and did cheers. They frolicked in the grass, went for long, romantic walks. They made plans for the future. Talked about buying a house and what the kids would look like.

Gert is the type of kid who puts a lot of emotional importance on immediate moments. She had two dollars that she used to buy entries into a drawing for an American Girl doll and Polly Pockets at her school carnival. She crossed everything she had, closed her eyes and hoped. She was so emotionally wrapped up in this drawing that it stopped being about winning a prize and it became about her hopes and dreams for the future. If this went well, then the rest of her life would go well. If it didn’t, she was doomed to a life of disappointment. Sounds like her father.

Her name wasn’t drawn. Then, after her man-sized burger, she tried to win a trip to Hawaii with a code on her DQ cup. When she was trying to scratch off a square, the little flash scratcher scratched the wrong thing. She didn’t win the trip and, of course, it meant her dreams would never come true.

Later that afternoon I was sitting folding laundry. Gert came running through the room with Mr. Balloon crying, “I need tape! I need tape!”

She grabbed the tape from my work box and began emergency surgery on Mr. Balloon.

“My thumb accidentally scratched it and it has a hole,” she sobbed. “He’s leaking.”

She fixed it and walked off with Mr. Balloon floating high. But we all know where this is heading, don’t we?

Ten minutes later she came back to the room, looking for more tape. Mr. Balloon was drooping and looking sad, unable to hold himself up. Gert tried more surgery, but it was no use. Mr. Balloon was going to die. So young. And with such a promising relationship.

Gert sobbed in my arms. Why did it have to happen? Why can’t she have anything nice? Why is Matilda’s balloon still okay? Why? Why? Why?

We agreed that she should enjoy the time they still had left and make the rest of Mr. Balloon’s day a happy one. And they did. They had a good time and slowly the pain and grief subsided. Though I wasn’t aware of how completely until later.

Gert came walking into the kitchen holding Mr. Balloon, who was now the size of an egg.

“Do you have a pin,” she asked.

“Why?”

“It’s time,” she said. “He’s going slow now. I think I just need to suffocate him.”

We really need to hide the dictionary.

Burgers from Outer Space

So, I went to a trivia contest last night, came home, went to bed and woke up in the middle of the night with a violent gastric storm that had me contemplating the mysteries of the universe while dumping the contents of my stomach down the toilet drain. Fun times. Fun times.

So, that really blew my cycling schedule. I feel better, it only lasted an hour, but I'm tired and a little queasy. Spending an hour or two pretending I'm climbing a mountain in France while drinking Ultima Replenisher (aka Gatorade for Diabetics) I've chosen to sit here and get to know the recuperative process.

Because I don't want anger my stomach, I'm not seeing very much culinary adventure on my horizons. Gert,however, does not feel the same way.

"What would you like for lunch," Mom asked.

"I want a man-sized burger from Dairy Queen."

"Did she just ask for a man-sized burger?"

"Yes. Yes she did."

"Well, I'll be damned."

She's eating her man-sized burger as we speak. With man-sized fries and a man-sized drink.

Riding Indoors is Dangerous

I've hit my stride again. It's been cold, I've been sick, the bike was sick . . . in December and January everything conspired against my sitting my butt in the saddle.

No more! I'm back on my usual schedule of two on, one off of indoor training and have discovered an unnatural love of the more endurance style intervals. Sure, sprints are nice, but the long, slow build of a climbing repeat and the weird sensation that I'm actually stronger at the end of the third repeat than I was on the first is a giddy feeling.

NOTE: There is a Gert/Matilda story at the bottom of all this. I will tag it with the word "Shazam!" in bold, if you want to skip the cycling babble.

One thing I miss about riding outdoors, other than being outdoors and the actual sensation of riding, are the other cyclists. For the most part, cyclists fall into three categories:

1. Recreational: Serious, but out for fun. Often wearing weird clothes, with panniers sometimes, or in one case, on a black road bike with a pink basket. Seriously. Generally road/trail rule Nazis, but in a nice way. Tourists, retirees, fit families. Generally chatty and kind, will always stop to ask if you need help if you pull of to the side for any reason.

2. Hardcore: Self-explanatory. There are two types. Dickheads and nice guys. If they ride alone they tend to be arrogant, selfish, pissed-off dickheads. I don't say this in a bad way. Often, on a windy day, you can count on someone hanging on your wheel without letting you know they've shown up and suck your wheel for a while and then pass you on a hill without so much as a wave. The dickheads tend to think they are better than everyone else out there and that you, as the guy or gal who is not on their team or in their club, do not deserve to share the road with them. Key point: They never wave to other cyclists. This is important.

That being said, there are also hardcore cyclists that are out there and enjoy the community aspect of cycling. They'll announce themselves as they come up behind you, stop to chat, talk about bikes, etc. They'll always stop to see if someone needs help and will compliment you on a good ride of they come up and follow you. You'll laugh together as they watch you overcook a turn and nearly slide across the road and you'll admire their climbing skills as you slowly slip away from them on a long hill.

These guys always wave, nod and say hello to any cyclist on the road. Any cyclist. A local racer, who oozes respect around here, is fond of saying that no matter what you're doing acknowledge each cyclist you see. Because two miles down the road it may be their hand pump that saves your ass or their patch kit, tools, or anything else you might have forgotten when an unfortunate situation occurs.

I try to be the second type, but I'm too self-hating to think I belong to either group. I don't feel at that level yet. I probably am, but I still feel like the chubby guy huffing up a hill.

3. The spur of the moment cyclist. They generally come out on holiday weekends and ride big box store bikes. There is nothing wrong with this and I personally feel that anyone out on the road is a good thing. But safety-wise they can be a nightmare.

Why? Well, 90% don't wear helmets or are wearing the wrong helmets or are wearing improperly fitted helmets. That's okay though, since it's their thick brain pan that will be oozing out the very goo that gives them motor functions.

Simply put, they do not know the rules. They often ride in groups of four, spread across the road or trail. If they are on a trail they can't seem to stay on their side and come barreling straight at you. They do not know how to signal that they are stopping, turning, slowing, etc. They often don't even announce "on your left" when they pass people. You gotta let people know you're there. Walkers, riders, skaters, cars (though not by shouting). When you call out to let them know that you are coming by they freak out and yell at you. That happens to me a lot.

And then there's the weaving.

Those that come out more than one time quickly learn the rules of the road and trails.

I'm not complaining, mind you. Just my observation. Some roadies are dicks, some touring cyclists are weird, some roadies are nice, mountain bikers tend to be the nicest, holiday warriors are dangerous.

Let the hate mail flow.

Shazam!

Riding inside today I was feeling fantastic. I was back at my favorite ride time, doing my favorite indoor workout and having a great time. I'm going through a particularly intense section of the workout when in comes Matilda. I figure she's getting something out of the room.

Apparently not. She walks up to my bike, looks me in the eye and bellows (at inhuman levels), "Ooort! Ooort! Ooort! WAAAAAAAH! Oooort!" And she's gone. Why did she do this? I do not know. But I can assure you that it was, in fact, the most annoying sound ever to emanate out of a human mouth.

Later, when I was getting ready to "sprint to the line" at the end of my final interval, Gert comes in the room. She tackles the cat, then complains that the cat does not love her. Raising my cadence I grunt in understanding.

Then, for a reason that is not yet clear and that psychologists may never understand even after years of study she jumps in front of my bike, starts doing the Cabbage Patch, chanting, "Oh yeah. Uh huh. That's right. Oh yeah." And she's gone.

My wife apologized for teaching her the dance, but I still do not understand why she did it. In a way, however, it felt a little like being on a stage of the Tour and having some lunatic run along side of me while I rode up a mountain.

That being said, if one of the kids dumps water on me they are so grounded.

Tour of Missouri

Route has been announced. Huzzah.

Interesting. A time trial in Branson, of all places. Huh. I wonder how they'll react to that. Branson seems like a bunch sprint type of town. Columbia would be more of a TT type of town.

I'll go to the St. Louis stage, of course. Though a circuit through town isn't so exciting. I wonder what the actual route will be. Could be interesting. I'm looking forward to seeing the profiles of each stage. When I find that out I'll decide what day to take off and visit.

It's a shame there's no stage from Hannibal to St. Charles instead of Jeff City. That would have been a cool stage, lots of fun hills. Though, there are some interesting points for hills on this route I can't picture any big ass climbs. So it'll be a fast race.

Now to wait to find out who races. I'm sure Dan Schmatz, and whatever team he's riding for (I can't remember) will ride. Navigator's? Toyota-United? I just don't know . . . Will be fun though.

She is a Scientist

While I'm getting over the sting of Gert telling me that I was annoying her in the car this morning (and I deal with the fact that my office mate, a 45 pound Border Collie, has hellacious gas) I thought I'd recount happier times when I wasn't getting on Gert's nerves and the dog still had gas. Note: did you know that hellacious is actually a slang word? I did not know that.

Last night we were watching some movie on the Disney Channel about tweens in trouble or seeking understanding or trying to fit in or learn an IMPORTANT LIFE LESSON while looking fabulous and perfectly balanced both hormonally and mentally. Not like real kids, who turn on you in an instant. Like this morning.

I'm getting over it.

Anyway . . .

"Dad, that boy must be a scientist," my frighteningly verbose five-year-old says to me while watching a frightenling scientifically adept tween used beakers, test tubes, bunsen burners and what not.

"What makes you say that?"

"He's mixing chemichers." She twisted her face for a moment. "Chemi-CALs."

"That's right sweetie."

"Uh oh," she said as the chem lab exploded, "that wasn't a good idea." And then a series of events were set into motion, caused by the spilling chemicals, that only being submerged in water could solve.

We cuddled and continued to watch the movie. Or, more likely, I blanked out for an hour after asking why, if water fixed the problem the characters weren't cured earlier. They stated that the movie took place over ten days. No one showered in that time?

Ew. Gamey.

Remembering the Bike Man

Last week an elderly couple in Utah died of hypothermia after getting stuck in the snow. It's a sad, tragic story. But it was the life of Reed Palmer that caught my eye. He served in the Utah legislature, worked for a bakery and was a realator.

More importantly, Reed Palmer was the Bike Man in his neighborhood. He'd fix flats, repair bikes and scooters, fix dropped chains and adjust whatever kids needed adjusted on their bikes. If they could pay him, he'd accept it. But, usually a hug would do. He even had a sign outside that read "Reed's Bike & Trike." Admittedly, it wasn't much of a business. But he would rehab old bikes and, I assume, it made him happy.

According to the articles, when a new family would move into the neighborhood he would introduce himself and ask if the kids had bikes. If not, he'd give them one. There were a lot of happy Christmas mornings thanks to Reed Palmer.

More importantly, he passed along the love of cycling to children. This is not the same love that I have, but that which Gert oozes every day. The wind in their face, the freedom of movement, the fun of going as fast as you can under your own control, riding to your friend's house or just riding around the neighborhood with your friends. It's the purest form of cycling. Kids do it not for the exercise, but for the sheer joy of it.

Reed Palmer left an indelible mark on the world and the community he inhabited. He wasn't just a neighbor, he was the Bike Man. He dealt in smiles.

How much of an effect did he have? When he and his wife were laid to rest today, kids brought their bikes in tribute to the man who spread his joy to another generation.

They often talk about the life worth living. Reed and Fae Palmer may have died in tragic circumstances and before their time, but they lived in a way that will be felt through a whole new generation. It's a touching story of a life that was certainly worth living--and well-lived. I didn't know the Palmers, but after reading about them, I wish I had.

The world could use more Bike Men.

Holy Crap It's Cold

It's been below freezing for what seems like months. But, really, the past two weeks or so. In the last 45 days I've been able to ride outside once. And it was short and depressing.

How cold is it? Well, my normal route goes through a park with a lake and a "dripping" waterfall. For your pleasure here are some photos:

A phonecam pic of Gert standing in the water last August.


Roughly the same spot today.


Other side of the lake, boat launch.


The "dripping" springs drip no more.


So, as you can see, there's no way in hell I'd be out there riding these last few weeks. Oddly, I've seen some of the hardcore guys out there riding. I respect them, but I am not envious. I'm nuts, but I'm not completely crazy.

Prince of Thighs

Hey, oh Purple One, I heard about your hip problem. Floyd Landis can probably give you some advice there.

Granted, I don't know if he can help you get your groove back, but the dude is already flying up mountains on his newly resurfaced hip. Don't need to be a grandma to enjoy the cool relief of a new hip.