A Personal Best

This won't mean much to most of you but, if all goes well and I can get a minimum of 9 miles on the bike tomorrow, March will be my first 300 mile month. For a guy with two kids, a cat, a border collie who needs constant attention and a job, that isn't bad.

It may seem sill, and to experienced riders this tally is nothing (the guy on my cycle log website I use for motivation who is leading the month in distance has me beat by 1100 miles), to me, this is a big deal because it will mean that all but two of my goals that I set in September when I hopped back on a bike in earnest have been met. The only two left are to ride to Augusta, Missouri on the Katy Trail and to ride a century. When I find the century I want to ride (i.e. feel passionate about), I'll start training specifically for it (i.e. based on the route). Those two will have to wait, for personal reasons.

Listen, a year ago I was a lazy bum who would rather sit on his butt and listen to Bob Dylan records, trying to figure out of he said "zest" or "jest". Now, I actually look forward to riding my bike. Everything else has become secondary. That's cool. To me, at least.

And a note to the local meteorologists: My butt the wind is blowing at 14 mph. And I mean litterally, my butt. It's killing me. There was one point when I was riding into the wind that if I had stopped peddling I literally would have stopped and tipped over my momentum was so slow. It was like riding into a wall.

Second note to local meteorologists: If to day is "breezy" and tomorrow is "windy", tomorrow really scares me.

Smart Aleck

Apparently Gert is a genius. I had no idea. I mean, I had an idea, but to have it confirmed is a bit frightening.

Let me back up. Back in February Gert had her four-year-old screening at school. It's one of those deals where they give her blocks and have her move them with her mind or something. I kind of stopped paying attention after I looked hat her scores.

Essentially these tests look at whether or not she's doing things a normal four-year-old should be doing, developmentally speaking. We're not talking about whether or not she climbs trees, talks to the squirrels and organizes a rebellion (she does). Rather, can she identify body parts, colors count, etc.?

Bottom line is she can do the things a normal four-year-old can. In fact, she can do many things a normal six-year-old can. Like writing her name, cutting things out, copying letters, problem solving . . . The little freak can do all of these things.

They score these things. Acceptable scores would have been between 7 and 10 for Motor, Conceptual and Language Skills. Mean scores would have been 14. My little Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin scored 20 to 21 across the board and an astonishing 61 cumulative when a mere 28 would have been just fine with the school.

Honestly, she's a smart kid. Just like her big sister (only, this time I get to argue both nature and nurture on this one because I contributed genes . . . Matilda I merely molded into a genius, Gert I grew in a Petri dish as well). The educator commented that "we've done a good job" with her.

I guess. But, really, all we try to do with both kids is treat them like intelligent human beings. Nothing more. Both our kids are naturally curious. We just provide them with the means and encouragement to find the answers.

Am I bragging? Hell yeah. My progeny is well on her way to World . . . nay, UNIVERSAL domination at the age of four. To quote, Gus Grissom, "Fuckin' A, bubba."

Toys Hurt

I should take a picture of the new bike somewhere. Oh well.

Am loving it, so far. When they said it was "quick accelerating" they weren't kidding. Holy cow. Turn on the gas and the sucker goes.

Only two down sides. It came with "cheater brakes" on the handlebars that I'm not sure I like. They take up room. I may take them off, but I'm too lazy to a) do it and b) rewrap the bars. They may come in handy in crowded spots, though.

Second downside? Other than the growing pains of the first month on a new bike where things are stretching and settling? Learning the new gears. I had gotten used to the gearing on my old bike. I knew when to shift and what gear to be in. I got the new shifters down, but not the gears. They are so different from my old bike that I feel like I'm always in the wrong gear. One is too small the other too big. It's just a simple getting to know you thing, but still . . . it's no fun.

Got two rides in this weekend. Both times it was in the forties and my muscles do not like anything below 50. So I felt sluggish and tired. However, that sucker can shoot up a hill faster than my old bike. Yes, it's lighter, but I also think it's a smoother transition between gears that helps me keep a constant rate of motion. Climbing was actually almost fun.

Almost.

I Know You Can Feel The Excitement

I'm about to go get my bike, then I have to put on my pedals, cages, etc. Plus I have to practice releasing the cantilever brakes to switch out the wheel for the trainer, learn the subttlies of Sora shifters and put on my computer. Fun times. Looks like the weather might actually allow me to ride outside with the new bike on Sunday. Not that I won't go out and play today. But not serious riding.

Anyway, it's the weekend. And we have a bunch of 10-year-old girls coming over for a sleep over. And our personal 10-year-old has been running around talking about the thing for seven days straight. Today she's been giving me 30 minute updates as to how long until the party starts. I finally kicked her out of my office and told her she can come back after I'm done working. She did this all day yesterday too.

Plus, did you notice I did not mention Neko Case all week? Well I am now. She sings lead on this song (and belts the hell out of it):

The New Pornographers - Your Daddy Don't Know

Okay, while you'd think that I was just finding an excuse to post more pictures of my current musical crush (okay, a crush for like three years, but still), you'd be wrong. Our friend Kym was curious about The New Pornographers, so I'm just helping her out.

A Milestone Reached

Last night, in a stunning turn of events, we reached a major developmental milestone in Gertrude's life. A milestone that many kids do not hit until they are five, sometimes even six. But Gert nailed it at four.

She got something stuck in her nose.

I was shaving, my face all lathered and have scraped when there arose such a shudder and racket. A scream of panic and terror.

When I found Gert, she looked terrified and pale.

"What's wrong," I asked, trying to soothe her.

"IwahGotwahSomethinggaspStucksobInwahMysobNose!"

"Okay," I said, suppressing a laugh and praying it wasn't something alive, "no big deal. This happens all the time. I've heard of peanuts, M&M's, bread, apples, very small rocks, cider, gravy, cherries, mud, churches and even a duck getting stuck in people's noses. What is it?"

"A Polly Pocket," she sobbed.

"Hmmm. Doll, outfit or shoe?" I was trying to get the logistics here while I found the flashlight.

"Shoe."

Sure enough, when I shone the flashlight up her little nostril I saw a smart pump with a chunky purple heel wedged in her nostril. It didn't look too bad, but . . . what was the best course of action? Blowing? Tweezers? Blasting caps? How to you discreetly remove something from your child's nasal passage without a) laughing and b) accidentally flinging debris up into her brain pan, causing permanent damage (am I the only one who saw Firestarter)?

We chose the natural, blowing method. While I calmed her down enough to do the extraction, I asked her how this happened.

"Well, I was playing with the Polly Pocket instead of getting my story for bedtime and I looked at the shoe and put it next to my nose. Then I stuck it in a little and then . . . and then . . . I couldn't get it out!"

"That's okay," I said, "it happens to the best of us. What have you learned?"

"That just because it fits I shouldn't try to stick it somewhere."

"That's right," I said, assuming we'd have this same conversation about drugs and sex in the future. "Now, blow! Blow hard!"

She did, and Polly's rubber, purple Costablanca shot out in a mass of snot into the tissue. We rejoiced and again reiterated the peril of sticking things in your nose. Then we hugged.

"Here," I said handing her the tissue with the snotty shoe, "you should go wash this off."

"That's okay," she said as she left the room, "it's Matilda's."

The New Gilligan's Island

I just received a notice from someone with whom I work on some projects letting me know she'll not only be out of the country next week but " without mobile phone, telephone, or internet access."

I just realized that if she added "not a single luxury" she'd be on the Modern Gilligan's Island, trying to send a text message through a coconut. And making a tall, half soy/half skim double banana-o-cino (instead of pie).

Cycling Technology

Makes Gizmodo. World yawns, I rejoice.

I mean, this is Phonak's rig and they are having a pretty damn good season.

I know, I know. Shut up about the bikes already. You hate it. I know. But my answer is Rochelle Gilmore, Australia's sexy cyclist.