100 Yards Off Main Street

I finally snapped a recent, freshly baked photo of one of the rides in my quiver. One of the few and far between stop and smell the roses moments I have had during daylight hours in a month or so. This quiet moment was particularly appreciated. Taken at around 9:30 AM this morning after 3 1/2 hours of full tilt boogie as soon as my eyes opened.

My wife and I are headed to North Carolina on Thursday to watch my little girl walk for her Graduate Degree at UNC on Sunday. My wife does not like surprises. My wife likes to have things well planned and organized. Naturally we disagree. I prefer the last minute approach. Never do anything before it absolutely cannot wait another moment. After 27 years of marital bliss, I learned my way meant the highway. So here I was getting instructions and recriminations at 6:45 AM about me dropping my end of the ball for our upcoming trip. A complication with some bank/financial madness we have going on added even more stress.

"Call D at the Bank, don't forget the PM appointment for the truck. And for God's sake get it inspected, it's 2 months out. I will be late tonight. Feed the critters. Get your clothes for the trip together. And pick up dinner, I'm not cooking, I have way too much work to do."

Her words were blurs and settled all jumbled in my cranial void. I tried to focus. I really tried to keep it all straight. But I knew by 7:00 AM I would forget something. So I just tried to keep the schedule and be where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to. Maybe the kindness of strangers would kick in and someone would have my day figured out for me. And I had to jam a day at the shop into all this. I was screwed.

I hit the bike shop and threw my bike in the back. Dropped the truck at Miller Ford and biked back up Main St towards the shop. I was going to just go to work. Plenty of fires needed some attention.

Maybe it was my anticipation index or something just snapped. When I got to the shop, instead of picking up wrenches or the pending Quality order, I grabbed the camp saw and pruners. Re-mounted my bike and struck out on Main St again. I figured I could afford an hour of calming and soul cleansing trail work. "Besides", I rationalized, "I had promised a piece of myself to the Mousam Way Trail Committee too. A few minutes breaking new trail might just get my day back on track. And I wouldn't feel guilty for not getting that new trail started."

Finding the orange tape 3 of us had tied on whatever was close last Sunday, I began to prune branches and kick dead fall to the side. An hour later and 150 yards into it, I took a moment to look around. The pictures don't do it justice, but they almost bring back the moment for me.

100 yards from Main St, where trucks, cars, bikes scurried on their way to the rest of their day, I sat on mossy rocks sucking in a small slice of a glorious Maine Spring morning while black flies busily tried to figure out how to make me crazy.

100 yards off Main St. I escaped for a minute. 100 yards off Main St. one of the many reasons I love Maine was right in front of me. 100 yards off Main St. Nature is busy doing what it does without or in spite of our best effort to screw it up. 100 yards off Main St was all it took to find the center again.




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New Feature!

The Officially licensed and sanctioned Lost in the Bozone Compilation of mostly useful but never useless tricks and hints that might just make your day if you try them.

Hint #1 - Have to start with something. Might as well do it with....

Clean Hands and recycling all at the same time

Concsiously choosing a life of blue collar toil to earn my way through this life, I have had to deal with dirty hands most days. Often dirt and grease so deeply injected, store bought cleansers with sandy bits of volcanic rock don't make a dent. They just make me bleed. I resigned myself to a life of scarred, calloused and grease embedded digits.

A few weeks ago I was wincing and whining as I laid pumice laced hand cleaner onto my tortured palms. I thought there had to be a better way. On the back of the sink a sad almost worn out piece of a green nylon scubby sat. One that should have been tossed but had not been yet.

I grabbed it and squirted a generous dollop of Dawn detergent on it and gently began to wipe my hands. Wow! It did not hurt and my hands had not gotten so clean so quickly ever I think.

I figured if a worn out scrubby was this good, a new one would kick butt. I was wrong. A new one felt like Lava on steroids. Use a worn out one, like an old pair of jeans, they feel the best.

This knee jerk post pounded out to the sounds of the Chili Peppers, Paul Simon, Dire Straits, Joan Armatrading, Metallica, Dave Mathews, Sublime, Hendrix, Zepplin, and last but not least by a long shot, Bowie's "Under Pressure".