Roadhouse Blues

My good friend K is not a fan of the Doors. He had some mealy mouthed excuse I don't remember. That's okay. I don't particularly care for some of the bands he likes. It's the way of the world.

We were heading to the Kingdom Trails in Vermont; must have been over a decade ago at least. We were going to ride trails til we gave out or the trails did. "Roadhouse Blues" came on the radio. I reached over and cranked it up to WOW. Before K could turn the volume down, I had a big fat doob pulled out and was firing it up. He looked at me. Not sure what he was thinking, but I said:

"It's a long ago rule cast in stone, that if "Roadhouse Blues" comes on, a joint is found if one is around to be found and the highest volume available is cranked."

He went back to watching out where we were going. He was driving after all. I took a huge hit and tried to pass it to him.

K looked back at me and waved the joint off. He didn't try to turn the music down; he went back to watching the highway. I shrugged and took another monster hit and rocked out. 

I guess it was after my 3rd or 4th hit, K turned. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. He reached for the joint with his index finger signaling it was his turn with the doob. I handed it over. We both were rocking now. We rocked hard until the song ended. K handed me what was left of the joint. It was nothing but a roach. I had forgotten "Roadhouse Blues" was 4 minutes long. 

Smoking Pot and Mountain Biking are inextricably entwined. The origins of the current sport of Mountain Biking can be traced to California in the 1970s. A group known as the Lakespur Canyon Gang began regular rides on Mt. Tamalpais (Mt Tam) in the Lakespur and Baltimore Canyon in Marin County, north of San Francisco. A bunch of stoners looking for some fun while they baked themselves into oblivion is how I heard it from some folks who actually were at least on the fringes of that original crew. 

I met Tom Ritchey, owner of Ritchey Bikes at a bike expo in Philly in 1989 I think it was, I asked him about the pot smoking. He didn't know me so he just smiled and admitted there were some guys who smoked pot. I met another one of the originals, Charlie Cunningham and shared beers at the same expo. He agreed, Pot was an integral part of the fun for sure. 

Charlie went on to be a partner with Steve Potts and Mark Slate in creating WTB (Wilderness Trail Bikes) in 1980. They started out making components and eventually began to produce frames. I still have a brand new WTB "Phoenix" frame with a very rare one off special Charlie Cunningham designed rear brake on it. I do not know what it is worth, but I am guessing some significant dollars for sure. They had a very limited run of frames with the correct bosses for those brakes.

I bought my first mountain bike in 1986. I entered my first race in 1987. I became a full time bicycle mechanic at "The Spokesperson" that same year, and in 1988 I became a partner. But it was in the summer of 1971, the rule about the song was created. I was packed into a VW Bug with 4 other stoners (We called ourselves "Freaks" back then) We were on the Washington, DC beltway weaving in and out of traffic without a care in the world and the song came on. The rest is history.

Just another case of how the Hell did we not kill ourselves back then, I will never know.

Later Gators ........................................

______________________________

After all that writing, at least the tune has been well determined. Here is "Roadhouse Blues", by the Doors. Be sure to spark one up if one is available and crank the volume to WOW!

Bad Dream

It was bound to happen. But I never thought it would be because of a conversation Bike Shop Jim and I had the other day. He sent me a text concerning a wheel build issue he was having. It felt good to be consulted; even better that my suggestion may have helped.

It should have ended there. And it did end here in the waking Reality I functioned in day to day. It was in the murky fog enshrouded alternate universe I spent sleeping in that allowed the demons loose to have their way with me. 

Most of the time I sleep unscathed and oblivious to the misadventures my brain conjures up. Not this afternoon however. This afternoon, my afternoon nap lost control. ..........

I came in on the dream after the initial fuzzy moments had already moved on. I had just finished re-spoking a wheelset. The customer came to pick up the wheelset. A heated conversation ensued over what price I promised in the initial estimate and what I was charging now. He called me a crook and said he wasn't paying. He followed up by insisting he was still entitled to the wheelset, new spokes and all.

This clown was a get over guy, a con man. I just knew it; I could tell every word that passed his lips was slippery, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, sleazy rhetoric and most likely was a lie. I found the estimate, shook it in his face, balled it up and threw it at him. Not happy to stop there, I took the brand new re-spoked wheelset out of his hands, tossed the wheels on the floor and stomped the brand new spokes right out of the them.

In the meantime, the customer and a sidekick grabbed a thrashed Barco-lounger I had in the back corner of the bike shop and ran out the back door with it. I chased, flinging harsh and threatening words about what I was going to do should I catch you, you sleazy fucks.

Out at their vehicle, the customer comes into better focus. It is Donald Fucking Trump. His sidekick I still don't identify. I am in a rage now and ................ police are called, I end up in handcuffs for why I am not sure. As the cops drive me away, my last glimpse of Trump is him sporting that shit eating smirk on his face he so likes to use.

__________________

This is the first dream I have had with the Orange Shit Gibbon as the main character. In the last decade of him polluting the political conversations,  I have no memory of him haunting me in my sleep. It had to happen I guess.

I admitted long ago that Trump owned part of my brain. I couldn't quite get him out of it, so I owned it, went with it, always hoping for relief. Ten years of allowing him rent free space in my mind is long enough; too long actually. I never should have let him in. 

I'll figure this out. I always have. Fuck Trump. I bet a shrink would have a field day with this dream.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ....................................................

_____________________________ 

Google "Songs about Dreams" and what pops up are entirely too many songs to pick from. My first choice was the Everly Brothers, then Roy Orbison and then  ........ I tasted 20 tunes at least. It finally came down to choosing between "Sweet Dreams are made of this", by the Eurhythmics or "Enter Sandman". by Metallica. "Sandman" is about fear and nightmares." Sweet Dreams are made..." is about, well, I am not quite sure. Couldn't make up my mind, so I picked "Dreams", by the Cranberries" just so I could end the debate going on in my head. 

Enjoy ...................

Dangerously Pink - Revisited

I first wrote this almost 20 years ago in the summer of 2005. That was my first full year of blogging. I recently dredged it back up and thought I should share again as now I actually have an audience. I liked it then and I like it now. I can still smell the pink from that day.

________________

A woman came into Crum Cycles a few weeks ago. This is not an unusual occurrence, but how she dressed and acted was. Located in Maine, our community prides itself in reticent Yankee behavior. We dress down most days and are slow to warm to strangers. The invasion by a boisterous and buxom woman dressed completely in Pink, big hair, and enough makeup to make Maybelline bust with pride was a noteworthy event.

When I say she was pink, I mean pink. Pink pumps, pink miniskirt wrapped around a rather generous butt and a pink belly button blouse that highlighted a naval piercing with a, you guessed it, pink stone in the setting. She even smelled pink. A heavy odor of what I imagine 2 thousand pink flowers would smell like. And to top off the overall effect, a wide pink hairband that kept her Baltimore doo standing up and living large. As soon as I saw her, I thought of Divine and the movie "Pink Flamingos". The only thing missing was the "Bawlamer" accent. When she opened her mouth, the hard speech of someone from the blue collar fringes of Boston came out.

Our encounter was a comedy. She had recently purchased a couple of new bikes from some mass merchant nearby. She wanted to outfit them and her with many accessories. Racks, Helmets, locks, etc. As I worked through all the options, she took every chance she could to throw her sexuality in my face. She was obviously well versed in using her female wiles to seduce men to do her bidding. A touch here, an accidental brush there. And always that pink smell permeating the whole shop. I countered every attempt of hers to get close with tactful retreats to keep her out of "my space". I am only human and that smell combined with her overwhelming femaleness was having it's affect on me. It was not like she was seducing me, rather it was more she was winning by overwhelming me with superior firepower.

After setting her up with all the goodies she wanted and I had her safely on the other side of the counter, I began to breath easier. The 3 feet of glass and wood seemed enough of a barricade to keep me faithful to my wife and out of the madness of brief encounters with the opposite sex. She paid for her items and turned to leave. Then she stopped and turned, making sure all that could jiggle did jiggle. Dirty thoughts danced through my mind as she began to inquire about having me show her how her new bikes worked. I did not answer. And as she repeated herself, she smiled that knowing smile that she still had it. She could still turn a man's head.

She knew she had me if she wanted me. I had lost. That jiggle turn had done it. The icing on the cake. Satisfied she had another notch in her gun belt, she smiled, said see ya and left. I sat there staring at the door for several moments wondering what had just happened. It had been a lot of years since a woman had turned my head like that. The feeling was familiar but new at the same time. And then I grinned and thought, "Damn women. Gotta love em. We have no choice. They literally have us guys by the short hairs."

*** Artwork by Norman Engel

___________________________

My first thought regarding what tune might work with this post was a song from the Movie, "Pretty in Pink". I checked the songs from the flick and lookee there, a tune called, "Pretty in Pink". 

"Perfect", I thought, "Nailed it."

Then I listened to it. Let's just say I won't punish you with it. Totally forgettable: they should be sued for even playing it in public.

So what now? I reset and began what is often a lengthy dive into the world of song relevancy. Finding a tune that is even remotely connected to a post can take some time. I thought there had to be songs about pink. The first song I checked out was "Pink" by Aerosmith. 

Now I nailed it. What a great tune and the video is outrageous. Love it.

The Bottom Bracket

I had a dream last night regarding a bottom bracket and how it spoiled a friendship with a long time bike shop customer who now lives in Virginia. Definitely a silly dream as most dreams seem to be, but I still woke up pissed off. It also followed the tendency my dreams have of coming out of nowhere in the middle of another dream.

I was in a quandary. My garage needed a new roof. As I stood looking up at it and deciding what action I should take, Dave S walked up to me. He had with him, his recent custom build bike I sold him not two weeks previous.

"Wazup", I said, "How you liking that new ride I built up for you?"

"Love it dude. It's a beauty alright."

The way Dave said it though, I knew there was something wrong. I had owned a bike shop a long time and I could tell without hearing the customer whine, something was wrong. 

"What's wrong Dave, something not right?"

"Well, now that you...."

Dave looked at the ground and mumbled. I could not hear him.

"Jeezum Dave spit it the fuck out...... What the fuck is wrong?"

Dave looks up. His face was not a happy face. I couldn't tell if he was mad or just sad. I reached for the bike.

"Let's throw it on the stand while you decide whether to tell me what's wrong or not."

"Okay"

Dave released the bike to me and we both went in the shop. I threw the bike up on the stand and gave it my standard repair triage to find out what was wrong. I noticed the bottom bracket was loose; not just loose but sloppy loose. Whoever installed it must have been an idiot. Since I was not an idiot, I knew immediately someone else had put a wrench to my "build".

I turned to Dave. He was still looking at the floor. His demeanor told me there was more to the story. I grabbed my crank extractor and had the crank arm off and on the bench in no time. That high end White Industries titanium endlessly adjustable bottom bracket with the stupid light alloy cups was loosy goosy.  I bent down to get a better look and noticed the soft alloy tool flats were dinged, dented and mangled so bad, I knew I was right. Someone else had been fuckin with my "build".

"Whoever messed with this Dave is a moron........ If you had a problem, why didn't you bring it to me?"

Dave was still looking at the floor.

"Speak up goddammit. We're friends ferchrisakes. What happened?"

"Uh well,.... I .... you didn't answer your phone so I uh,....... took it to that new shop in south Sanford, "Ball Cycles ......... The owner, Jeff, said he could fix me right up."

I felt this huge wave of betrayal waft over me; leaving me speechless for a minute. Before I spoke, I gathered what wits I could find and in a calm voice, almost a whisper really:

"Did he fix it, ... you know, did he make it better?'

"No. He made it worse...."

Before Dave could finish his thought, I interrupted him:

"And now you will have to pay me to replace whatever parts he ruined with his ham fisted mechanics. I can tell you right now you will need new cups and bearings, but I think the Ti axle will be fine. They are more than tough, almost indestructible actually. .......Hopefully, I have some new cups in stock. White Industry parts aren't run of the mill."

I looked at Dave. He was miserable standing there with his hang dog look.

"Well, if you had answered.........."

"Don't even start. You knew I was up country for a visit with an old college buddy....... Just leave it and I will take care of it. I'll give you a call."

______________________

It has been more than a few years since my bike shop days popped up in one of my dreams. This one was about as close to a nightmare as I have ever had. Of course, this dream was just that. Dave S never brought me a bike like that. Actually, he may have been my favorite customer. He was and still is one of my great friends.

Remain calm. Dreams may come true but so what? 

_____________________

Only one tune will fit the bill for this post. Here is "Bicycle Race", by Queen.

Drunk & Disorderly

Turning a deaf ear to the obnoxious noises coming from south of here down there inside the DC Beltway where the empty suits reign, I have decided that tonight I would sip Evan Williams whiskey from my 100th anniversary Stainless Steel Stanley Flask.  And to fill those empty moments between swigs, I'll slow scroll through my FB feed and listen to music turned up to Wow.  I will know I have reached full on, in your face inebriation when the music is no longer heard but rather felt through the hairs standing up straight on the back of my neck.

More than a few swigs later, I realize I just don't care anymore.  The alcohol has done its job.  Tomorrow, I'll pick up where I left off, restack the worry, the fret, pack up my anger, and fall back into line like the rest of the citizens who don't dare to guess but still worry what tomorrow might bring.

My new normal is starting to fit me now.  I am coming to grips with a different Reality packing different rules than the ones that ran things not even a year ago.

I think we have finally arrived in the 21st century.

Buckle up ..................

And BTW - the image has nothing to do with the post.  I just liked it.  It's a close up of a personal custom build I put together over a decade ago now.  I loved that bike.

A New Chapter

So, it has been awhile since I last visited my blog. Normally my periods of MIA are filled with nothing of interest to relay.  Same ole boring day to day crap that fills my life like it fills the days of everyone else. ........ SSDD and all that.

Well, my recent absence has been filled with excitement, stress, anger, elation, and any number of things not found in the basic make up of SSDD.

I have sold the bike shop.  The gyrations and emotional garbage that accompanied the early January transition are now safely in my rear view.  Because it was not a friendly transition, but one filled with hurt feelings and anger, I came out of it fired up and ready to do battle again.  This old dog is pissed and will re-mark his territory in the near to distant future.  Count on it.

I would get into specifics but why?  Let's just say a long friendship and mutual respect I thought existed does not exist anymore.  The bridge between us may not be burned down, but it is indeed on fire.  I have heard that Time heals all wounds. .......................... We'll see.

In the meantime, I have moved on for the moment, tabling any plans for the long term.  I won't call it retirement, though it may indeed turn out that way.

As one chapter ends, another begins.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................................

Life is Not For Enduring

My previous post, I shared my recent mishaps on my new mountain bike.  From the comments I received, it appears I am not acting my age, or acting in a sane manner because I insist on riding past my skill set level.

 JACKIESUE told me to "stay the fuck off the bike".

 Mohaverat opined about how I will pay for my loose dog ways on a bike when I get older.

Hmm ................

Maybe not every day, but often enough, a burned in image passes through the re/viewer in my brain.   An image of what I could become if I did not push every limit I have left.  I watched my mother give in to the accrued ravages of her life and basically become an invalid the last 10 years she was alive.   The arthritis she fought most of her life finally won and she became a hunchback old lady who stopped doing anything.  Too much pain to fight it, she said.

I have a similar situation rearing its ugly head myself.  And now that I am facing the same decade of life she gave up on, I use her shriveled up painful countenance to spur me to stay active even if it hurts.  And some days, just getting out of bed can be a struggle.  But then anyone who is 64 and up certainly knows what that is all about.

This past winter my weakened immune system let some heebie jeebie get a grip on me and I became another piece of furniture in the house for a month and a half.  Once I started to feel better, I worked up a new agreement with myself.  I was going to do what made me happy as long as I could.  Screw the pain or long term negatives that may result.  I only have so many bike rides left and I plan on pushing the ones I have left as far as I can.   I may not be fast anymore, but I can still test the edge of what abilities I have left.  Some pain I understand is a lot easier to deal with than the day to day chronic crap that fills up more of my waking time on this planet.

I still want to live Life, not just endure it.

Later ..................................................

Exercising My Own Right to be Stupid

So I bought a new bicycle for myself a month or so ago.  This is not unusual.  I have owned and ridden too many bikes over the years to remember.  Owning a bike shop makes it easy.

This new bicycle is one of the latest hip mountain bike incarnations to be thought up in the design labs of the bike industry.  It is a Plus size mountain bike.  A 27.5 plus mountain bike.  It has fatter tires than traditional mountain bike sneaks.  There are many other differences, starting with the frame, but none as obvious as the tires.  What makes this bike so special is the phenomenal traction it has on the trail.  So far, I have failed it before it failed me.  It is indeed an awesome bike.  Fuji nailed it with this one.

But the bike is not why I am writing this post.  It is possibly related , but not the main thrust.

20 - 25 years ago when I was definitely nummer and dummer, I consistently pushed my off-road skill set past the sanity line.  One of our favorite lines was, "If you ain't bleedin, you ain't ridin hard enough".  As I was only gifted at birth with a normal range of athletic ability, when I began to ride mountain bikes, I began to crash on a regular basis.  While most were minor resulting in skunned knees, hips or shoulders, I did end up in the ER a few times.  A couple of concussions, a period of living with my first 8 vertebrae compacted, broken collar bone and stitches a couple of times.

After I broke my 5th helmet in less than 10 years, I decided that riding within my skill set was probably a good idea.  I had worn out any sympathy from my wife years ago and suddenly the dingers I was taking were taking twice as long to heal as they did when I was in my 30s.

I cranked it back a notch and began to come home relatively unscathed most rides.  Still had fun, and no dirty looks or sighs of disgust from my darling significant other.

That was roughly 1998 or so.  For closing in on 20 years, I have not stacked it hard enough to bring a doctor into my life.  No broken helmets anymore.

Enter my new bike.  The hot hip new steed that is currently one of the rages floating around the bike world.

My second or third ride, I stacked it hard, went over the bars and crushed my helmet on a rock.  Definitely rang my chime.  Lost some seconds or maybe a minute or so trying to remember what happened.  Went on self directed concussion protocol because I absolutely did not want my wife to find out.  Apparently, I was okay. I felt fine the next day after waking up 3 or 4 times in the middle of the night to check out my eyes.

The next week while trying to perform a tight turn I should not have, I crashed again.  This time my right forearm took it hard.  Immediate blood and ugly stuff drenched my gloves.  Dave had some duct tape and he taped it up so I could ride back to the shop.  From the hit I took, I knew it was probably stitches time.  I was right.  It took a total of 10 stitches to close me up - 3 in the deeper parts inside and 7 on the outside.

As I could not really hide this mishap from my wife, I decided to take the coward's way out and call her from the urgent care facility so I wouldn't have to face her evil glare.  Doing it over the phone did not help.  Her disgusted voice was even worse than the stare.

I blame the bike.  I blame the bike industry.  I blame anyone but myself.  If they had not invented such a fun bike to ride, I would not have been tempted to ride beyond my skill set like I used to.  But I will say that even though the bike is an evil ride, it is very much a fun evil ride and I will be riding the crap out of it as long as I am able.

So much for being older and wiser ................................

Still Numb as a Pounded Thumb After All These Years

The other day I mentioned I was no linger able to burn the candle at both ends.  Apparently my recent version of burning the candle as long as the sun is out is also more of a bite than I can chew now.  Guess there is another skill I need to get a handle on.  When the exhaustion continues after I wake up, then I guess I need to make some adjustments.

The concept of pacing myself has always eluded me.   Full tilt boogie only worked when I was younger and numm-er.

Today, Thursday, I sit in the bike shop so beat I couldn't find a clue if someone handed it to me.  There are repairs sitting un-repaired, paperwork ignored, and orders still pending that should have gone in yesterday.  Topping it off, I am breaking my one cardinal, hard rule regarding the separation of blog and work.  No blogging while on duty.  But what else can I do?  Apparently not much.  ........
................ Uh, could you hand me my coffee cup?  It's just out of reach.

Later Gator ...............................................

Fix It Guy Enthusiasm

The last 2 weeks have found me busier than a two headed, ......... uh, well, let's just say that between the bike shop and a yard that I have determined to maybe not tame, but at least put up the good fight and beat back what jungle I can, there has been little energy for any of my more sedentary activities like pumping words into this computer.  With the sun not dropping over the edge before 8:30 PM or so, I am using as much of it as I can to make a difference.  Of course that means when I finally gimp in from my day, I eat, sit on the couch and pass out.  I haven't seen 10 O'clock PM in quite awhile.

The down side, ......... yeah once again those pesky checks and balances, yings and yangs, ups and downs ....... the downside to passing out just as the Sun goes black is I wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed at 3:30 or 4:00 AM.

There is no room for burning candles at both ends in my life anymore.  There used to be, but not anymore.  I go until I get tired and look for the first soft spot to park my butt.  It is actually beginning to piss off my wife.  I have left things unfinished or unclosed and she then becomes responsible to make sure I closed the garage door, rolled up my car windows, put yard tools away, etc.  But hey, when tired comes, I need to lay down pronto.

It seems every year about this time I am hard into convincing myself that this year it will be different,  This year I will carry my yard man and fix it guy enthusiasm through until snow flies.  I again told myself year.  And it seems I am still fooling myself I might just live up to my promise.  But in the back of my mind, my record of past failures keeps me from feeling secure that this year it will be different.  What usually happens is I get the one big weird project done and the basic yard and house duties start out gangbusters and then by the end of July all I want to do is go swimming in Horn Pond There is no romance in mowing, pruning, and hacking at the pucker.  And the satisfaction derived when hard at it in May, gets lost somewhere down the line.

But I will say that this year there is one big difference.  Back a couple of decades or so, I decided that I would not mow my lawn before June 1st.  This year I have mowed not only 3 times already, but I bagged the green crap up and dumped it in the back forty.  Maybe this year will be different ...........
Nah, probably not.

Later ........................................................

Mr. Mike, Can You Put Gas in My Tire

A bike shop that existed in 1900 not 50 feet from my shop today

Next door to the bike shop sits the Bradford Block, the oldest commercial building still standing on Main St. in Springvale.  It beats out my building by maybe 5 years or so.  Both were constructed and put into play in the 1870's.  In my building there are 4 tenants, two commercial at street level and two residential up stairs.  The Bradford Block next door houses one restaurant and a family of 7 who inhabit the huge apartment above the restaurant.

B and his wife bought the building I guess 4 years ago when he retired from the Army.  At the time there was just he, his pregnant wife holding an infant and a rugrat already breathing and running around..  While they were renovating the building, they lived with his father and mother somewhere near by.  The building was completely gutted and rebuilt on the inside.  B installed a brick wood fired pizza oven, an all new stainless kitchen, walk in freezer and a brand new apartment upstairs for he and his bride to begin the next chapter in their lives.

Then B got busy making more babies.  His wife has been pregnant for at least 3 of the 4 years I have been acquainted with them.  I only point this out because in today's America, a family with 5 kids is not the norm.

From the back door of my shop, I have had the distinct pleasure of watching these little tackers begin to get a tentative grip on the world around them.  It has been a hoot.  I have always enjoyed watching children at play.  I have always enjoyed interacting with them.  Yeah, I think kids are very cool.  Their laughter, screams of delight or anger, whatever noise they come up with is music to my ears.

The oldest three call me Mr. Mike.  Not sure which parent came up with that, but I hazard a guess it was Dad.  When the three oldest come home from St Thomas school in the afternoon, they all seem to be carrying their latest school child effort in their hands.  Images on paper scrawled in colorful disarray, or paper-mache sculptures carelessly dangling from stubby hands.

During a brief warm period a couple of weeks ago, the second oldest, J, was out back messing with his bike.  I think he was waiting for me to make an appearance at my back door.  As soon as he saw me, he began to squeeze his rear tire with exaggerated intensity.  "Mr. Mike, can you put gas in my tire?"  All the while he continues to squeeze that tire hard with his small hands as if to make sure I understood his dilemma.

"J, I tell you what.  You wheel that beast over here and I'll fix you right up."

J stops squeezing his tires.  He looks at his bike and then looks at me.  "Mr Mike, this is not a beast, this is my bike."

I smile at his literal world.  Nuance has yet to make an entrance.  "Are you sure?"

Now I have him guessing.  He looks at his bike, squeezes the rear tire again and looks at me.  "No, it is my bike.  It needs gas."  He was not going to be detoured from his original mission.

"Wheel it on over and we'll get some gas in it for you."

He just looks at me.  I assume he is mulling over just what the term "wheel it on over" means.  He resolves his dilemma I guess based on my hand gesture beckoning him in my direction.  J grabs the bike by the rear wheel and drags it out of the bike rack near their back door.  He gets turned around and bears down on the handlebars to push it in my direction.

Inside the shop, I take over.  I place the little 12 inched wheeled beauty near the air hose next to my bench.  As I reach for the air hose I realize now why he wanted "gas" for his tire.  In his short time on this planet filled with something new everyday, he was finally starting to organize the repetitive actions he had become accustomed to.  Mom or Dad would pull into a gas station, get out and put a pump nozzle into the gas tank opening.  J had also watched me many times use an air hose to put air in bike tires.  The two must be related.  What Dad put in the car must be the same thing I put in bike tires.  Both used hoses with really cool looking doodads on the ends.  The funny thing is, J is not wrong.  I do put gas in bike tires, just not the same kind of gas his parents pump into their vehicles.

I remove the valve cap of the flat tire and hand it to J.  "Hold this.  Don't drop it."

J cradles that valve cap carefully in two hands and keeps his eye on it.  I knew that valve cap was in capable hands.  I put air in the soft tire and asked for the cap back.  J carefully handed it to me.  I screwed it back on the tube.  I then removed the valve cap on the front tire and handed it to J.  No further instruction was needed.  He took his valve cap care seriously and again cradled it in both hands.  After I filled up the front tire, instead of reaching for the valve cap, I said, "Would you like to put the valve cap on yourself?"

I made that kid's day.   His face lit up and he smiled, "Really Mr. Mike?"

"Yeah, go for it".

Watching him struggle and then succeed with something as simple as screwing on a valve cap made me realize that as an adult I often fall into there is nothing new under the Sun mentality.  Yet, right here in front of me was something new under the Sun.  That had to be the very first valve cap J would ever screw onto a tube and I got to be part of it.

That made my day.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ..............................................

Misgivings and Doubt

One of my favorite Valve Caps

Because I publicly challenged myself to post every day for the month of April, self induced pressure to perform created misgivings and doubt.  Misgivings and doubt are the seeds of writer's block.  At least that has been my experience over the last 12 years I have been blogging.  The trick is to forge ahead and damn the result.  People either liked it or did not.  First and foremost I need to write for myself.

With the challenge to myself in mind, I tried to come up with a strategy to make sure I posted every day.  What I taught myself before was to have scheduled posts waiting to be posted in case I failed that day to perform as promised.  After all, I am in the beginning of my busy season at the bike shop and every word I type in the morning is accompanied by a heap full of guilt for not being at the bike shop with my nose to the grindstone.

If writing is helping me stay sane or balanced or just feeling better, well, this can only benefit my efforts at the bike shop in the long run.  And honestly, I think it has.  The time I spend at the shop now is more productive.  I feel more on top of the Spring rush than I have felt in a long time.  The therapy of writing everyday has made the transition from Winter slug to Ready Eddy much easier.

It may all just be a fig newton of my imagination.  If it works then why fight it?

I assume everyone with a Google type blog has the same dashboard setup I have.  I always open the dashboard to the posts page.  At the top right, a total tally of posts is shown, followed by a break down of those posts published and those posts existing as drafts.  I noticed the other day that out of the 1664 posts I have, 434 are in draft status.  434 posts I at least started and for one reason or another did not publish.

There might be some untapped semi riches there I thought.  I filtered out the published from the unpublished and began checking the drafts out.  After thumbing through the first 50 or so, I realized that most of them sat cooling their heels on the bench for good reason.  They were not ready for prime time.  I did find a couple though that I thought had promise.

I decided that if nothing comes to mind any given day, I would go to my bench for a pinch hitter.  The benefits would be two fold.  I could start cleaning up the mess that exists behind the colorful and eye catching wonder that is my blog page and work on my editing skills.  I have also learned over the past 12 years that the ability to edit one's work is absolutely key in the effort to become a better writer.

And here we are now.  I have successfully met my daily commitment by writing about how I am going to meet my daily commitment.  It doesn't get any better than this.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ......................................................






xxI knew I could pen some words everyday, but would I be satisfied with them?

The End is Near Again

We survived the recent Mayan Apocalypse.  We all breathed a sigh of relief when the Rev. Harold Camping was wrong, 12 times wrong, about the Biblical Armageddon breathing down our necks.  So far, the planet and its puny sentient race has managed to dodge the big bullet.  At some point though, I wonder if one of the voices from our fringes will make the correct call.

A fellow, who we will call Mr A, came into my bike shop the other day to buy a rack for his bicycle.  I have known this guy for a couple of years.  Mr A is definitely a citizen of the fringes.  I like him, but his take on Life is different than anything I could have come up with.  When we share topics regarding bikes, he is as normal and mainstream as the next guy.  When he expands the conversation with lead ins like, "Do you believe in UFOs?" - Well, I know what follows will at the least be entertaining and sometimes scary.

Sanford, Maine

Gears left when the Mills moved away

Maine is a beautiful state that is sparsely populated and performs the necessary duty of a cornerstone state.  The border is shared by the self proclaimed "Live Free or Die" folks from New Hampshire to the west and those wacky Canadians up north of us.  To the east, a convoluted rocky coastline of 3500 miles keeps the Atlantic ocean at bay.  There were at last count, 1.33 million people living in an area of 35,385 square miles, or about 43 people per square mile.  Most of the people here live in the lower third of the state, giving us Mainers a wonderfully wild and gorgeous state to call home.

But this is not about Maine.  This about a town much maligned over the years that has pulled itself up by its bootstraps and has finally re-defined itself.

Sanford is a small town that has proven itself a survivor, regardless of the bad rap it gets from those high pocket towns on the coast or at the bottom of ski slopes up country.  Sanford, from the very beginning, was a blue collar mill community.  The Mousam river offered readily available power to numerous mills as far back as the mid 1700's.  In the mid 1800's, Sanford began to flourish when the Goodall's opened their first textile mill.  For the next century, Sanford was a key producer of the cloth that America used and exported.

In the mid 1960's, the textile industry packed its things and moved south.  After a decade in Dixie, Textiles once again packed their bags and moved to foreign shores, never to come back again.  Sanford has rebounded, but it took a half century.  Now it hosts small manufacturing efforts and serves as a bedroom community for Portland and parts south.  The Mousam River still runs through it, only now it is cleaner with less diversion than it had when the town's thousand looms were running 24/7.

I am a self employed small retailer in Springvale, a small village that is part of Sanford.  My bike shop is situated only 8 miles from my home in nearby Acton.  Owning an independent brick and mortar operation on Main Street anywhere in America is a tough row to hoe.  In a community where mid income is something to envy, it is a very tough roe to hoe.

I could have located my shop closer to the money that flows up and down the Maine Turnpike.  It would have certainly meant more chinga ching in the till.  But I don't own a bike shop to make money so much as I own a bike shop because I enjoy providing a service for the good people who live around me.

Money is important, but it has never been my prime motivator.  I derive enjoyment, fulfillment if you will, in the act of labor.  Money is a reward, but no less important is the pleasure I get when I can make someone's day by servicing their bike, providing information, or just being there to hear what is happening in their lives at that moment.

Over the years Sanford has earned my loyalty and my respect by its tenacity and refusal to go away.  It has, like any community, institutionalized madness that drives me crazy sometimes.  But at its heart, the movers and shakers are good people who constantly look to improve the lot of Sanford's citizenry.  Any small part I can have in that effort is what makes me continue to open my doors.

Later ..................................

The Perfect World

My perfect world

"In a perfect world" ..............

A phrase many of us use to deal with the frustrations of a world that constantly conspires to work against us.  I have used it myself on occasion.  Like so many blanket statements, the term does not mean "a perfect world" for all.  As it stands, it is used from a personal perspective without regard for anyone else's take.   Using it drops us into a fantasy world for a second.  In order for all of us to agree on the perfect world, we would have to collectively drop 20 or so IQ points and join the Republican Party.  Of course, dropping 30 points would make the perfect world according to the Koch Brothers easier to achieve.  But I refuse to become a total drooler.

Once again, my mind decided to go its own way.  I  had every intention of retaining control of this post, but well, uh, I have failed to do so.  Five or so sentences into it, my contempt for the political Right got the better of me.  In a perfect world, this would not happen.......

Thankfully, I do not reside in a perfect world.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ..........................................................

Focus

It all began when I was trying to create an email to a sales rep.  A bike biz related communication with questions about some of the products this sales rep, uh .. well, ... repped. I was just getting started.  The introduction line explained in very general and obtuse ways what I was after.  I followed that with contact information, shop phone number and for the first time, I was going to share my personal cell phone number for bike biz purposes.

I realized as soon as I got past typing the area code, "207", I had nary a clue or even an inking of what my cell number was.  As I was not sure where I could find my cell phone number, on the phone or elsewhere, I gave it my best shot anyway.  I typed the next three numbers I thought of - "659" and then stopped.  I remembered I had wisely written my cell phone number on a piece of masking tape and stuck it to the back of said cell phone.  Now, all I had to do was locate my cell phone.

This all happened a few hours ago............ I stopped typing and went looking for my cell phone.  But like a child with serious ADHD leanings, I spotted one chore needing some attending to and when that was done, something else sparkled and drew me away from my original mission, finding my cell phone.  Enough time had passed that any notion of finding my cell phone had long ago exited the premises.  I only remembered the bike biz email when I came back into the office to make sure the computer was shut down.

The circle remains unbroken.  The circle my life has been as long as I can remember.  Leaving one task unfinished and then another, and another has been part and parcel of my character from the time I began to wear out real pants.  The words  "focus Mike, focus", pounded hard into my brain from an early age.  I know what the word means, I guess I just don't care to focus on it.

Later.....................................................

My Turn to Cook

My lovely significant other darlin light of my life called me at the bike shop late yesterday afternoon.  For some reason she called my cell phone.  For some unknown reason I actually had the damn thing in my possession.  Stars aligned and all the pieces and extraneous bullshit floating around the Universe settled into their proper nooks and crannies.  Once or maybe twice a lifetime this happens.

I was informed it was my turn to cook.   Damn.  Keith and I were going to enjoy some cooling refreshments before I headed home.  Oh well.  When it's my turn, its my turn.

I treat my turn to cook with the seriousness and focus it deserves.  After all, we need to eat to make it from one day to the next.  Because I only have a vague recollection of where the cooking utensils hide when not in use, I subcontract my cooking duties to folks more capable and ready with the culinary magic.  Why do it myself with all these experts around?

That's the problem.  Too many experts.  Who do I choose?  Fast food, Chinese, seafood, or that always works go to gastronomical delight, Pizza?

Well that was easy.  Willy's Ale Room was right on the way home.  They did a good job with pizza.  And if I had a two beer wait instead of the usual one beer wait, I was only 1.1 miles from my dooryard.  Hard to get in trouble in 1.1 miles.

The image has nothing to do with this post.  I ran into this fella/gal while finishing up the main panel corner.   Just thought I'd share.

Later...........................................

Favorite Things

We all have favorite things.  Objects, songs, books, plants, people, ideals and notions...whatever.  Often, why a particular item is favored over another of similar construction and purpose are hard to pin down.  It becomes a prized possession for any number of reasons.

Longevity perhaps.  We have had this thing in our lives for so long, it's presence is taken for granted and when it is gone or destroyed, a small hole is left where it once stood.  Take my life long love of bicycles and the activities associated with them.  I cannot remember my first bike ride.  All I know is bicycles have been part of my life for as long as I can remember.  I love riding them, building them, fixing them, and selling them.  Should I lose the ability to enjoy any or all the facets of cycling, the quality of my lifestyle would plummet.

I had a favorite coffee cup once upon a time.  It held 16 ounces of Joe, was decently insulated and was shaped like an old Coca Cola glass, the kind you might have used to enjoy a true soda fountain Coke while your mom shopped til she dropped in Kresge's or whatever five and dime you had in your hometown.

Shovel Feet

I am not sure why I have had a life long hatred of shoes.  Maybe it is the triple E feet I was blessed with by my mother's half of my DNA. She called them my "shovel feet". Maybe my shoe allergy was the result of the two years I spent as a wild child at Hickam AFB in Hawaii.  I still remember getting a tanning for throwing my shoes away on the way to school and showing up in class barefoot.  Regardless, as I grew up, I wore shoes as little as possible, even going so far as to try to go a complete year in college wearing no shoes.  I didn't make it, but I did last into December.

At some point I started wearing shoes more and bare feet less.  Seems it was around the time I got married about 33 years ago.  Marriage apparently brought quite a few changes to my lifestyle.  I would occasionally indulge in romping around the yard with no shoes, but for the most part, my barefootin days were over.  Being the responsible adult took over.  Responsible adults wear shoes.

So now it is 33 years later.  I grew accustomed to shoes.  I even had a couple of pair I really liked.  Until they wore out.  A few years ago I began to really hate shoes again.  Not the rebellion driven hate I had as a child, but the damn things became painful to wear for more than a few hours at a time.  My wife contended and still does that it is because I choose to wear bad footwear.  Flip flops, sneakers, slip on shoes, blah, blah  blah.  More sensible and higher quality shoes she said would solve my problem.

I bought more sensible shoes of higher quality.  Maybe there was some improvement, maybe there wasn't.  Since I have the history of bare foot rebel in my blood, I was not willing to recognize any tangible improvement that justified the price increase for the "more sensible shoes".  Shoes made my feet hurt and that was that.  Throwing $100 at a pair was not going to change anything.

Earlier this year the time line between no pain and true discomfort seemed to shrink.  Some pairs I owned I just could not wear any more.  I tried not tying the laces so tight, essentially turning the sensible shoes into non-sensible slip on's.  It was better, but I was still having issues after only a few hours with my dogs wrapped in leather and laces.

Must have been about the middle of April I began to go barefoot whenever I could.  I drove to the bike shop barefoot.  I worked barefoot.  And at home I stayed barefoot when not doing yard work or walking Stub over at Mary's Park across the road.

The result has been dramatic.  My feet have not felt this good in years.  Yeah, I've dinged them up some by stepping on some odd wire from a brake cable, or a screw carelessly dropped on the bike shop floor.  There is always something laying in wait for the fool who wears no shoes.  But cuts heal, bruises go away, and besides, the ding is local, not foot wide.  Should have done this years ago.

So this morning about 3:30 AM when I woke up and could not go back to sleep, I took a walk around my house and yard.  We had had some rain and when I walked back into the garage I left wet footprints on the garage floor.  I do not usually notice my footprints other than to acknowledge their existence.  But it was dark-thirty in the morning and with nothing else to do, naturally I thought I might as well have a Kodak moment.  The image at the top is the result.

As I had never really paid much attention to my footprints, I was struck by a couple of things.  It looks like I only have 8 toes.  The little piggies on both feet seem to have run all the way home and then past to some other home down the road.  Yet when I look down, there they are still attached in their original locations.  Guess they don't like getting wet is all.

I noticed my high arches were still high and had not fallen like so many that have walked the planet for 60 plus years.  And I assume that is a good thing.  I understand flat feet are no picnic.

I guess what I am taking away from this new found love affair with bare feet is that sensible shoes only make sense if they solve the problem.  Orthopedic shoes and their less expensive Dr Scholl insoles are only useful if they make your feet feel better.  I would say if your feet hurt and nothing else works, trying setting them free once in awhile.

Later..............................................

The Journeyman's Speedball

I know, I know.  I've been MIA awhile now.  No excuses.  Been busy .........Damn busy.   The bike shop has not been this active in......well, I guess it has been long enough that I just can't put my finger on it.  I am certainly not complaining about the serious uptick in business.  Now I just complain about being a beat, dog tired, tuckered buckaroo 24/7.

The image represents what has been keeping my candle flickering at both ends.............the poor man's speedball, Caffeine and Papst Blue Ribbon Beer.  One to keep the engine revving and one to take the edge off and keep me from red lining.

Apparently I was in the throes of a deeper funk than even I realized.  For several years I guess, I was lost, down, pissed, and hating my business.  I blamed the economy.  The economy certainly did not help matters.  It's tough to bring a smile to work when I knew the door was not going to open much.  But to be fair, we make our own way and I had made mine.  I lived down to my expectations.  Can't make much progress that way.

I won't bore you with the details, but once again, I look forward to the daily grind at the bike shop.  I used to love to work.  Apparently I still do.  I just had to work through some mental, emotional, private, don't even know exactly what it was stuff.  I can't say with any certainty the black dog is behind me for good.  He is at least on a tighter leash now.  Seems I have regained some control of the rowdy bunch inside.  Or maybe they just got tired of complaining.

My little friend above is one of the many beetles we have here in Maine.  I have no clue what beetle gang  he hails from.  He just showed up the other morning clinging to the side of my shop near the back door waiting for the Sun to turn the corner and warm him up enough so he could continue his journey from wherever it was he was to wherever it is he is going.  I hope he makes it.  His actual size is maybe 1/4 inch.  He certainly cuts an imposing well dressed figure when blown up 30 or 40 times. 

Anyway, just a short note to let everyone know who cares I am still here and will post as I can.

Later..............................