Skeletons in the Closet

This fine little snapshot from a darker past was actually sold as a postcard back in the day. When the KKK was riding tall and blacks were hiding small. A not so pleasant reminder of one race's attempt to make sure another race knew it's place.

Back in the 1920s, the KKK were in their heyday. Chapters popped up not just in the South but as evidenced by this photo, places that had few blacks. Sold as a poitical movement not a racist one, many stupid white folks saw this party as a true alternative to the corruption and sleaze of the previous years. The KKK was patriotic and pushed for a purity of the protestant national soul.

Immigrants from who knew where were rushing our unsullied shores. Jews and Catholics had begun to snake their way into every facet of leadership and commerce. And of course there was the Negro problem. Plenty of mole hills to build into mountains. That was for sure.

So these exclusive clubs filled up. Meetings were held. Most of the time it was like the Kiwanis or the Elks, a way to relax and maybe get some business done. Oh, and they got to wear those ever so spiffy outfits and march down Main street. A fun time was had by all.

I have lived in the South. I have lived in congested areas where the races are jammed together. And though I never understood the hatred, I understood that so close a proximity could be fertile ground for it to grow.

So what was up with Maine? So few blacks back then, many whites lived their whole lives counting on one hand the number of blacks they came into contact with. And certainly congestion was not problem. It isn't now. It could not have been then. Well I guess we had some Jews. And definitely more than a Catholic or two. But for the most part, no good excuse existed other than the need to be part of something bigger, something obviously important, because it was hip in Tupelo.

I have had this photo cached for awhile now. Whenever I would look through the pictures folder, I would tell myself I would write something on this. But I never seemed to be able to write how I feel about what some racial ancestors did so long ago.

I would like to think I feel no guilt. There is no good reason to. Unless I am willing to buy into the guilt some would have me eat now. No one in my family ever joined the Klan that I know of. Nor did they join much of anything. And so what if they did. Nothing to do with me.

Yet, I still feel uncomfortable when I view a picture like this. That somehow through racial connections I have no control over, I own some part of the hate these clowns lived for. I would guess it's a type of embarrassment. A feeling of racial shame.

I have no control over the color of my skin. I definitely have no control over what happened back then. So I can't be apologetic for something I had no part in. I can only try to make sure sure it doesn't happen again.

Earthquake!

In the early innings of Game 4 of the ALCS, one of those heads up banners streaked across the bottom of the screen. Usually reserved for warning of serious winter events, I had to let it finish it's first loop before I could make sense of it. All I caught the first go around was the word Earthquake!

Now focused for the second loop I found out that not only had Maine experienced an earthquake at around 8:00PM, but the epicenter of this 2.0 monster was not 6 miles from my house.

"Hmm", I thought, "That was about 45 minutes ago." I rewound the memory clock to see if I could retrieve any recollection of odd sounds or movement from the house. Nothing. No break in the normal flow of another normal week night indicated anything had happened. Just this out of the blue banner on the eternal feed loop telling me over and over we had indeed just survived an earthquake.

Now I know a 2.0 quake is a ho hummer over on the left coast. More than likely a quake of this magnitude would not even make an eyebrow raise. And unless china breaks and walls throw pictures on the floor, most folks out there don't even bother to yawn over such a small variation in the stability of the ground they live on.

But here in Maine, we have become comfortable knowing that any unusual event created by Mother Nature is most likely going to come out of the sky. The ground is not supposed to jiggle here. That may be okay for the people living on fault lines out West, but here we like our events to be predicted by Joe Cupo on Channel 6.

I will always remember one of my father's great regrets. He always wanted to feel an earthquake. He died never having felt one. His only chance was when we lived in Japan when I was a child. While Mom and I were at home trying to catch stuff as it flew off of shelves and still keep upright, my dad was landing his C47 on a runway at the base. By the time he climbed out of the plane, it was over. I guess we all have some pleasures destined to be denied us.

The Kristol Halo

10/13/007
Washington DC

The Kristol Halo
By Blair Darren

In what some claim is a desperate move to keep the neoconservative movement from losing the momentum of the last 7 years, the American Enterprise Institute has announced it will introduce cutting edge technology to keep the movement faithful up todate with a moment to moment rendition of important issues breaking out from around the globe.

"This is not an instrument of persuason", Nathan Ridgebutt from the institute insisted. "We hope to utilize this new technology in an effort to keep our followers in touch with breaking events that have an effect on the World as we see it."

He went on to assure the "Kristol Halo", named after Irving Kristol the father of modern neoconservatism, was not intended to punish those who might be having second thoughts about the movement. "It is a communication device, that is all."

When pressed about rumors the device was actually for brainwashing and forced adherence, he adjusted his halo, and repeated woodenly, "It is a communication device. That is all."

Unable to pry any more information from the obviously distracted Mr Ridgebutt, we sought answers on the street. An hour search on the packed and bustling streets of Washington resulted in sightings of people wearing them. But as soon as we approached, they would look at their watch, adjust their Halo and scurry away.

In the meantime, all we have are unsubstantiated reports, non answers from the Institute and film footage of people wearing them but not responding to our questions. Which only leaves this reporter with more questions than answers.

As always- Unbiased eyes on the Real World

Blair Darren

My First Wake Up Call - I Was Not Home/Chap One

I was just another disconnected teenager with a larger chip on my shoulder than was considered acceptable back in White middle class 1967. Informed I was no longer welcome in a publicly funded school in Montgomery County, Maryland, my parents quickly tore me a new asshole and then scrambled to find a school that would corral that wild streak I had obviously nurtured just to make their lives more complicated than they already were. 

They found two schools that would have me. St. Albans Prep begrudgingly accepted my application. The minor scrapes with the law caused them some alarm. But I was certainly bright enough, their tests told them. My father's high standing as a former Air Force officer locked it in as they put it, and I paraphrase from a diluted memory, "Having the son of such a distinguished officer of the US military attend our school would be a privilege." In other words, his credit report came back with a big thumb's up. 

The"Ball" at Charlotte Hall Military Academy in Charlotte Hall, Maryland looked like he couldn't wait to get his hands on me. The man was the Headmaster and a very scary human being. About 6' 2'' and 240 pounds on the hoof. He had a blond flattop and stuck in the 1950's coke bottle glasses covering up bland pig like eyes that looked around you, not at you. He squinted in my direction."Boy, you need some discipline. That's all you need. You test in the 90th percentile. You are a smart boy. We're going to take that intelligence and channel in the right way. When you leave here you will know responsibility, duty and good Christian ethic." So these were my choices. For my parents gave me the honor of the final cut. I could day hop to a school nearby and deal with the alcoholic madness at home every night with adults I thought I hated at the time. Or I could go to a boarding school bent on turning me into a gung ho pillar of society. At that parent hating and punk mentality phase of my life, I would have gone to jail just to get away from my previous situation. I chose Charlotte Hall. I could almost see my mom breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe they wanted me out as bad as I wanted out. Without me in the middle, they could revel in their mutual acrimony without me spoiling all their fun. End - Chapter One

Introspection

When I came across this photo I thought, "Yeah bud, I know how you feel. Been there, done that."

Some days I wake up and I just can't seem to dislodge my head from my ass all day. Wake up inserted hard and go to bed with the same shitty outlook. I sometimes wonder if others start their days like this. Is it me? Or do we all have days like this?

Hmm.

Nevermind the forest. When I find my vision blocked in such a manner, I can't even see the trees. Taking Life with philosophical resignation is not on today's menu. No sirree. I am determined to have myself a wonderfully shitty day.

So I get up and look for a cat to kick. Leave the seat up, leave the bed unmade, and lay my plans to bring gloom and disaster to my day. And like a exclamation point to my carefully planned negative getaway, I step on a cat killed woodsie creature trophy crumpled and bloody at the front door. "Just Bleepin great."

My shoulders droop and a disgusted sigh escapes as tiny varmit bones crunch under my flip flops. Like a dead man walking, I slowly shuffle down the drive to fire up the truck that will deliver me to the day's Hell.

Be careful what you wish for.

The New Drive In on Sam Page Road

It's about time for chrisakes. Threats to build that new Drive In Moving Picture Park and Extravaganza with the panaromic vista-gigantic screen had been thrown around for the better part of a year now. Finally, the wide screen and seriously decent stereophonic sound has found it's way to Acton, Maine.

I sit here in front of my new computer and monitor and feel as if I had just put the ole GMC in Park on the front row nestled right up against a speaker stack 10 feet high outside the driver side window. I want to tip my head back in order to take the whole screen in. Turn the volume up to wow, sit back and let the images on that big balls 19" monster flat screen perform their magic.

I know, I know. Down in the big city where folks are squeezed together like orange concentrate and what is hip is never the same 24 hours later, the addition of such an upgrade would be a ho-hummer. You all just nod and say, "That's nice Mike, good for you." Yawn and move along your way. But here in Boonieville just a few years into 2 decades ago, we simple country folk who still wear homespun cloth on our backs gaze with mouths wide open and eyes fixed on the wonders that electricity has brought us here in the sticks.



My old Windows 98 PC sits pitiful and inadequate next to this new behemoth. It's nancy 13" screen, a poor imitation of what it pretends to be. Whose is bigger blatantly obvious, this pissin contest is no contest. I have both machines plugged in and on overdrive. Transferring data, files, links, and assorted eccentricities I felt important enough to save 8 years ago, so they must still be important. With my other hand I am editing through Incubus and Everything CDs I ripped to come up with my very first playlist. It's gonna rock. And finally with the volume past sane, I am also attempting a multi-task hat trick and post to my blog just to keep things interesting and me on my toes.

I guess you could say I am having fun. Enjoying myself immensely. Self-satisfied and grinnin ear to ear. New toys will do that.

Work Shoes

Running a small business in a small town with shallow pockets can be a tough row to hoe. The struggle to keep my head up in cheerful demeanor can sometimes be like pulling teeth. When vendors are barking at the door and that last repair was another nightmare in a string of nightmares, it is easy for me to fall into the "Feel sorry for my sorry ass" pit. So I look outside the normal defenses to this kind of funk for salvation. I look for perspectives that might refurbish the silver in the cloudy lining of my life at that moment.

The flip flops above represent one such search to redeem faith in what I do to put food on the table. They have been my work shoes for the last 3 months. Providing minimal protection from the normal accumulations on the bikeshop floor, they also allowed my feet the joy of working almost naked. Everytime I put them on in the morning to walk out into the world, they remind me that no one has more control over my life than I do.

Trade offs. Compromises made to acheive perceived ends. Giving up the bigger pay check working other people's agendas to search out and work my own. Creature comforts failed to do it for me. Wearing flip flops to work and cycling shoes for play does.

Donald Rumsfeld

No, this is not some rant regarding the politics or policies of one Donald Rumsfeld. Millions of heated words have been aimed at him. Deserved or not, he has certainly been wrung through the wringer. I have no intention of trying to squeeze him any more.

My comments today are more to recognize one peculiarity of his I find fascinating. Fascinating in that once I noticed his, I noticed mine. It is his habit of working behind a stand up desk. The man does not sit down in the normal course of his work day.

Many folks find this an odd way to conduct business. I did too at first. But then I heard an interview with him regarding his stand up style. He felt more alert over the course of the day if he remained standing. He said his back did not ache from sitting for hours on end.

Hmm. I thought about this. I remembered my days as a truck driver and the stupid number of consecutive hours I would spend behind the wheel without a break. And then jumping out of the cab only to find my back hated the few minutes it always took me to straighten up. I notice also, this same unpleasant tendency after I have been sitting in front of this 'puter for more than an hour or two.

I then regarded my typical workday these past 17 years. While I did not work at a desk much, I did work at a tool bench and on my feet repairing bikes. I thought the lack of back pain these past years were the result of lighter workloads and more awareness on my part. Now I wonder. Maybe being on my feet all day had more to do with the pain free back than anything else I may have done.

Donald is no pioneer. More of a retro grouch. Stand up desks were actually the way to go when desks really got going. In 1800s England, I read there were more stand up desks in operation than sit down ones. Bob Cratchett from "A Christmas Carol" standing all day crunching numbers for Scrooge was the norm, not the exception. Churchill, Jefferson,Virginia Woolf, and Hemingway all stood while they toiled away at their desks.

There is a price to pay for standing all day. Sore feet. But it takes me 8 hours of standing to bring pain to my dogs and but an hour sitting can make my back complain. Who do you keep happy? The feet will just have to suck it up. My back rules this debate.

Sun's Out - Guns Out

With guns out, Dave the Punk rips up the singletrack at Great Glen a few weeks ago. Yes ladies, those are his real arms. Man arms, streaming sweat as he pumps more testosterone than a man his age should be pumping. I hear when he shows up to the local DQ sportin his latest tye died sleeveless T, the young girls take notice and ole ladies swoon.

Dave is a recent friend. By recent, I guess that means within the last 10 years or so. The older I get, the period that encompasses "recent" expands. Anyway, Dave came in my shop 8 years ago to check out my store. He had been a customer of my previous shop, but frankly we never connected there.

Dave had bought a Rocky Mountain "Instinct" from the local dealer who had the line before I did. He was looking for support for the bike. Cool. I would gladly provide him with said service. So it started. This friendship that would grow from a commercial relationship.

We caught a few rides together. The first one, I was so cocky and full of myself, I counted on having to hold this flounder's hand as I punished him on some of our local trails. Right. While he did not spank me badly that ride, he still spanked me. It was the first of many spankings I would endure the following 8 years.

I never minded having my ass handed to me by Dave. He always rode the ride, not the other riders on the ride. He went with the flow, no matter who showed up.

As our freindship developed, I learned in dribs and drabs, the history of Dave the Punk.

Grew up in north Jersey, dropped out, joined a commune in Massachusetts that would later become the largest one in the country. Then at some point he dropped back into the real world again ending up in Maine with other commune escapees who created Renaisance Greeting Cards in Sanford. He built their display cases. He then split off and founded his own display fabrication operation, Millrock. After some years, that was sold and Dave is now working for the new owners as chief designer and main man to get anything done.

And all this time Dave was a busy man on the domestic front. He married 3 times. Had some kids. Shared some kids. And after it was all said and done, he gets along well with all of them. Juggling all those potential family fire pits is a testimony to Dave's mellow and centered outlook on Life.

Now single again, Dave is looking for that next big adventure. Like windsurfing, snowboarding, and cycling are not enough to fill the void. Damn fitness freaks.

Without getting all mushy, teary eyed, or gushy and stuff, I would just like to impart my strong feeling of attachment to this guy who kicks my butt. Somehow we connected and I feel comfortable knowing I have a friend here I can count on.

I Pods

I don't plug in when I ride my bike. In the woods or on the road. Matter of fact, I don't even own one those new fangled "eye-pods". I borrowed my daughters Disc Boy some years back and cranked it up. Found Led Zepplin's "Whole Lotta Love" turned up to wow to be more of a distraction than an enhancement to the ride.

So I went back to enjoying riding and thinking of the songs in my head. I still get to enjoy the tune, but without that "in my face, pay attention to me instead of that tree" insistence actual tunes blasting into my ear drums create in the old cranial void.

It's a rather bleak and empty space up there between my ears. Combine the the old fart ears that have to have tunes at full tilt boogie and the sound bounces around like someone hollering "HELP, I am lost in the Grand Canyon". When I feel my skull begin to bulge from the inside, I know I have about the right volume.The downside is my inability to combine the riding with the chewing gum syndrome.

It's odd though. I love sitting at the 'puter in the dark hours when I can't sleep, slapping the headphones on and turning on the tunes while I surf the web and make snide remarks in various forums.

Maybe riding is something I want to enjoy selfishly, without any other pleasure horning in on the action. To keep riding seperate and uncluttered without musical reminders that I am not really away from it all. I ride to escape. I listen to music to escape. But combine the two and it has the opposite effect. Go figure.

Message # 27

I sat in front of the puter tonight zoning out while email message #27 was being scanned for those pesky heebie jeebies that infect the inner workings and play havoc with the smooth crunching of computer bytes. About 3 minutes into the scan of email message #27, I shook out the cobwebs, jiggled some symapses into sync and thought,

" Jeez, message #27 must be a mother! Wonder what's on it? Porn? Nah. Don't do that no more."

"Make it big!!!! Sell this stupendous extra special gotta have it gizmo on the internet from my home while I lounge poolside with seductive babes bringing me cool drinks in string bikinis?"

"Nah. Probably some ole fart come-on about keepin it rigid, keepin it afloat, or someone wanting to buy my dentures when I die."


"Or even worse - The complete overstock inventory of some bike part distributer hoping to unload on your's truly all the junk he couldn't suck me into during the regular season."

If I have to suffer the pain of surfing through another PDF file inventory of closeouts looking for the one deal that will put me in the black, I will scream."

As I pondered just what was on email message download number(#) 27, as quickly as it appeared, #28, 29 and 30 screamed in to take it's place. I was suddenly left with nothing but my anticipation. Seems that is often all I have left when reality settles in for the long haul.

Stand in the Place Where You Live

I am right at this moment having a REM moment. A friend emailed me this photo of your's truly the other day. I had forgotten I had posed for this Kodak moment. Had I known I would become a Mountain Biking icon in my own mind, I would certainly have gusseyed up a bit more. Put some socks on maybe. Changed my shorts. Or even a clean Tee shirt. But no, I appear before you as I usually appear. The king of casual. At least I tucked my shirt in and didn't pull at my crotch.

A small memory of the 24 Hours of Great Glen before I caved to exhaustion and spent as little time as possible standing anywhere.

Charm City

A reconnection to someone from my past has opened my mind up to just what really went on back then. I have spent these past 27 or so years here in Maine reflecting past antics through rose colored filters most of the time. His noting that Baltimore was not his favorite city after I had assured him it was mine made me pause. His big complaint was the crime and the noise. He lives there now. I lived there over 27 years ago.

For someone who has chosen to live in the frozen outback in Lobster Land, away from the teeming masses that congest city streets, calling any city "my favorite" seems a tad disingenuous I guess. But it is true. If I had to pick a city to live in, it would be Baltimore.

Did this time skip of a quarter century mean much in the overall rhythms and flows of the B-more then and the B-more now? Is the Baltimore of 30 years ago really any different than it is now? It is certainly slicker and more hip than before. At least in the tourist guides. Because now, they actually have tourists. I would guess though that Lombard St, Greenmount Ave and untold numbers of other streets are still moving to the same rhythms they did back then. Marginal income families struggling to make it from one day to the next.

Let me drop my Pollyana reminiscing for a moment. Let me take a few seconds and remember the Baltimore that could be ugly, mean, and draining of Life's exuberance.

In no particular order

~Andre - dead at 25 of a gunshot wound to the head over the dumbest of reasons but one of the most common - a drug deal gone bad. A friend who happened to be black and taught me there really should be no differences between us based on the color of our skin.

~Escaping a gang of black punks in Cherry Hill with a truck full of TVs I was supposed to deliver to folks who anted up $500 to open an account in some bank I cannot for the life of me remember it's name. They reinforced the idea there is indeed a difference between us based on the color of our skin.

~At an all night Freaker's Ball downtown that had to be the template upon which Raves were built. After dropping too much LSD, witnessing all that Love Peace and good vibes turn ugly in a heartbeat with the slashing of a knife as blood went everywhere. Proof that wherever I found Love, Hate was but a knife stroke away.

~Watching a gay guy get beat down on Read St and when I intervened, was beat down for my trouble. Taught me to be cautious with the good samaritan routine. Because the gay guy was not even slightly grateful.

~Block after block of rowhouses just slightly ahead of being condemned with lost souls slouched on the tread worn marble steps draining beer from bottles in paper bags.

~ And probably the most telling of the sad state that was Baltimore in the early 1970s was the Inner Harbor before it was even close to being the money making tourist trap it is today. The stink of the mud bottom at low tide was not the familar stink of a healthy body of water. More the smell of a bay that had been used and abused for too many years by residents who had taken it for granted. The smell fit the city. The aroma of decay and garbage left out in the Sun.

Yeah, this was the Baltimore of my youth. The ugly side of this fine town. But through it all, I found most Baltimorons were upbeat and combined with that special way they pronounced the letter "o", they quickly became some of my favorite people. I loved the remix of the National Anthem at any Oriole game as the "Oh say can..." became "O" shouted out by 40,000 fans and I sat in section 35 of the old Memorial Stadium watching the original Homer do his fan best to bring victory to Coach Weaver and the gang.

Even as their city fell into disrepair and ill repute, they found their good times. They hung in with blue collar grace. Ate their crabcakes, drank their boilermakers at the corner bar, and talked baseball. They took Life as it came at them. I liked that.

Speedy Gonzalez

Just finished and survived my fourth 24 hour race at Great Glen, New Hampshire at the base of Mt. Washington. Once again our 5 person Co-ed team, "CRUM's Dirty Bums" did not disappoint. We finished with everyone qualifying, no major mechanicals, personality meltdowns, or injuries.

We settled into our usual slot somewhere in the middle of the 24 team Co-Ed category. I was nervous this year. With the addtion of "Dave the punk" to the team, the need to be competitive might spoil our fun. But Dave proved he was a go with the flow kinda guy and kept his competitive spirit in his pocket.

After 4 years of this, the mood campside was a "been here done that" atmosphere. No histronics, no strategy meets, just being in the right place at the right time. Everyone pulled their weight and some extra when Lis, my daughter felt sick in the middle of the night. We just bumped up the rotation and let her sleep through. Bright eyed and bushy tailed, she greeted me at the timing tent to take the baton after my 6:30 AM lap.

Some teams come to win. Some teams just come. No matter what, a 24 hour race will test everyone individually. After 4 years of this, there is always one lap at least that sticks in each person's memory. A lap where nothing went wrong and they flew like the wind. Or the lap from Hell where every tree, trail condition, or other riders conspire to make that lap seem like it would never end.

Being only marginally talented and definitely not fit, I very rarely fly. I tend to have memories of the laps from Hell. I came into the race on only 3 hours sleep the night before. So I was sleep deprived before we even began the race. My lap from Hell this time was my first night lap.

In a fog, I struggled to the timing tent to take the baton from Dave the Punk. Grabbed the baton and began my lap. The first bridge I encountered I rode off of. Down on my back. Thankfully a soft landing. Into the switchback climb and up-up-up. I make the left to begin the descent to the base and my left hand cannot find the brake lever. In a moment of panic, I focus on the lack of lever and slam into a tree. This lap is not going to go well. I am sure of it now. The lever had only bent and was not broken. I straightened it, took a breath, and continued my journey into purgatory.

Most of the lap found me in the wrong place at the wrong time. Another bridge moved out of my way and I rode off it. Rocks, roots and trees all conspired to create havoc for me. And my legs were cramping in places I did not know I had places. But I pushed on. Oddly near the end of the lap, "the Chute" loomed large in my mind. A short steep drop just waiting to dump the tired, the weak, and the unsuspecting. I figured I would just walk it, but at the last minute, I gritted my teeth and dropped into it. I cleaned it as one lone soul said from the darkness, "nice control dude".

"Okay", I thought, "Only 2 more short sections of single track, then the field, and then the timing tent. And some other poor bastard can take over."

It must have been that time of the night. During my lap I had noticed many little wood mice crossing the trail, on the trail, or dead with their legs up on the trail. The little buggers were everywhere. I hit the last section of single track and one of them scoots out in front of me and begins to run alongside as I careen between the trees. And he is keeping his front wheels just ahead of mine. "Damn, even the mice are kicking my butt."

We make a sweeping turn and on the right a long log sits. Speedy hucks himself onto the log and races to the end with me sucking his dust. Stops and turns at the end of the log and looks at me as I pass. I am sure the little SOB is grinning at me.

My First Wake Up Call - I Was Not Home/Chap Two

The rest of the summer went about as expected. I finished summer school Algebra, was arrested while pulling guard duty on 40 cases of beer at some party spot on the Potomac, Found and kept my first job that demanded a Social Security number, and I smoked my first joint. I was successfully burying any thought of my impending incarceration come September.

The good times never last. Right after Labor day, I was informed by my mother we were going shopping. Great. Always a treat to go shopping with you Mom. I was just not sure what we were after. I had my custom tailored uniform that fit like a tent. I had my overseas cap. I had all my brass buckles still shiny and new. And two pairs of highly polished black Florshiems were patiently waiting for my feet to give them character.

Apparently Charlotte Hall had rules regarding just about anything one might need while enjoying their hospitality. My mom pulls out the official list and hands it to me. I could tell it was official. It had "the seal" as it's header.

Underwear. socks and what type. Gym clothes and what color. Foot locker - olive green only. Toiletries, towels and wash cloths. Blankets, sheets and by the way, no fitted sheets, thank you very nuch. I read through this list and observed that nowhere did it mention regular clothing or for that matter anything that was not either white or a derivative of olive green. An asterick at the bottom did say civilian clothing was frowned upon. A knot began to form in the pit of my stomach.

With a sour look on her face, my mother realized I had been a slacker. "Did you read the regulations book they gave you?" My silence was all she needed for an answer. "Go get it and bring it with you."

So we shopped. Rather she shopped and I read. With each page turned that knot grew to finally feel as if I had swallowed a basketball. They had codes, rules, and regs for every conceivable situation. I closed the book. It was now a book, not a pamphlet as it sat heavy in my lap. What the Hell did I do to myself?

A week later I passed through those white pillars for the second time. I was sure my life was over.

End - Chapter Two

Cheats

After the Tyler Hamilton fiasco, I vowed to never watch another Tour. One of my cycling heroes had proven their humanity. Tyler had failed to live up to the image built by the media and in my own mind.

Like an addict who cannot help himself, I came back and was sucked in once again. I watched hours of mind numbing bicycle racing and I loved it. I watched as Lance Armstrong crushed his rivals and retired a champion. Even though rumors and innuendoes swirled around his victories, no one could or would bring charges that stuck. Under a cloud, Lance rode off into the sunset.

2006 offered a brand new era for the pro circuit. Everyone was waiting for the next cycling hero. As one of the most exciting Tours I have seen unfolded, another American seemed destined to once again bring the Yellow Jersey home to the USA. Floyd Landis appeared to dig deeper than his talent and through guts and determination found victory in Paris.

But no. Suddenly it came out that a lab in France had found too much testosterone in one of Floyd's urine samples. His victory was now on hold and he would have to prove his innocence after being found quilty by what turned out to be an "any standard they wanted" measurement. So whether he was guilty or not, he was guilty based on some lab's idea of guilt.

Maybe it was the fact that these two were homeboys that I hold onto the hope that they were given a raw deal. It had to be Euro trash envy of the American dominance the last 8 years.

I still hold onto that hope, but in light of the stupidity I have seen in this tour, I am having second thoughts. Vino! Moreni! And now Rasmussen! WTF!

I tend to bury the fact that professional "sports" is a business first and a sport second. Huge dollars are riding on how a team ends their season, their race, their games. And this industry is like any other. They will use whatever is available to pull ahead of the competition. I should not be shocked at what is going down and who is going down at the Tour this year. But I am.

There is always next year. Hope springs eternal.

5 Things Tag - This is Harder Than it Looked at First

I woke up the other AM expecting to enjoy that first cup of coffee in front of the puter mindlessly checking my CP in a forum I visit for hits on any threads I posted in. As soon as I open the CP, my computer barks at me and a little pop up disrupts my half awake routine. I had forgotten the volume had been left up to wow and that bark made me jump.

"Damn', I thought, "I ain't even awake yet and someone wants to talk." This is so like those god awful instant messages, I almost did not open the message. I hate instant messages. And this was close enough to them to get me pissy first thing in the morning.

Gotta love this internet thing though. My initial irritation faded as the coffee began the process of jump starting all the synapses that would be available today. Someone actually was contacting me through the PM feature. One of the 85,000 members of that forum has chosen me to share a "Private Message". My day was already looking up and I had not been awake 5 minutes.

So I open the message and it isn't someone who has juicy gossip to share. It is not someone who thinks my wisdom trandscends all that has come before. It's Noah. And he's assigning me homework.

I have been tagged his message reads. I must now relay 5 facts about myself and then tag 5 other poor slobs when I am done. Oh, and I should be honored to be tagged because the Blogosphere is a "ginormous" place.

The last line held my attention. Honored? Yeah I guess I am. I spent the first 2 years blogging unnoticed and whined about it on a regular basis. Now I have few people dropping by. Some even leave me comments. I am starting to feel like I fit in.


My 5 Things about myself

1. I have met two presidents.
I met John Kennedy the summer before he was killed. He came up to Maine to hang with some rich buds. My brother was hired by one of them to keep some silver spooned brats busy for the summer. My mom and I went to visit. And Kennedy stopped by. I was impressed by how small he really was.

I met former President Bush in Kennebunkport, Maine. I was part of the construction crew renovating the ocean front house next to his. On one of his walks, he stopped in to check out our progress. I gave him the tour. When we were upstairs he noticed a window that looked directly over to his compound. He walked over to it. Looked out and said, "I guess I'll have to tell Barb to put on some clothes when she's outside from now on".


2. I am deathly afraid of Horses - A horse put me in the hospital when I was 8 years old. I have never forgotten the vision of a shoed hoof coming straight at my head. I can think of no other animal I am afraid of.

3. I have a chronic liver condition - Call it justified payback for an ill spent youth. It will most likely affect the number of years I have left on this planet. Oh well.

4. Big breasts don't do it for me - Contrary to the male stereotype, I like a more symmetrical look. All the parts should look like they fit. Not like they were stuck on with super glue and made of hard plastic. Our private parts should not define us. Man or woman.

5. I started out my political life as a Republican. Became disillusioned with them when Ronnie won. Became a Democrat for awhile. Now I have nothing but disdain for the two of them. So I have created my own political party - The Contrarian Party. It's main effort is to disengage this country from the mindset it can legislate it's way to nirvana. Our goal is simple. For every law that is passed, two old laws must be removed from the books first.

There they are. 5 things about myself.

Now I must tag 5 other people. Originally I thought the 5 things would be the easy part and this phase the hardest. So far, I am mistaken. The 5 things were tough. 5 people could turn out to be the cakewalk part.

~ Miss Bossy Pants gets my first nod.

~ Randy (beagles and beethoven) is 2.

~ And even though he does not give me the time of day, Neil (Historian) deserves to be tagged as number 3. His efforts to use cycling as an avenue to a healthier him has been an interesting read.

~ Number 4 goes to........ uh, give me a minute. Hmm. Oh yeah, Chris. The woman who actually turned me onto blogging and then proceeded to ignore me.

~ Number 5 goes to Pablo. Just because he was one of the first blogs I read and he is still at it. A thoughtful guy who cares.

I would tag Tom and crazy lady, but I am sure they are tagged out.

Lis

This sweet young woman is proof that when I die, in some small way I did help to make the World a better place. I cannot take full credit for the wonderful person she has become. I will say that by not interfering, I did not saddle her with the baggage I have carried with me these last 55 years. Instilling all the feel good moralities that make our culture what it is is the easy part. Refraining from also depositing personal bias and bad habits is another kettle of fish altogether. Because that happens unconciously for the most part.

I do not deserve this woman as my offspring. If Life was really fair, I should have been saddled with a pain in the ass, bail me out of trouble for 10 years kinda kid. It would have been the appropriate and fair pay back for the torment I brought on my parents. But somehow, I won the kid lottery. Go figure.

Lis is not only my daughter, she is my close friend, my favorite cycling partner, and kindest critic. She has slapped me back to reality several times when I seemed out of control. Without her in my life, well, I just cannot even imagine how that would have gone down.

Lis is a grad student now. She has officially moved out I guess. The full brunt of the "empty nest" syndrome has started to take it's toll. I find myself wishing to turn back the clock to the times when I was "the man" in her life. I miss every moment spent raising her.

What Was I Thinking

I had plans to share tales of my years living on the road jockeying big rigs around this huge land of ours. I searched through many many thumbnails for a decent picture of a big truck. I looked for a picture that reminded me of the trucks I had become friends and ultimately enemies with. Not satisfied with the many sad examples that passed my view, I came upon this icon of the hippy years. The years I came of age. The years I found wonder and trouble just about everyday.

I sat and stared at this cartoon by R Crumb and forgot for a moment the substance abuse Hell I lived through then. I dismissed the long lonely times when I lived alone in my truck, washed my clothes and showered at the closest Union 76 truck stop. I pushed back the memories of an all asphalt super slab world. The cops, the logs, and the haze I existed in. Lost in my Pollyanna memories I longed for the stink of diesel that hung on me day in day out.

I sat and stared at this picture and saw it as R Crumb probably meant it. An inspiration to the hip and the stoned. Life goes on and you just need to "keep on truckin". Keep on keepin on. I thought for a moment. He was right. And from the way things turned out, that is just what I did.

No plan. I kept waking up everyday and found my way to the next day. I am here now, sober and sane these last 30 years. And for the life of me, I have no idea why I had to hit bottom so many times in so many ways so long ago. No regrets. But I am some puzzled now about just what the Hell I was thinking.

An Ice Bucket and a Smile - Blast from my past

Being young and stupid often means experiences do not go as planned. The unforseen happens because there was no thought, strategy, or inkling of what, why or where. 30 years after the fact I finally realize this and now admit it. What I figured I had covered and under control was just the deluded cockiness of youth.
It's amazing any of us survive it.

I staggered into the hallway naked one night. Had I been at home headed to the toilet to piss, this might pass unoticed. Unfortunately, the hall I nakedly staggered into was the second floor hallway, 4 Seasons Hotel, Toronto, Canada. Not 6 feet away, a gentle looking older couple were attempting safe entry into room 215. They turned and our eyes met. Watching the missus' eyes drop down next to the bucket made it very clear they had taken notice of my exposed equipment.


In one of those rare moments when the stars line up just right, I actually kept my cool. I smiled, and said, "Good evening folks. Do you know where the ice machine is?" Looking poleaxed, the couple just shook their heads in unison. I walked past them and casually walked down to the elevator and the ice machine. Got my ice, turned around, came back and nodded as I went back in my room.


I cannot explain my reasons for this semi public display of nudity. Maybe it was the woman I was paying by the hour and the time wasted getting dressed could be used in more fruitful endeavor. Or it might have been that quart of JD and the toot. Selfish expediency over reasonable civilty. If nothing else, Albert and Martha had a tale from the big city to share when they got back to Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan.