Warning - Chilhood Memory Alert

I always smile when I see or hear the word "brainwash". When I was a small fry during the 50s, the term brainwashing came into it's own. "Manchurian Candidate", Korea, blah, blah, blah.

As a kid sitting around our rambunctious dinners, the adult conversation almost always went right over my head. Often my dad would say something and smile. Mom would either smile or frown and reply, "You just get that dirty little mind of yours out of the gutter".

As kids we often key in on words and form opinions on their meaning with the literal and limited experience of the few years we have been in existence. I can remember wondering about my dad's "dirty little mind" and what that meant.

One night at dinner, my father's dirty mind was brought up again. Out of the blue, I piped up, "Well if Dad's mind is so dirty, maybe he oughta get it brainwashed."

I will always remember the instant silence at the table and 4 sets of eyes turning to me. I thought I was in trouble. But then an eruption of laughter made me feel safe again.

Colvin Closes the Door

"The Game of the Century" one idiot sportscaster called it. From the build up and hype that started a few weeks ago, one would think we were having 2 Super Bowls this year. Granted it was unusual if not unheard of for two unbeaten teams this far into the season to meet in a regular season game. Who would be crowned Super Bowl Champs before they even played the game?

The New England Patriots at 8-0 and the Indianapolis Colts at 7-0 finally put the question to rest for some, but for me it only meant one team was left in the NFL with a chance to go unbeaten this year. It would be great for them to finally take some smugness away from the Dolphins still left from the last unbeaten team in 1972, but I just want them to have their chance at another Super Bowl. That is the real prize. Passing records, unbeaten seasons, and QB ratings mean squat if you do not wear the ring.

I am a real New England fan. I have become used to being teased with great runs and accustomed and resigned to having them blow up. So I start every game on the couch with anticipation of possible disappointment. I never assume any game is a done deal. I have seen my Pats lose to teams not even worthy to wear the moniker NFL on their jerseys. And I turned the tube on sure the Pats would be whupped and whupped hard, only to be outrageously impressed when they somehow hang on to win.

I knew this match up with the Colts was no done deal. The Colts reinforced my knotting stomach when on the first play of the Pat's first possesion, they sacked Brady for a huge loss. The following abrupt 3 and out nailed this point home.

Uh oh. We have a ball game here. The Colts have their own idea of who is going to win. And the for the next 3 quarters, the Colts basically owned the RCA dome. As each minute ticked by, I became more ill at ease. I didn't care if the Pats went unbeaten , but to lose to the Colts would be worse than losing to the 49ers. And the 49ers are every team's bitch this year.

In the 4th quarter when Manning pulled a quarterback sneak and took the score to 20-10, I had all but thrown in the towel. The Colt's record of umpteen games in a row when they did not relinquish a lead in the 4th quarter loomed large. They knew how to bear down. They knew how to finish a win.

I had noticed that Brady seemed even more confident this year. But I assumed it was because he had all the new weapons. Moss, Welker, etc. But no that was not it. I think Tom Brady has finally come to believe in himself to such a level that he really believes he can pull out a win when he puts his mind to it. He came out for their turn and in two series of possesion lasting less than 3 minutes total took the 20-10 deficit and turned it into a 24-20 lead leaving the Colts with barely 3 minutes to come back. And he walked off the field, his job done.

The Defense then took the Colts to school and showed them how the Pats know how to finish. A strip sack after the pocket collapsed left Manning on his face and the Pats with 2 minutes to kill. And they did like it was their job. What a great game. By both teams.

The 50s

I was born in 1952. I was born during a war, the Korean War. My father, an upper echelon Air Force officer in Pac Af was doing what he did. I spent the rest of the decade with my family following him from one fire to another to help keep our shores safe from the commies. To me the 50s were great. I was a kid fer chrisakes. I can remember Pinky Lee, Howdy Doody, and wondering why my family wasn't like the Cleavers. I remember Elvis on the Ed Sullivan show and my mom wondering out loud why anyone thought this was music. I grew up with Televison. Maybe the first generation that did.

I had much older brothers who brought home the first inklings things were not all white picket fences, humongous cars with outrageous fins, and White Castle burgers for a dime apiece. They infected the house with their rocknroll, their Elvis doos, and white tee shirts with a pack of Luckys rolled up in one sleeve. One brother rolled on the right. The other on the left. They were double trouble with a capital T.

While the 50s unfolded, untended issues began to simmer and occaisionally boil over. The idyllic life sought for and actually started by our country after WWll began to show some cracks. Blacks were getting fed up. The white youth were getting angry. And our cultural and political leaders chose to ignore what was obviously building a head of steam. An ugly undercurrent of discontent beneath the Father Knows Best facade.

It was probably Oct 1962 when America really understood the Life of Riley from the 50s was over. The Red Menace was real. The Cuban Missle crisis scared an entire nation, instilling a far more realistic fear than our more recent 9/11. We faced the reality of the nuclear horror we had helped to build. Canned goods, blankets and bottles of water were hauled to school. Air raid drills became part of every school day. The clueless innocence was over. Or at the least irrevocably damaged. Then the next summer, 1963, the rise of the civil rights movement was the final blow to the mindless 50s.

Many events coming into their own in the early 60s caused us to discard the wonderful life we had so few years earlier. Without the decade of TV's coming of age and injection into our national soul, we might have skated for a few more years. Televison during the 1950s connected us like no other medium had before. Events unfolding 3000 miles away in real time not described through others eyes, but in front of us to describe for ourselves. Nothing sped the process of change like televison did. We have never been nor will we ever be the same again.
_______________________________________________
Thanks to AhabtheArab of Political Hotwire for getting me started on this one

Shoot Out at the Sports Complex Corral

Automatic weapons, a mano mano gunfight and two yahoos we are probably better off without are now dead. This type of Wild West madness may be okay in the big city and environs jammed with angry people, but here in Maine we frown on wasting good ammo on something we can't eat.

Apparently at a shindig at a local indoor sports complex, two low lifes got into a tussel over that ever popular point of contention, another drug beef. I imagine it went something like this:

"Oh yeah, you ripped me off. That last bag of rock you sold me barely had enough rock in it to get off once."

"Rip you off? Why you sorry crack head. If you didn't live on the stuff, you might get a buzz once in awhile. My stuff is top quality and my count always true."

Oh yeah, well.....Let's just go get some guns and shoot each other."

So they go out to their respective cars. Each pulls out the weapon of choice. A 45 handgun for one and an AK 47 for the other. In front of 40 people in the parking lot dimwit #1 and dimwit #2 open up on each other.

I don't know about you, but as soon as I saw an AK 47 come out, that paltry 45 in my hand would be like looking at a pen knife. And putting one foot in front of the other might just be the judicious thing to do. But not these knot heads. Stupid machismo at it's finest.

The AK wielded by dimwit # 1 won of course. Shot dimwit #2 dead in his tracks. Dimwit #1 then scoots and 2 hours later after what must have been a titillating high speed chase is cornered in a parking lot. So instead of thinking things through, dimwit #1 puts a bullet through his skull. I guess he proved the better shot this night.

WCSH - Channel 6

The Curse is Really Dead

Well the Red sox did it. Swept the poor Rockies in four. It was as if one team came to play and the other came to watch. I wonder if I should be sad. Being a Red Sox fan means reveling in self pity. And the Colorado Rockies robbed me of this pleasure. I was not able to curse the Fenway gang like I had become accustomed to doing. I had all the pre-packaged excuses lined up. The whines about bad umps. And groans ready for that inevitable ball between the legs and 3 score rookie error.

No edge of my seat hanging on every pitch. The Red Sox just went into each game and took care of business. I am guessing the Bambino is safely interred now and will never again haunt the dugouts of Fenway.

Congrats Boys! You kicked some serious National League butt!

Especially you Lowell. Your .400 Series average came in handy.

A Survivor

This crusty old cat is Bob. He is seen here in one of his rare appearances indoors. Bob lives for the hunt. Bob lives for the fight. Bob is one bad ass kitty cat. At least that is what Bob thinks anyway.

I will say Bob does seem to be very good at what he does. He is the only cat we have who consistently stays outdoors and has done so safely for 10 years now. Somehow the coyote, the fox, the fisher and the bobcat have not been able to make Bob a meal. We have certainly fed them some other cats, but not Bob.

Bob's story starts out in a classic cat way. Picked up as a kitten at a shelter, thrust into a group home of other felines and expected to get along. And he does get along to a degree. He tolerates the other cats, but stays aloof of their silliness. He is just too cool to chase a string and he ignores the cat tower in the living room. The great outdoors is his domain.

12 years ago we did not have the intense predator problem that became such an issue oh about 5 years ago. Up until then, we let all our cats out when they led us to the door. Most of them always checked in around dinner time and then would settle in for the night. The ones that failed to show usually never showed again.

Bob often skipped curfew. It could be days before we saw him again. I cannot count the number of times I had written this bonehead off. Until we became used to his prolonged absences, many fruitless searches were carried out to find the little bastard. But Bob only showed when Bob wanted to. I am sure I walked by him in the brush while he hunkered down snickering at my clumsy human noise making ways.

Typical of an outdoor male cat, Bob would often show up with shredded ears, tufts of fur missing, or face open and crusted over in a big cat scab. He obviously was living his cat life to the fullest regardless of what we thought.

At the moment Bob is under house arrest. A recent encounter with who knows what resulted in an unseen scrape or cut that then resulted in an infection. A visit to the vet and $75 later, I am now entrusted to apply and inject antibiotics into his eye and by mouth. He is not allowed out either.

Great! Keeping Bob happy inside is impossible. He is not getting with the program. He has his agenda and it does not include the twice daily indignity of allowing me to force healthcare on him.

We are 4 days into a 7 day sentence now. The initial tusseling of the first couple of days have settled into a kind of resignation on his part. And I have figured out that dosing him is best done when I can catch him snoozing. I sneak up and stroke his fur. Whispering sweet nothings into his ears, I fill up his ego as I prepare to jam that eye dropper down his throat. I have it down now. Instead of teeth and claws, all I get now is the deep growl of a very unhappy cat.

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.