Sal

Sal moved in when the first Peony bud opened up. When home begins to wilt Sal just moves to the next blossom. Sal's days consist of sitting completely still with arms outstretched waiting for some hapless and unlucky bee to fly within reach. Sal is obviously not big on the camouflage idea. I never saw Sal with a bug in hand. I wonder if Sal could use some pointers. Like being yellow and living in a red forest may not be the best hunting tactic.

When bothered by my clumsy attempts to get a closer look, Sal does not back down. An aggressive little squatter, Sal pumps itself up and throws those little spider arms as if to say, "Dude, one step closer, it's beat down city!"

I named Sal Sal because I am not totally sure which side of the gender fence Sal hails from. Being a spider, there is a good chance Sal is a lady. Drawing on my weak memory of biology class, Discovery Channel bug expose's, and the occaisional National Geographic insect extravaganza, I seem to remember that guy spiders generally have a have a tough row to hoe in the arachnid world. They are puny providers of genetic material and then become a handy taste treat for the Missus. Sort of like my brother's 3rd wife. So Sal is most likely a her. But I hedged my bets by using a name that could bat either way.

Sal will be moving to greener pastures soon. The last Peony blossom just opened up. I wish Sal all the luck in the World. And all my condolences to her late mate. He may have been the only meal Sal could catch.

Hell is a Triangle

A miserable spot. That small triangle of dirt left after laying the stone wall that encased the dooryard up to the garage. Only about 40 square feet. A useless space seemingly perfect for some nice flowers, a small shrub or two. Instead it has become the source for years of gardening frustration.

I finished the wall over 9 years ago. And 9 years ago I made a first attempt to bring order and control to this baking spot. My first plantings fried in the Sun, withered and stank of cat piss as every cat in a 10 square mile area made this space their own outdoor litter tray. I swear I spotted Bob, our yellow Tom, scalping piss tickets to all his buds down at the end of the drive. I gave up and the weeds took over. It sat ugly and ragged until the next spring.

Okay, full of green thumb piss and vinegar, I attacked the triangle of Hell that next Spring with store bought plants, hand screened loam and such a deep weeding I was scrapping ledge before I put back the good dirt. Threw in a few rocks for effect and drew up a planting plan so every plant flowed into the next.

Looked great for about a week. Once again the cats and ole Sol had their way and my $100 dollars worth of plants and 30 hours of work shriveled up and died. I gave up. The weeds took over. It sat scalded and wild for the next 5 years. I'd perform a token weeding every year but let the cats have it to do with what they would. And cats being cats, they abused it as only cats can.

Everytime I drove past it. Everytime I rode by it. Everytime I walked by, I would look at this sad little patch and my ego took a hit. Plants and I usually get along. We most often seem to be on the same page. When they need pruning, I seem able to prune without pain. When I jam a cutting into the ground, 9 times out of 10 it will take root. Up until this stubborn spot, I was kinda proud of my green thumb.

I had finally been humbled. Handed my first real landscaping defeat. And my pride had taken a shot. Every morning when I got in my pick up to go to work, the insult was driven home as I had to walk past this hostile jungle of beetles and tall weeds hiding snickering cats.

A man can only take the same insult day in and day out for so long. A man has to stand up to his enemies eventually or he ceases to be a man. 10 days or so ago I reached that point. 10 days ago I was soaking in the pleasant yard I had brought back from the anarchy of the encroaching forest. Full of pride in myself, I walked my kingdom and was pleased. And then I walked past the Triangle of Hell. It's unkempt and rough appearance brought the whole yard down. And I became angry. Deep anger. I had had it with this constant reminder of my failings.

This was the year I would tear it apart and force my will down it's throat. This time though, I had to attack it on all fronts. Weeds, Sun, and the damn cats. A three pronged all out effort to finally put this embarassment behind me.

To beat the weeds, I once again scraped it down to ledge. Dumped in sand and to beat the cats, I filled it with rocks. Big rocks. Small rocks. Odd rocks, Round rocks and jagged rocks. Not a single spot existed that could be scraped up to cover even a drop of piss. Leaving 4 small openings for Sun tolerant flora, I headed up to the local nursery and dropped another 10 sawbucks on some junipers, cypress and cottoneaster.

I just tonight got them nestled into their new homes. The space looks great. My best and most intense effort yet. The cats seem puzzled and curious. But so far they seem to just pass through. The weeds have not fought back yet. And the new plants are, well, still new. For the next week anyway, I have a respite from the eyesore I have tolerated for 9 years. What happens in 2 weeks is anyone's guess. Odds are not in my favor.

Whether this effort proves successful or not is not the issue. It is the battle that matters. The struggle to overcome stubborn enemies. Victory is never complete. Battles are won and lost. The war never ends. To stand tall knowing I have been fighting the good fight is all I can hope for. To know the cats and their devious ways have been thwarted here in this space is a small taste of victory and I savor it's possibility. The little bastards might rule the inside of my home, but out here I am King.

Happy As If We Had Brains

Frustrated efforts suffering diminishing support, our best and brightest still head cheerfully into the jaws of death. Their lives become fodder feeding a political machine in pursuit of dominating perceived enemies. To that end they feed us fear and we chew on it. Swallowing their gruel, we fall for the same lines of shit every time.

Yes there is evil out there. And yes, it searches incessantly for someone to hurt. But most evil is only as bad as we allow into our souls. Practice prudent watchfulness but don't assume all are out to get us. Utilize logical pessimism when The Man opens his mouth. He often wants something from us in coin or blood. Sucking the life from our population one mistake at a time. A lifetime of witnessing one screw up after another has me reading official dictates and news with jaundiced eye and suspicious mind.

Or not. I could fool myself into a false safe place. Let the powers that be do the thinking for me. I might just be happier letting them lead me clueless down the garden path. Sure beats finding my own path. Yeah, I could trust that our leaders are after my interests but only after they have informed me what those interests are. It's easy. Just turn off my brain.

I Just Ain't That Smart

"We will now create something new for the car business", the radio ad declared. "We're going to bring integrity and honesty to your next car purchase."

It took me a few moments of comtemplating just what hook this dealership was using and what they seemed to be insinuating. Nevermind my confusion, the commercial troubled me. So many ethical warning buzzers were tripping off in my brain, I did not know where to begin the assimilation process so I could then rush down for that "honest" deal.

I guess I was not expected to actually listen but react to the buzz words, "Honesty" and "Integrity". That somehow speaking of scruples made them so.

Hmm. The golden rules I was raised on and insisted on as a child vaporized when I reached adulthood. I remember being truly disappointed, shocked, or pissed off every time one bit the dust. I learned that for much of humanity, civilized and square dealing were empty ideas with nothing behind them. We have come to expect sleaze and pocket picking as the norm.

So when this car dealer indicated they were now going to offer honest dealing, just what did that mean? That in the past, they were less than honest? Was it a dig meant to diss their competitor further down Auto Mile? Or just recognition that honesty and integrity in general were rare commodities?

This commercial aired several days ago. It obviously affected me. I am still chewing on it and breaking it down. For some reason I think it has importance deeper than a 30 second spot to forget as soon as it passed my ears. For I am an auto dealer of sorts. I sell to the public. I service the public. And I never considered I did anything that was not honest or ethical. But now I wondered.

Just what were my responsibilities to the consuming public? What should they expect of me when they come in my bike shop? And is what they expect something I have to or worry about delivering?

Having been through several desperate periods in the last 9 years, I have been tempted to take advantage when the opportunities presented themselves. Credit cards left behind. A dropped wallet. Accidental overbilling caught but almost not corrected. Each time the ethics lessons of my parents would take over and calls were made. Cards returned, wallets found their owners and bills were cut to reflect the real job.

These temptations were personal not really business related. No, that's not true. How I conduct business is a reflection of how I conduct myself personally. The two are inextricable for me. I cannot be one thing at the shop and another when I am not. I just ain't that smart.

Lawns and Pedals

I am aware that there is nothing more important in Life than keeping up with this blog. Anything else in my life pales in comparison. Unfortunately though, I can only ignore the real world for so long. It has a way of insisting on my attention. So I took a few weeks to try and get it in order. Made some headway too.

Damn it's hard to get the words out after being M-I-A for a few weeks. This writing shit is not exactly like riding a bike. But it is close I guess. I haven't forgotten the words. Just the logical and ordered way I should put them down seems to have taken a hit.

But like riding a bike, all I have to do is get back on the saddle and start pounding away. Eventually some synapses will get in sync. Electrical impulses will all run the same way. My brain and fingers will become one. Of course, even on a good day, this is a rare occurrence. It does happen though.

So anyway, I have been a busy little camper these past few weeks. Many hours spent trying to make sense of the madness at the bike shop. I move from one fire to the next. Always falling short, I never seem to catch up. Sometime in August, I may be back in control. Until then I will just hold on and try to steer my way through my own "Perfect Storm".

I get the repairs under some control and the new product in boxes waiting to be tagged and bagged for sale sits gathering dust in front of the skateboard counter. I take care of the product and all of a sudden I am backed up with 35 prepairs in a heartbeat. And in the meantime, the floor stays unswept and dust and clutter begin to squeeze my small shop from every nook and most crannies.

About the time I am sure men with nets and a rubber suit in my size will drop by to give me ride to the local basket factory, some good friend will drag me out for a ride. And sanity returns. Even if just for a minute.

The few waking hours I have had outside the shop will find me with a mower in front of me, pruning shears in hand, or a hose trying to water soemthing back to life. It's odd finding pleasure in yard work again. 15 years ago, I lived to fight the good fight keeping the the local jungle at bay. Never reached that "Better Homes & Gardens" yard, but I kept it tidy and trim. Somewhere, sometime I lost my way, my interest or enthusiam for anything related to gardening.

My yard became a chore, not the party it used to be. I stopped mowing, raking, weeding, and pulling posion ivy out by the roots. The jungle creeped in reclaiming a foot there, a few yards here. The next thing I knew, my yard had disappeared. Replaced by a sad and pitiful space. Grass up to my asshole. A field of wild roses and thistles blocked the back from incursions and also excursions. No one rubber necked anymore when they drove by. I was now the embarrassment of Sam Page Road.

Well, Mike's back! I can drive by my neighbor's yards now and often sneer, " My grass is shorter than yours". Instead of being the shame of the neighborhood, my yard can stand tall with the big dogs on Sam Page Road now.

Briefly Engaged Elsewhere

Just a quick "How ya Doin?- I'm doin fine" note to let all my fans (all 3 of them) know I am still around and hopin to get back to posting nonsense as soon as my real life settles down some. This is the season of late hours at my bikeshop. Any spare hours are dedicated to my way too big yard and aging house. And when possible, sneaking in a ride.

The prognosis is not good. A re-roofing project looks inevitable when more hours become available. G-D houses! Just when I think I have it all covered, something else breaks, leaks, or cracks.

I will return. Okay, okay, no yawning. Just thought I'd throw out a token gesture.

Competition

Entered my first race in 1987. "Jack Rabbit Run" in Connecticut. I was sure I was going to leave all 300 other losers in my dust. Got the hole shot. Big mistake. All 300 immediately proceeded to ride right over me. Face down in the mud, I realized I had over estimated my gnarly-dudeness or under-estimated theirs.

I raced Mountain and Road for the next 5 years or so, finally grabbing some top five finishes in Sport and Cat 4. But I was never much more than pack fodder. I raced to have fun. Nothing like hitting a corner with 100 rear derailleurs whirring inches apart and everyone comes out clean. Quite the rush. Having a no dab day in a mountain bike race. A ride where I descend like Tomac and climb like Overend. Grin factor multiplied.

Lately I have trimmed down my racing to an odd mountain bike race and my yearly punishment at the 24 hours of Great Glen. I wish I had the time to go to more 24 hour races. I would like to try one solo sometime. Dark-thirty in the woods can create some interesting times and test my mettle. Exhaustion and the shadows from the bike lights almost create serious flashbacks to my undistinquished and over indulgent past.

The photo at the top is a shot of a bike race here in Springvale at the turn of the century. No, not 2000. The previous century you nimrod. Smartass.

Thanks Dad

Tom Stormcrowe pm'd this to me in the Bike Forums awhile back. It is indeed an unerving picture from high in the clouds of my business location. My building is just to the left of the red drop with the letter "A" in it. My front door is directly across from the 3rd parking spot .

The image conjures up all kinds of secret agent 007 NSA black helicopter scenarios. I wait anxiously for Gene Hackman to come into my bikeshop soon and tell me to stop using my cell phone. They know where I am. Of course having my street address on file with the IRS would probably do without all this eye in the sky type fussing about. But we all know the secret black ops folks have serious budgets to use up.

I expect the smart bomb to hit any moment now. I am sure General "at the moment in charge" Beefneck has signed off on the mission and Delta Force type dudes wearing black are camped out on the bank roof next door aiming a targeting laser at my front window. Tomorrow I will come to work and find a 40 foot deep crater where my shop used to be. Per usual for this type of surgical strike, the target was not in the building but 3 dogs, a cat and a family of four were.

Since yesterday was my dad's birthday, there was some residual memory left over today when I started with this picture from orbit. Early in his Air Force career, my dad was assigned to aerial recon. Flying around in open cockpit planes, I imagine him with a pad of cheap grade school paper and some crayons. But the reality was his group were the first to develope effective camera shots of the ground below. But contrary to my dad's wishes, his natural managerial abilities bumped him up and out of the nuts and bolts part after only a couple of years. He always regretted that. Yeah, he was promoted. But the aerial photography was the one thing he really loved about his 31 years in the Air Force.

Anyway Dad, I hope wherever you are, or even that if you are, you can appreciate what has evolved from your early efforts taking pictures from a bi-plane with a Brownie. Back in the days when you not only lived by the words "Dead Reckoning" but could also die by them. I loved your tales of being lost and using telephone lines to find a town, any town. Or the several plane crashes you walked away from. Landing on roads, fields, anywhere flat enough to plop a troubled plane.

After Note - Before I punch the publish button and forever have to live with what I have written, I always do an edit read. And no matter how well I dissect the drivel, I always miss something. I guess my posts are akin to those fancy Persian rugs. Perfect except for one flaw left in to indicate no one or thing is perfect. Sounds good to me. I think I'll go with that.

Tourist Trap

May 1st. A day of importance all over the World. Different things are celebrated, remembered or cursed.

May 1st is my dad's birthday. Well, it would be his birthday if he was still kicking. Now it has become a day to celebrate his life, remember him fondly, and then follow it all up with some mild cursing and calling him names. As the years pass, the negatives seem to fade and the remembered fondly shine brighter. I miss that old goat.

The picture may seem to have little to do with my dad. If you were as inside this joke as I am, you would understand it's meaning and signifigance. My dad loved jokes like this. Especially the wooden lobsta pot. He would always chuckle when he saw a car from Mass, NY, or some other place heading south on the Turnpike with one or two of these seaweed stinking beauties strapped to the roof.

His appreciation of Yankee ingenuity and humor increased with the sale of each one to folks from away. They would use them for a coffee table base. They might become a lawn ornament for that ocean motif they had planned in the back corner of their suburban postage stamp yard. Or they were destined to be given to friends they did not like much. Who knew? Who cared what they did with them? All the contrary old lobsta men knew was they were damn easy to get rid of if they was piled next to the road with a hand painted sign on them that said, "Bonafide Maine Lobsta Traps for Sale. $5 each. 2 for $10".

My dad was not born in Maine. But he belonged here. I think he truly enjoyed his last years on this planet as a resident of Maine. He had his huge yard. He had his drop by drinking buddies. And he had his privacy. Folks up here don't get nosy or too friendly without an invite. He liked that. And so do I. That's one reason I stayed.

Thongs for the Memory

Yeah, I am still playing with that search engine on Photobucket. I was bored this AM, or maybe not quite awake yet. I figured some visual stimulation might jump start my day. So I typed in "Thong". 100,000 images of sweet young things wearing a string and a smile might just get my day moving. Poor man's porn. Know what I mean?

Problem is only 5,498 images popped up. Throw out the repeats and what I ended up with was a paltry 4,000 or so distinct images to pick from. Cull out all the buffalos wearing thongs, weed out the ad graphic images of thongs with nothing in them, and don't waste my time with silly shots of thongs on heads, on pets, cars or rhinos. What I ended up with was hardly a Penthouse worth of succulent young butts barely street legal. Jeez, I'da had better luck looking under the mattress.

What's up with that? I did a search the other day on "mirror" and 98,000 something images popped up. But try to find a picture of something we know is always on us Zippers' minds and what I get barely makes me yawn.

As a matter of fact, the lead in image was not even there. Or if it was, it was buried deeper than I was willing to go. I lost interest at image number 1,000 or so. Hmm. Some would say I should get a life. This is it I guess. This is my existence. Cruising through pictures from other folk's lives hoping to enhance mine.

I'll get bored and find something new and even more meaningless to add meaning to my life. And I do apologize for the god awful title. I am having a particularily goofy Monday.

Gnarly Dudeness

When I imagine myself out there riding my bike, I often come up with this dude to represent me in the dreams. He is fast. Real fast. Get out of this guy's way. He is no wheel sucker.

Yeah, I have a vivid imagination, even after 55 years of serious reality. The problem I have now is I realize the dream is just that. While fun when lost in the contemplation of Gnarly Dudeness, the reality is more like the clown on the right. I ride with the heart of the bad ass cyclist and the butt I inherited from Aunt Helen.

As sad a picture as I represent out on the highways and byways of Maine these days, it is my imagination that keeps me coming back to this great sport. I have been that guy. I am now this guy. But the one thing that runs true through both lives is my absolute dedication to cycling.

Sidewalk Art

Ever feel like this guy looks? My recent battle with sinus troubles and the annual Spring explosion at the bike shop make this sidewalk art piece an excellent rendition of how my last 2 months have been going.

About the time I really start crying in my beer, I run across someone else who is more of a suffering bastard than I am. Their trials and tribulations make mine nothing but the whining of someone who has become too comfortable. And now has to deal with a headache and a few more hours at work.

It is so easy to get completely wrapped up in the negatives of my own trip. I fail to notice that in the scheme of things important, I am one lucky buckaroo. So far all the truly bad events that could or should cross my path have missed and settled into someone else's life. It is a shame I sometimes have to be slapped into awareness of my good fortune by the tough times that visit others. That using their misfortunes somehow diminishes mine.

So, this is really an upbeat post. Believe it or not.

Appearance is Everything

A double treat today. I could not decide which to post. So, here are both.

Most folks consider bike duds to be fringe lunacy. Why anyone would want to wear skin tight anything when the skin being held tight might be better off behind a curtain with pleats. Lots of pleats? Yet, we cyclists insist on sullying up the scenery with our outlandish garb and traffic congesting mode of travel. The fellows in the line up here represent a very fine example of whacky team garb design. They point up exactly why we cyclists and our clothing are held up to ridicule. What is up with the crotch accenting red ending up just under the chin anyway? Their outfits scream, "Look at my crotch, and now follow the line to my head." Or, "Look at my head , and now follow the line to my crotch".

Gotta love the cyclist. No one does it worse than we do.


I have become numb and now ignore all the jokes made at my expense when caught out in public by a non-cycling friend or the occaisional obnoxious redneck. All the homophobic comments, the "all you need is some clown paint" clever digs. I don't hear them anymore.

It was worse 20 years ago when I squeezed into that first pair of crotch hugging lycra shorts. I was new to it and there were noticeably less folks out there looking silly in skin tight bicycle duds. But I wore them anyway. I have always been a function over form kinda guy. If something works, I tend to go with it. Lycra shorts work. They decrease the discomfort and increase the pleasure when I decide to punish my ass with a 3 or 4 hour ride.

Anyway, back to what is important. Appearance. How we look to others. Doesn't matter how well we do as long as we look good doing it.

I gaze into the casket at the same time Aunt Martha does. She speaks to the wrinkled up codger laying therein.. "You was a contrary old fart, but didn't they make you look good? You ain't looked this good in 30 years. You also ain't worn a suit for 30 years. Shoulda buried you in your overalls."

I smile at her, and she blurts, "What you looking at? I weren't talking to you. Move along now. Maybe some other old broad will be impressed. Someone smiles at me, I figure they's about to fart."

So I moved along. And considered the words she spoke. The guy's dead and all she can comment on is how they gusseyed him up? I could tell there was serious history left unsaid. I was probably lucky I was spared the punishment of hearing it.

Even in death, we are often judged by what we wear for that final trip.

Replaced by a Stranger

My recent fascination with images has me winding my way through hundreds, no, make that thousands of thumbnails in the huge cache of bitmaps and jpegs on the Photobucket site. Still relatively new to all this, I am always impressed with the new image counter. It is in the billions and always increasing.

I use their internal search engine with an arbitrary key word to begin some viewing pleasure. This morning I chose "mirror". 33,000 plus images were quickly made available. 33,000! The things folks waste time on. Taking a picture of themselves in a mirror has to rate a gold star for stupid narcissism.

But there you have it. No one is more impressed with themselves than themselves. And I noticed that if 10 pictures popped up, the majority were females engaged in some way in front of the mirror. Mirrors seem to be more gender specific than other basic self-gratification tools.

The mirror is a two edged sword. It can be used to pump us up or to let us down. I always hope on those rare occaisions when I peak at myself, that I will spot some magical improvement or positive change. And while I feel like the same guy who started out 55 years ago, I have been taken over by someone else who does not look a bit like me. It is a stranger looking back now.

I never used to bulge there. And that never sagged as much as that. What's up with the larger face anyway? And come on, that was always bigger than that, even when it was cold.

No, someone else inhabits my body now. Same mind, but different appendages. A kind of "Body Snatcher" scenario in reverse. Instead of snatching minds, they give us their throwaway bods and take our virulent young physical beings for themselves.

Collateral Damage

I had one chore on Monday. One thing the whole day was designed for. Making sure I was at Manchester Airport at 5:18PM to pick up my wife. She was flying in from North Carolina after a whirlwind drive down there to deliver a new/used car to my daughter.

My lovely wife is not the World's best traveler. Rather than allowing the inevitable problems of travel roll off her shoulders, she sucks them in and allows them to ferment. Waiting to explode upon the first poor slob who unwittingly creates that next straw. It was my turn yesterday.

Knowing this about her had the obvious affect on my Monday. The flow of my entire day was aimed at making this appointment. I went to the dump early. I took care of shop business and made the obligatory Monday contacts with a few vendors. I gusseyed up the house a tad to hide the bachelor mode I had been in these past 5 days. By 3:00 PM, I was in the truck and headed to Manchester. My day was on time.

Hitting the airport at 4:57 PM sharp, I parked in the A lot. At 5:03 PM sharp I was looking at the Arrival screen. Being 15 minutes early I was on target for an uneventful pick up.

Damn! Flight 7388 from Philly is delayed. It's new arrival time this impersonal screen tells me is now 7:18 PM. Just fucking Great! Not only do I have to sit here for 2 plus more hours, but so does my wife. And with each extra punishing minute in another airport, her demeanor and composure takes an incremental dive into the bucket called "shitty mood".

I head for the news stand. Grab a magazine. And then back to the truck to listen to Jimi Hendrix and wile away the time waiting for a plane with a bad ass wife on board. My anticipation was less than enthusiastic.

At 6:50 PM I head in to check the arrival screen. Double Damn! Not only is Philly #7388 late , it is later now. New arrival time is 7:37PM. I can feel my shoulders drop as I head back to the truck. This is not going to be a joyful ride home to Acton.

At 7:20 PM I decide sitting in the truck sucks. I head in. Who do I see coming at me full bore? That's right, the little woman. Only she looks much larger now. I want to cower and hide. But I can't. She had spotted me and had her patented "I hate your stinking self" look on her mug.

She had landed 15 minutes earlier. Not seeing my smiling face had topped off a very poor day with the airlines. As she laid into me, I resisted the urge to give as good as I got. I just opened the door to the truck, threw her bags in and got in and drove. Did not say a word other than, "Hungry?", the whole way home. Even our stop for grub passed without a word.

It mattered not that I had been where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be there. No consideration was given to the fact that US Air screwed her up and I did not. I was just there when the explosion happened. Collateral damage.

By Invitation Only

I did not have anything burning in my belly to rail about today. There was no picture that crossed the screen to loosen any creative juices. I decided to clean up some garbage and do some sweeping and dusting in the memory banks of this computer. I am soon to be firing up a new computer and it would be stupid to move the junk I never use here to the new digs. So uncharacteristically, I am stepping out of character and cleaning up.

Since blogging has recently caught my fancy again, I figured a good reaming of the older "favorites" in the bookmark section would be in order. I had not visited many of them since the day I honored them with a listing in my computer. Instead of deleting all, I opened each one and took a peak. Many had died from lack of interest. Many had changed their names to protect the innocent. And one, "That was Hardly Necessary" is now so exclusive, readers may enter by invitation only.

In a world where all the inhabitants seem to be clamoring for some recognition and are ecstatic to even find "U Suck" in their comment boxes, here is a blog that pretends to be so special you need a pass from the guy guarding the door. I envision a cybernetic velvet rope of sorts keeping the pressing masses from entering yet hoping to glimpse what is on the inside. That somehow, should we get to enter, some of the cool factor that permeates from every corner will rub off and our lives will be magically elevated to the hip and with it.

But then maybe the blog has stooped to some horrid new low that only attracts the scum and losers of this planet. And in keeping with their lower standards, they now must screen all who enter in order to weed out the normal among us. Considering the complete lack of any standards throughout the Internet, I find this idea implausible. I cannot think of anything so low and ghastly a google search won't turn it up.

So I left the exclusive site in my bookmarks. If only to remind me that while I wish someone would stop by, there are those who really don't care.

Jumbo

This piece of cutting edge heavy equipment from the 1920s was affectionately named "Jumbo". I came across it after doing a search on the word "*****" (Search word deleted to keep it suspenseful) on the Maine Images website. Without reading it's description, I attempted to guess it's function.

Obviously a wagon of some type, I showed my brilliance in deductive reasoning and figured it was used to haul something. Once over this safe leap of logic, I strained myself and considered what it's cargo might be. Something big and heavy that's for sure. Those reinforced larger rear wheels told me this wagon was meant to wear the over load banner. But considering the bed sat inside the wheels, the freight of this rig had to be heavy but not bulky.

That's as far as I got. I could not for the life of me consider what this might haul. It was not a wagon made for the road. They had trucks in the 20s. That this was farm equipment on steroids is all I could think of after some minutes closely regarding the picture.

Frustrated and I did have other things to do, I gave up and peeked at the answer. And you will too if you want to know what it is. Or you might be a idiot savant who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of wagons dating back to Rome. Either method will work.

What Goes Around Comes Around

This fine bike shop was located 50 feet from the front door of my current shop, CRUM Cycles. Fred Philpot ran the operation. Being a no nonsense Maine Yankee, he did not waste time anquishing over the name of his store. It is simply "Philpot's Store". This man was on the cutting edge of what was hot and what was not in the year 1900. A merchant extraodinaire.

My shop is in the building to the right and at the rear. Philpot's is no longer there. A common, small grassy area, a place for trees to grow exists in it's place. And has since his store burned down in the great Springvale Fire a couple of years after this picture was snapped. Have no worry for old Fred Philpot though. He had his fingers in many local pies. The store burning down was but a minor setback for Fred.

I love this picture for many reasons. It connects me and what I do to the long history of my area. I am part of a great American tradition. Several of them actually. Keeping the local cyclists, families, and occaisional gnarly dudes happy with product and service. Keeping the idea of entrepeneurship alive and well at it's root level. And last, I continue the legacy of being a pillar of my community. Albeit a small pillar. That's what my wife contends anyway.

Which brings up a new question. Just how would she know?

Taking Stock

I am entering my 9th season here at CRUM Cycles. After 8 years as the typically under capitalized mom and pop operation I would say making it this far has been a real struggle.

When I started this shop, I wrote the obligatory business plan. I made rosy predictions about 10% growth per year. I anticipated being in a new location that I would own not rent in 5 years. And I was sure true happiness and contentment would be easy and I took them for granted.

It is time to take stock. Time to weigh my optimism then against my reality now.

The business plan became toilet paper by my 3rd season. The economic downturn in our area following 9/11 caught me with my pants down. Business dropped 20% that season while my payables increased 35% from the previous season. I was over extended and that sick feeling in my gut from my previous failing effort in the bike business began to creep into my soul.

Thankfully, the earlier failure also taught me some valuable lessons in survival. I tightend my belt, dug in and rode it out. But the local economy has not bounced back from the boomtown ride of the 90s. We seem to be in a kind of holding pattern here in Springvale, Maine. Folks spend money, but are much more cautious now. Especially with their discretionary dollars. I hear this is a nationwide trend. I can only speak to my own experience. Combine the negative pressures of Internet Sales, and these last 5 years have been tough.

But I am still here. I am still offering bikes and repairs to my small corner of the World. I have not caved and gone whimpering back to the yoke of working for another man. I am still my own man. And though the financial rewards may not be up to what I expected, I am content. I have what I want.

My Sweet Daughter

I found this picture by chance last night in Photobucket.

This photo proves the "it's really a small world after all" idea. Of the billions of images available to me from Photobucket, just what were the chances I would run into my daughter performing what has to be one of the first slap stick routines we learn as small fry? Some fun never gets old. She is the the one on the right by the way. It is nice to see all that college tuition money has not been wasted.

She really is an intelligent, hard working grad student. And while she whines about not having enough time to have any fun, this picture indicates she is able to squeeze some in once in awhile.

I have not confirmed with her that this is a picture of her. But I know my kid. And if this sweet young lady is not, she should be. I deserve no less. I guess finding her on the web with her finger knuckle deep in her petite beak is better than coming across a shot of her with naughty bits exposed on some "Wild Co-eds on Vacation" site.

I haven't checked one of those sites out yet. Stay tuned.