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.

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.