Purgatory

Brace yourself. I know that it's hard to believe coming from me, but there's going to be some cynicism in this one.

A few days ago I left this Earth. For about 8 hours I found myself in a place of untold debauchery, where humans fulfill Hobbes' theory of them; wanting only for themselves. A place filled with transients of every niche of society, where people see right through you, and display the worst fashion senses ever created (shiny leather baseball caps and those stupid furry moon-boots). A place Rod Serling would've called the Twilight Zone. A place known to me as Atlanta Hartsfield Airport.

This is where I found myself, through some fault of my own and some fault of Mother Nature, stuck in a microcosm. Airports are unique places that bring out the worst in people. No one listens. Everyone is either waiting, in a hurry, pissed off or happy. Most of all, airports are like diapers; crapped in repeatedly. How can a place with so many people be so devoid of human contact? All I wanted to do is get to Ohio to see my family. If it weren't for human contact, I wouldn't be in this situation. Eight hours. A small price to pay after nearly three weeks without them. Allow me to chronicle for you my time in Atlanta.

10:40. Arrive. Go to bathroom to rid myself of the Starbucks I drank earlier and the germs I picked up on the plane. I bet many a plague have started on planes.
10:45. Determine flight has been canceled. Time to visit ticket agent and find out what to do.
10:50. Find ticket agent and am accompanied by 2 others in my situation. Agent tells me to pick up black phone at gate D24 and follow instructions. Book myself on the next flight to Dayton, but am accompanied to D24 by another guy who stares at me with longing eyes wondering if I would book his flight too. I tell him what the ticket agent already told us and he proceeds to talk to the recording on the black phone for a few minutes, "Hello...Hello..."
11:04. Starving I roll up to the bar at Chilli's. Time for some food and beer to counteract the Starbucks from earlier. I'm going on 3 hours of sleep in the last forty-eight and I've still got a long way to go. What's that smell...?
11:05. Realize that Chilli's is situated right next to the women's bathroom. I will have to eat with bathroom gnats circling my head and toilet smell (and not that of urinal cakes either) surrounding me. Only more beer will help deaden my senses.
11:55 -2:55. Read. Find out next flight is also cancelled. Read some more. Walk half a mile to next gate A28 and next bar, ironically called Chilli's Too.
3:00. Crown and coke. Nope, make it a double. Longing for human contact, I decide to text the only three people I know.
3:25. Prayers are answered! A return text and a dude, who without me asking, informs me he is from Harrisburg, PA and proceeds to strike up a conversation. Not one who is much for small talk, I go with the tried and true airport question, "where ya headed?" To which his response is, "Harrisburg, PA!" Of course Geoff, we're in Atlanta now you moron. The alcohol must have really been kicking. Time to order another. Make it a double CC and Seven.
3:40. Harrisburg Pete's chips and bean dip arrive and he insists that I share it with him. I'm thinking, "But Pete, we've just met and sharing bean dip is like making it to second base. Besides, you're double-dipping!" I decline. This guy is really creeping me out now. Feign interest in his story, choke down my whiskey, and escape for my life.
4:00. Find out flight has been delayed until 4:55. Find bathroom to rid my kidneys of what I've just imposed on them. To my horror, see a man in his mid-fifties in tighty-whities and black socks changing by the sink. Socks in an airport bathroom. Enough said. Did I mention he was wearing...
4:55. Finally board plane and literally have the last seat, which is okay by me. I'll just get comfortable and finally fall asleep. Considering all I've been through and the ripping buzz I have, it should be no problem, save for the smell. It seems that the gentlemen next to me must have also been to Chilli's for lunch, but instead of the mushroom-Swiss burger, he must have had a dog-shit sandwich instead. I found myself wishing that I could smell that airport bathroom again.
6:40. Finally make it home. Finally real human contact from those I love. Worth every minute.

The TSA

Having just travelled, I had the unfortunate pleasure of being reminded of one of our Nation's worst ills; inefficiency. As Americans, we take the grandest technologies of mass transit and summarily run it aground. Traffic chokes our roads, we scoff at alternate means of transport, and air travel is laughable. Airlines are morally and economically bankrupt. Flights and maintenance schedules are delayed. A trip that should take 2 hours now takes six. And to whom do we owe these inefficiencies? None other than the Transportation Safety Administration.

But, you say, the TSA keeps us safe. Don't you remember 9/11? Of course I do. I am reminded of it every day. The Patriot Act, Patriot Day, random unwarranted 'Orange Alerts'.

A voice comes over the announcing system: "The current threat level as determined by the Department of Homeland Security is Orange. You are reminded to report any suspicious activities immediately." Has anything ever sounded more Orwellian?

It is true that these are scary times in which we live. And while I love and enjoy the freedoms that I have as an American, at other times and for other things, I am embarrassed. This is one of those things.

Dear TSA,

Please let me thank you for the treatment I received by your courteous and highly trained staff. Thankfully I didn't bring anything with me on this trip, so I won't have to wait too long or in too many lines. I wouldn't want to have to pay extra to have my belongings. I'll just skip right to the next line and spill my remaining belongings into the X-ray machine. Whoa, how'd that deodorant and water bottle get in my carry-on? Those could be bombs. Guess I'll buy more later. At least you let me keep my lighter, box-cutter, and switchblade.


I was also greatly relieved to find out that I'd only have to remove my shoes. I was fully prepared to take off my pants too. I guess exploding pants haven't been invented yet. I was so pleased at this that I didn't even mind getting groped either. Your gropers must be trained masseuses. The gentleman's hands were as soft as warm-buttered dinner rolls straight from the oven. Thank you for that. Our nation is safer in your professionally outfitted, minimum wage making, smoke break taking hands.


Yours very truly,
Geoff

Truth is, I don't feel any safer. The TSA is nothing more than chewed bubble gum stuck in the dam. A Band-Aid on a compound fracture. Where is my tourniquet?

2FTCHOP

I saw this license plate a few weeks ago and it reaffirmed something for me. You see, 2-foot chop refers to something that South Carolina surfers deal with on a regular basis.

I couldn't have been more stoked to move and live near an ocean. The prospect of spending the day at the beach, surfing and baking like a Rock Lobster, had appealed to me since being introduced to it by my brother-in-law years ago. I envisioned every beach on the East Coast being like those of the Outer Banks where I first learned to surf. A constant wave machine pumping out sizable waves that beg to be ridden. Not so.

South Carolina is a slop-machine with the wave pumping action of Lake Erie. The opposite of anything resembling good surf. Yet for 4 years, I religiously called the Folly Beach surfline to hear, "...and winds are out of the NW at 5-10 kts with waves averaging less than a foot and choppy." Still, I religiously slung my board on my car, blasted Weezer, and drove to the beach. With visions of North Shore in my head, I religiously raced over the 25th street dune only to find ankle slapping slop waiting for me on the other side. In fact, I did this so much that I joked that surfing was my religion. I felt a bit of pride knowing that while others sat in church, I sat on my board. My pride soon turned to frustration.

One can only take so much 2-foot chop. Lugging your board to and from the beach. Cleaning sand out of everything. Dodging the lineup and hordes of tourists. And the locals. You would think that the Washout was Oahu the way they act out there. Hey bra, your localism sucks. The frustration.

While I still love the ocean, I've since moved on. Found a new passion. I ride bikes instead of boards. I used to think that a bad day of surf beat a good day at work. Now my worst day on the bike is as good as a good day surfing. Top that. Now my 10-foot Orion just hangs in my garage, occasionally seeing the light of day and that lame 2-foot chop.

Return

Lance returned and the 2009 cycling season kicked off this past week in Adelaide, Australia for the Tour Down Under. Before the groans begin about Lance's return, hear me out. I too was and still am skeptical about his return. His motivation. His reasoning. His Global Cancer Initiative. I don't question his Initiative; he has everything to gain. I do question his motivation. Is this really why he came back? If he doesn't win, does that mean the skeptics will say "I told you so, Lance was doping before?" He has everything to lose.

Whatever his reasoning, this is good for cycling. Anything to make cycling a headline again for the right reasons. Not doping. Not bickering between the UCI and ASO. Cycling. Some say he should step aside and let the Contadors and Schlecks of the world have their moment. This is crap. Let the best athlete win. I want to see the best competition possible. I think Lance saw the competition and the clean racing and thought he could still win. I think he's right. So it begins.

2009 will be a huge year for cycling. From now until the Tour of California, the spring classics, and the Grand Tours, it is going to be awesome. It's going to be huge for me too. I plan on doing more rides and races than before. While my fitness level probably isn't where it should be at this time, I have high hopes. I've moved up to the CAT 4s and have renewed confidence in myself after some good showings last year. Gonna leave it on the table. Here's what is on tap:

2/15 Myrtle Beach Marathon Metric Century (benefit ride)
3/14-3/15 Columbia Crits (race)
3/22 Wholly Cow Century (benefit ride)
4/5 After the Bridge Run Century (ride)
4/18-4/19 LCVW Race Weekend (race)
4/29 USA Crits Speed Week Walterboro (race)
7/18 Troy Classic (race)
7/19 Tour d'Burg (race)
7/26 Team Dayton Renaissance Park Crit (race)
9/19 Tour de Tuck (mountain century, date tentative)
9/20 Vista Grand Prix
9/26-9/27 Beaufort Crit and Road Race (race)

You can see it's a big schedule. I'd like to add a race here or there and maybe switch it up a bit. Of course I will keep you posted.

Batchin' It

Been living in it up as a virtual bachelor for just on a week now and what a life. Partying all night, drinking, lounging around in my underwear while my house degrades into a cesspool of filth. Yep, this is the life. Err..., um..., wait..., not so much.

Anytime my family leaves town, I have all of these grandiose plans for what I will do with my time; ride my bike for miles, go hangout downtown or at the beach, go to new places and just do whatever. These activities usually last about a day and a half, after which, my life turns to extreme boredom, loneliness, and complacency. I miss them. I've watched so many movies this week I can hardly stand it. Anything to pass the time until I can see them again. The fact is that I am not in college. I don't particularly enjoy drinking anymore, I have a job and a house to maintain, it's too cold to ride much, and all the things that sounded like fun before just aren't without someone to share in them.

Just another week to stave off. A few more days to kill and a couple of days off from work in between. Perhaps I'll make something of those days. Take a break from the rigors of bachelordom and do something with my time. Then back to toiling about; work, sleep, wake up, and sit around. Just one more week.

Alltel...you are NOT the father!

When a company does me wrong, I feel like telling people about it. I want to spread my hate and discontent for these companies across all avenues so that others don't suffer the same fate. That's Badvertising. For the most part, big corporations in this country have us by the taint. By virtue of having no real choices, most of us turn to large companies for one thing or another. When we're looking to get a quality product or service at a reasonable cost, we buy their stuff. When we need help with their product, we turn to them. When we turn to them, we get screwed. We get to talk to a computer and put on hold only to end up speaking to someone in India about our problem. We get smacked with mountains of taxes, surcharges, and fees that are passed on to us. We get frustrated.

It is because of this that I start another series of posts about firing large corporations that "work for you". It is here that I will chronicle my grievances in letter format and spread my word of fire. It is liberating. To be free of paying for substandard products and service and then to do everything in your means to verbally trash those who are responsible. So it begins. I give you Alltel.

Have you heard this annoying little jingle, "Come and get your love"? If you have, you'll probably recognize it as Alltel's. And if by 'love' Alltel means screwed, lied too, and ripped off, then 'come and get it'.

Dear Alltel,

Thank you for allowing me to purchase a cell phone plan from you. It was gracious of you to give me the phone for free and contractually obligate me for 2 years. I find it wonderful that you ration my minutes and restrict my areas of calling. I am finally free of the chains that bind and land lines. Please also accept my re-activation fee after you lost my address and failed to bill me. My bad.

Thankfully your representatives at my local branch, which by the way, are as numerous as cockroaches, were oh so helpful. They were even willing to give (err, illegally contractually obligate) my wife a new phone when hers stopped working. Luckily I was able to resolve this little issue. What was I thinking? I don't have the means to take on such a large corporation. Please step on my nuts for another year and a half. I'll wait it out. I can take it.

Now my time is up and we must part ways. I won't be continuing my service with you now or ever. Please accept this letter as thanks and an end to our friendship. May your company suffer a slow and painful death as you rot outside the gates of Hell.

Sincerely,

Geoff

On a personal note, I hate cell phones. Drivers with cell phones, phones on belts, and incessantly loud cell phone talkers. You are not important.

Soaked. Nothing left.

Got the family packed up and sent off for their pilgrimage to the Motherland yesterday. I'll be joining them in a few weeks, but until then I thought I'd take the day and join a few others in putting in some winter miles. The forecast: Low 60's, 10-20 mph winds, and rain. Perfect except for the wind and rain. I despise wind and rain, but I really hate the cold. Couple the three and you have a recipe for misery. But winter is here and the miles won't wait. Enter the rain bike.

There's a funny thing about riding in the rain. It makes you feel alive. The water streaming down your face and off of your bike, rooster tails of spray coming from the wheel in front of you making it difficult to see and breathe. Makes you feel like you're in Paris-Roubaix; like a warrior. And I must say, with 20 miles in, I was feeling pretty good. The effects of Saturday's ride were wearing off. Soreness and stiffness had left the legs. I can do this. 20 more miles and things were about to change.

"So you comin' back to the islands with us?" my comrades asked. Turn down miles? Me? The prospect of extra miles was tempting. Cold was setting in and I was feeling the ill-effects. The thought of continuing this affair was leaving me. "We'll see," I sighed. I was giving in already and we hadn't even turned the corner. Hadn't even seen the headwind. Maybe I'll go half way with them. Ten miles to go. We turned the corner.

A stiff headwind was now staring us in the face. Water was all over the road. We weren't even pushing the pace and my feet felt like cinder blocks, my legs like wood. I took a short pull. The anchors attached to my legs were doing nothing. I dumped it onto the smaller chainring, that'll help. Nope. Pull over and let somebody else take it. On second thought guys, why don't I just ride back to my place. You know, put in one more pull and leave it at that. I bid them adieu and thanked them for the ride. I regret not going back with them. I had to get the chill out of my body, feeling back in my feet, some power back in my legs.

I had nothing left.

Atomic Dog

In the forest, in battle, in the midst of arrows, javelins fire
Out on the great sea, at the precipice's edge in the mountains
In sleep, in delirium, in deep trouble
The good deeds a man has done before defend him

J. Robert Oppenheimer quoting

Hindu scripture just prior to

the Trinity Explosion

Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds

J. Robert Oppenheimer quoting

Hindu scripture, The Bhagavad-Gita,

upon witnessing the Trinity Explosion

Morocan Chicken with flatbread

I love to eat. I also love to cook. When I eat well, I am satisfied and when I cook well, I satisfy others. So it makes sense for me to share successful cooking ideas and recipes with you. This is my first in a series of what I would consider home cooked gourmet food. Not everyday food. I will try to refrain from using measurements (as I try not to do this while cooking) and to keep it simple. Enjoy.

Moroccan Chicken.
This is super-simple. The cinnamon and chicken make for an unlikely duo. Prepare the flatbread while the chicken stews. Serve with Basmati or Jasmine rice.

Season 4-6 chicken thighs with cracked pepper, sea salt, ginger, and cinnamon.
Sear for 4-6 minutes in olive oil. Turn over and add a chopped onion, 3 cloves chopped garlic add enough chicken broth to cover the chicken half-way and allow to boil.
Add green olives, the zest of a lemon and simmer 1 hour until sauce thickens and meat is tender.

Flatbread.
This is an excellent compliment to this and Indian food as well. It also makes a great wood fired pizza crust.

Add a package of yeast, a teaspoon each of salt, sugar, and thyme (or oregano for pizza crust) to 1 cup of whole wheat flour and 3/4 cup of white flour.
Blend in a food processor while adding enough water to just form a ball.
Remove and need until smooth. Lightly coat in olive oil and allow to rise in a warm place for 1 hour.
Beat down and form into small balls. Roll into desired sizes and grill for 3 minutes per side.

Plate the chicken on a bed of rice and top with the thickened sauce.

Immaculate Consumption

Ever look at the trash you generate? How about the products you consume? Consider the over 6 billion people on this planet; has there ever been a larger plague than Homo Sapiens? I think not.

Each week I roll out a solid 200lbs. of trash from my modest household to the curb. Yes, 200 lbs. of solid waste. Coupled with the gallons of gas and water, thousands of kilowatts of power, and pounds of food eaten and my house is literally a factory of filth. I'm sure that I fall somewhere near the "average American household" when it comes to this. Some use more, some less. But what I do know is that humans, particularly those in advanced societies, are filthy animals.

That's right. We're filthy and we're animals. Plowing, crushing, burning, dumping, wasting, and leaving for dead anything on Earth. For what? Entertainment, comfort, pleasure, transportation, and to a lesser degree, necessity. I cite specifically humans in advanced societies as we are so uber-evolved that most of us have switched from worrying about needs to focusing on wants. We crap in our own water supply for God's sake! It makes one wonder how much longer the Earth will put up with us or how much longer we will let it. We are clearly a product of this planet. Formed from it. Though seemingly infinite, its resources are limited and it is only a matter of time before we're pimp-slapped back into our place as a species.

I'm not one of these tree hugging, patchouli wearing greenies. I don't:
--drive a Hybrid (which are more damaging than conventional vehicles)
--buy organic foods or grow my own (though I'd like to someday)
--ride my bike to work (another thing I'd really like to do, except riding on highways is nuts)
--go out of my way to be environmentally conscious, but I do make an effort to recycle, and nothing goes to waste in my house.

Even so, every Tuesday I roll out my stamp on Mother Nature.