It's the best I could do

Persistence of Memory

2012-01-16T17:56:00.000-08:00

Reincarnation is possible. Not the karma-driven reincarnation that Buddha would have you believe, but chemically driven reincarnation. The kind where your collection of chemicals reassemble themselves again to regain consciousness. As Sagan put it, your "star stuff" can again become self aware. It happened once, and though extremely improbable, it can happen again.

Why do I ponder such improbabilities, and if it's so improbable, why do I care? The answer is both simple and contradictory: time. I seemingly have had all the time in the world to allow my mind to wander far enough to arrive at this conclusion, yet I have very little time to do anything about it or to capitalize on my existing self-consciousness (life). I run, and lately, I have been doing a lot of it. The majority of my running happens several hours before dawn, in a pain tunnel devoid of humans, with clear views of the Universe, a few families of deer, and the occasional coyote. The perfect venue to let my mind contemplate such obscurity.

Like it or not, all organisms are just ensembles of highly organized and complex chemicals, proteins, and electrical impulses working together for a specialized purpose: life. Through millions of years, evolution has made us into the most advanced form of life ever known. When we die, it will only take fractions of frames in the cosmic calendar to reduce us back into our chemical constituents. In the process, our carbon, nitrogen, phosphorus, oxygen, and sulfur are returned to Earth. We are dirt. Worm food; to be reused or taken up by other organisms; to remain useless bits of nondescript material tucked away in a pocket of the Universe never to be touched again; to be recycled into a polyethylene plastic bottle, or in the unquantifiably slight circumstance, to have your chemicals reassemble into life. And even less likely, to return to life as Homo Sapiens. Except this time, it is no longer you.

Herein lies the most painful and disturbing part: except for regaining consciousness, becoming self-aware, and being human, you have no notion of your previous existence. Chemicals have no memory. You owe your current existence to an infinitesimally small chance. You are you because planets aligned. Pure chance. For you to come into being again (in any form) would require overcoming equal or greater odds. Even so, assume your chemicals in all their complexity are able to reassemble into human form. Now further assume that this reassembly happens in the very next generation. You are reborn into a world which still contains your friends, loved ones, and your offspring. You potentially walk the Earth side by side with the very same people that you brought to be; though you (and they) would never know it.

No recollection. No memories of your previous life. Nothing.

Having made it this far, you should consider yourself one of the lucky ones. Perhaps if you are really lucky, your star stuff will be reborn into that plastic water bottle; leaching yourself into its contents to be ingested by another human, made part of their DNA, and passed on to their offspring (and for your sake, I hope this person isn't a total douche bag).

...but chances are that this is the only shot that you'll get. You will only live on through the memories of others, and even then, for only a generation or two. Your life is in their memories. Make them count.

Frog Poaching

2011-01-17T18:34:00.000-08:00

There's a parable out there that goes something like this: If you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, it will jump out. However, a frog in a pot that is gradually heated will be peacefully unaware of its surroundings and will be cooked alive. This metaphor often finds use in describing a reaction to change. Abrupt changes are met with an immediate response, while gradual changes, playing on our innate ability to forget and acclimatize, often go unnoticed. Not being one to accept things at face value, I decided to put this to the test; not metaphorically, but literally.

My local pet store was more than willing to oblige; PetSmart was running a special on Northern Leopard frogs at $14.99, buy one get one free! Perfect. Two frogs in the bag and I was on my way, but not before the clerk tried to sell me on a small terrarium for my two little buddies. She seemed overly concerned that these two find a good home. Not wanting to blow my cover, I reassured her that I had just the place for them.

I rushed home with Hippity and Hop, as I had named them, riding shotgun. As I drove, I began to formulate the method for my experiment. I would begin by testing the second part of the anecdote; Hippity was going in first. He was quite at home in four inches of room temperature water and a pasta-pot, but homeboy knew something was up as soon as I cranked on the burner. The gig was up and Hippity was having none of this. No longer sitting on the bottom, he swam around the pot faster and faster as the temperature rose until finally climbing up the side and leaping out. That wasn't supposed to happen!? Like any good experimenter and wanting to ensure that this was no fluke, I repeated the test, this time with Hop. No difference (though Hop proved to be a trooper--that little bugger lasted way longer than I thought he would before bailing)!

Hop had the extreme misfortune of being first up in the boiling pot part of the experiment. I set the burner on high and got a solid rolling boil going. After I was sure that the water was heated uniformly, it was time for Hop to perform his best Greg Louganis impersonation. Plop--in he went! I stood back, half expecting a scalding frog to come jumping back at me. Not so much. Hop gave a few kicks but the temperature proved too much for him. He nearly instantly went stiff as the life fizzled from him. By the time I got him off of the burner and out of the water, he was all puffed up like an amphibian pierogi or something. Weird!

Even weirder was the outcome; the results of my experiment were completely contrary to that of the parable. Who knew? So, the next time that jerk in your office uses this stupid analogy, you can tell him how I dispelled that myth. As for Hippity, I opted to return him to the store. What was I going to do with a frog anyway? They give me the creeps. Someone else can get some enjoyment out of a slightly used $7.50 Northern Leopard frog.

Mind Blow

2011-01-08T19:01:00.001-08:00

How about a not so little thought experiment? One that will leave you not only questioning your being, but the existence of everything that there ever was.

Take the smallest things in the known universe; the molecules, atoms, protons, quarks, bosons, muons, and those that are still not known. Now grow them into peptides, proteins, RNA, and DNA capable of replicating themselves in cells which divide and multiply to form life-forms of all kinds, some with seemingly infinite complexity. This is you (though you probably don't think of yourself this way). You (we) are nothing but an assemblage of chemicals that have gained consciousness of themselves and their surroundings; having gained consciousness, we are able to think, ration, and reason. Formed from the Universe's common elements, we have come to dominate the tiny dust spec that we inhabit. Because of our self-consciousness and our pretend dominance of Earth, we deem ourselves kings of our dominion. The one and only intelligent being. Masters of the Universe. Humble yourself. Look skyward.

Those dots you see are other stars. Starting to feel small? If you live in the right area, you may see what appears to be a strip of clouds. That is an arm of the ten billion year old Milky Way, our Galaxy, and there are many like it in our Universe. It is even suggested that there are many universes! Fifteen billion years ago events, as we know them, were set into motion that lead to life as we know it. Though it likely exists, the laws of physics may prevent us from ever knowing if life exists elsewhere (it likely does--although it may not be as we know it).

Why did it happen? Where did the original matter for the Universe come from? What was going on before that? When does it end? Where does it end? What about the other universes? Can we find another suitable place to continue our menial and ultimately doomed existence?

It has taken us about five billion years to get here, and if our species lasts that long, we will have about five billion more to figure it out. It will take our descendants 30,000 years to travel to what is thought to be the next nearest habitable corner of the Universe. The odds that we would come to exist were staggering, but the odds of something like us not existing somewhere else are even more staggering, but can we make it there?
Suddenly our understanding and mastery of our surroundings seems horribly lacking. Pathetic.

Ohio: A picture montage

2010-09-11T16:48:00.000-07:00

Fate

2010-08-18T09:56:00.000-07:00

I killed a black snake today; I know, terrible isn't it? I like snakes, but this one happened to be six feet long and was meandering slowly along my winding route home. As a general rule, I do not swerve to miss animals and don't get in my way when I'm driving home from work. I'm pretty sure that I got it with both tires, though I don't think it died quickly.

As I drove away, I could see it writhing in pain in my rear view mirror. Flopping and twitching on the hot tarmac, this snake was destined to suffer a fate of: slowing being cooked on the South Carolinian asphalt, being eaten by buzzards, possums, or wild boars, or getting the mercy-kill from another passerby. I contemplated turning around and doing the latter myself, but that would've delayed me from getting away from work as quickly as possible. So as I raced for home, my contemplation soon shifted to that snake's fate. That snake was snuffed out early.

While I don't think wild animals' life expectancy is anything like that of domestic animals, I doubt that Mr. Black Snake awoke on this morning thinking "today is a good day to die." In fact, I'm sure it was quite the opposite. One wrong move and nature's course of history was changed forever, but are we that different from the snake? Sure, we're our own sort of wild-domesticated animal; engrained with preserving ourselves, but no longer hell-bent on survival. We're all going to die sometime and hopefully we can make our peace beforehand, but what if we happen to be as unlucky as the black snake?

I first became aware of my fate at a young age. I pulled the string on my sister's explanation of the dinosaurs' extinction and the ball quickly unraveled. I wasn't going to be six years old forever and, as it turns out, I wasn't even going to be around forever. I've recently become more conscious of my own mortality and, quite frankly, it sucks. I'm never going to get to do all of the things that I want to do. At some point, my being will abandon those that I love and leave them with only memories.

Live life to its fullest, leave nothing to chance, and have no regrets.

The Piedmont Triad: An omnium in four acts

2010-08-15T18:47:00.000-07:00

I'm a little late in reporting on this, so rather than boring the three people that read this blog with details (details which I have largely forgotten at this point), I will briefly summarize my weekend in four acts. Not so coincidentally, The Piedmont Triad Omnium is a great weekend of four races in and around the small, barbecued town of Lexington, NC. The Omnium, which benefits local charities, has grown since my first participation two years ago, and continues to be one of my favorite races and venues. Here goes.

Criterium
Your basic rectangular course, wide streets, and a nice little uphill through the start/finish; very straight forward. Leave it to the race organizers to throw some twists: a nighttime crit with just enough rain to make the roads really greasy. Racing in the dark was actually pretty cool--the greasy streets were not. The bike's rear end was getting a little squirrelly in the bumpy turns, but I was able to hold it together. I sat in the front of the field most of the race and managed to avoid some early carnage, but wasn't so fortunate on the final lap. The peloton was bombing hard into the final turn and two guys in front of me went down hard. I lost only a few spots, but I was stood up behind them in way too big of a gear and I was totally gassed; so gassed I didn't (couldn't) even sprint. Though I was still able to finish sixth, in retrospect, the crash and lack of sprinting probably cost me a top five in the overall.

Time Trial
The time trial (or TT) is often referred to as the "Race of Truth"; sometimes the truth hurts--this was one of those occasions. Having never done a TT before, I wasn't sure what to expect. All that I kept hearing was, "it's going to hurt" and "just go out and make yourself hurt." Okay, I guess I can do that. Fortunately, a friend let me borrow his TT bike, otherwise it may have been even uglier. At the four miles point, I was making some gains on the guy in front of me and feeling pretty good; feeling pretty good until being passed by my 30-second man, then my minute-man, and finally one more. I knew I was now conceding at least a minute-thirty to these guys, but no matter. I finally caught my lead-out, and knowing he was right behind me, motivated me to go even faster. Where I had been deflated earlier, now I was inspired--not even dropping my only water bottle would dissuade me now. I finished with a strong uphill and a sprint to the line for thirteenth. Not too horrible and not too good.

Street Sprints
This was another interesting first for me. Start from a dead stop, sprint 300 meters up a slight incline, and if you finish high enough, you get to do it again! Did I mention that the "World Famous" Hooters' Girls hold you and your bike at the start? Okay, well my Hooterette had a little difficulty holding me and I damn near fell over. The concept was great, but having a chick two-thirds of your weight, wearing white Reeboks, leg-warmers, '80's-style pantyhose and who doesn't know their left from right trying to hold you is a bad idea. The track-stand start was by far the most nerve racking portion of the whole event. Though I didn't make it to the finals, I did advance to the second round for a ninth place finish and more points toward the overall. Timing for this event is everything and something that I won't forget for next time.

Road Race
I felt pretty good heading into the final event and with a good result, had a decent shot at finishing in the top five for the omnium. Having friends in a race can do a lot to ease your nerves, boost confidence, and motivate you. The plan, as we discussed in the hotel the night before, was to play it cool for two laps, attack on the final climb of the third lap, and work together for the next fourteen miles. Plans as crazy as this often work, particularly in the realm of CAT 4 racing, but you have to be both mentally and physically tough. After two laps, everything was going as planned (albeit for a bit of sketchiness on the first lap). The three of us (Joachim, Taylor, and myself) held strong positions near the front and then it happened; an attack launched the base of the climb and Joachim had no choice but to go with it. In a second I had lost twenty places, my mental and physical spirit had been broken and I was being unhitched at the back. I spent the next five miles trying to close a 200-yard gap to the peloton and teetering on the brink of quitting. I finally regrouped and started pulling myself back together. Disappointed as I was to not be able to stick with the break, I knew that within the remaining group, I would have a good shot at the field sprint; but it was going to mean that I wouldn't do any work until I had fully recovered. So that's what I did. Sixth place. Good enough for twenty bucks and good enough for seventh in the omnium.

We finished out the weekend riding through the Triad in the blistering heat (I'll spare you the details of such lackluster towns as High Point and Thomasville) and then hanging out with the team. Overall one great time.

The Run Hug

2010-07-14T14:01:00.000-07:00

Anyone with kids knows the Run Hug. It goes like this: walk in the door, heads turn, followed by a pause and a moment of recognition, then a mad-dash ensues to see who can be the first to wrap their arms around your neck and wring out the love. Prepare for it and you'll likely squat down, recieve it with open arms, and be bowled over by it. Let it catch you off guard, and you'll likely be taken out at the knees, climbed like a tree, and then bowled over. Either way, it is the singular act the can wash away an entire bad day of work, road rage filled commute, or just about anything else.

My dog even had her own form of the run hug. When I'd get home from the night shift and enter into a pitch black house, I'd hear the thump of Sam jumping off of our bed. This was followed by a sprint down the steps, a slip-sliding scurry across the kitchen floor, and a lunge for my necktie. Panting frantically and firmly latched on, she would wag and look at you with her sleepy eyes until satiated, and even then, had to be pried off.

A Pavlovian reflex of pure love. It has been two weeks since I've seen my family. I'm waiting for my run hug.

Norf@*k

2010-07-03T05:41:00.000-07:00

Long after the dust settles and intelligent life re-evolves on post-apocalyptic Earth, the future archaeologists will uncover a lost city of concrete and metal; a vast industrial wasteland. Among their finds will be empty Mickey's Cream Ale bigmouth "hand-grenades", fast food wrappers, those plastic Black and Mild cigar tips, and signs reading Norfolk, Virginia; my destination of the month.

Yes, Norfolk is a city long founded on the singular purpose of shipbuilding. Steel beaches surround as do the smells of diesel fuel, cigarette smoke, and dead fish. The city's limited green space abruptly and inevitably end in unkempt parking lots and its historic districts quickly transition into shanty towns. In my eyes, it seems as though the city's saving grace, its silver lining, is the food. Being a foodie, I can appreciate good eats, not pub slop, but really good food. Here's a sampling:

The Coffee Shop (High Street, Portsmouth, VA)
A simple name, a simple place, and quite possibly my favorite new breakfast sandwich. Raw peanut butter, granola, sliced apples, and organic honey on thick slices of whole grain bread; as simple and good as the shop itself (and their coffee is not bad either).

The Bier Garden (High Street, Portsmouth VA)
Okay, so by now you have figured out that High Street and surrounding areas are about all Portsmouth has to offer. Street names like High, Washington, and Court quickly and nostalgically bring me back to a special place, but let your mind and feet wander and you'll soon find yourself in a not so special place known as "The Parking District"--apparently a neighborhood (emphasis on hood) set aside for parking your car; hopefully it'll still be there when you return. Back to The Bier Garden. This Bavarian gem offers authentic and homemade German dishes like Spatzle, goulash, and bratwurst, not to mention a beer list of over 350 (predominantly German and Belgian) beers. This makes choosing just a few difficult, but certainly guarantees a return visit to try more. I will be back.

Empire Little Bar Bistro (Granby Street, Norfolk)
A buck-fiddy gets you a water taxi across the Elizabeth River from Portsmouth to Norfolk and to the end of Granby Street. Granby will lead you to the artsy college town of Ghent and en route, you will find Empire; a tapas restaurant and yet another locale befitting of its name. I pass on the bistro's eight tables and opt for a seat at the bar. While enjoying the setting and my pint of BBC Bourbon Barrel Stout, I am ill prepared for the meal that awaits: quite possibly the best I have ever eaten. For starters a cool and refreshing jicama and cucumber salad, follow that with Fillet atop a seared lemon and goat cheese risotto cake, then cap it with lamb wantons and a blueberry-jalapeño dipping sauce and you have a smile in every bite--which is exactly what I was doing.

Good food aside, Norfolk still rates as a dead end in my book--sorry Norfolkers (pronounced Norf...well, you know how it's pronounced).

The Prizefighter

2010-05-22T18:00:00.000-07:00

I have no business riding a mountain bike, much less racing one. Just to prove it, I entered the 6-hour Grind on the Greenway endurance race in Fort Mill, SC. Situated just south of Charlotte on the Anne Springs Close Greenway, the Grind featured a ten-mile loop of twisting, rooty and rocky singletrack, 800-feet of elevation gain per lap, two tunnels and a swing bridge. Ah yes, I would become intimately acquainted and nearly decapitated by said swing bridge (on a practice lap no less). Thankfully it would be my only run in with that bridge, but not my only crash; I had too many of those to count.

The first came not a quarter mile from the start when they guy in front of me went down on a patch of flagstones. I ran right over his bike and then landed on him for good measure. I could see that this would be the overwhelming theme of the day. Thankfully Taylor was waiting for me at the next turn. Though he wanted to ride together and be a good teammate, I told him to go on and not wait. We rode about half of the first lap together before getting separated by crashes and slower riders. At the end of the first lap, despite the many bumps and bruises, I felt pretty good. I was four minutes behind Taylor and was sure I wouldn't see him again.

It was then to my surprise that midway through the second lap I found Taylor hunched over a flat rear tire aside the trail. "Taylor!" I said excitedly. "Dude, I just about emasculated myself," he said. "You okay?" I inquired. "Yeah, I just gotta fix this flat." He didn't want me to wait. I passed him a tube and some CO2 and rode away. I was feeling pretty invigorated by this. I knew that he'd likely catch me and we could ride together again. Having company on the road or trail can do a lot to boost morale, but ironically I wouldn't see him again until I was on my death march. We passed like two ghosts in the night. I pitted to top off my water and grab some food and Taylor did the same; somehow we missed each other.

I was averaging just under an hour per lap, and at this rate, I'd log six very respectable laps. Very respectable and not very realistic. My hands we numbing and I hurt--in fact, I looked like Freddy Kreuger. (And since we're on the topic of bad 80's horror films, let me tell you what it's like getting chased down by some pro mountain bikers. All you hear is the rustling of branches behind you, shadows zipping through the woods, and then they're on you. Some Texas Chainsaw Massacre shit.) I had crashed more times than I could count, each one taking with it some flesh and some confidence until I started to doubt what I was doing. But know this: I got up every time; each time slower than the previous, mindlessly yet instinctively throwing my leg over the bar, clipping in, and pedaling like some punch-drunk old boxer. My pace had dropped off significantly and I needed a break.

After a quick break and half a PB&J, I set off on my fourth, and unbeknown yet to me, my final lap. The short rest helped immensely, but things were going terribly wrong. My body had rejected the food I just attempted to eat and, despite drinking nine liters of water, I hadn't peed yet. In fact, I had no urge to piss, my kit was all salted-up and I couldn't drink any more. I was toast after a quarter-lap. Slogging away as if in quicksand, head throbbing, and hallucinating; the classic bonk. I sought out a nice log to lay on, propped up the bike and tried to gather myself. After reassuring about ten passers-by that I'd be okay, I got back on my rig and continued on in earnest. Futility, stupidity, and survival.

I managed to pass Taylor heading in the other direction. "I'm done bro," I said, drooling on myself. I finished my fourth lap in four hours thirty minutes--plenty of time for a fifth and possibly the start of a sixth, but it wasn't meant to be. I've never felt so horrible on a bike before. I turned in my timing chip and spent the better part of the next half-hour shivering and dry-heaving in the fetal position next to Taylor's car. All of that for twenty-sixth place and some good times.

Fever is Contagious

2010-05-14T09:42:00.000-07:00

After many months of trying, I was finally able to make it out on the road bike with my wife. It seems like every time we tried, something else was always stopping us; illness, the move, lack of babysitters. Whatever the reason, there were no excuses this time.

I was really stoked to finally get out and ride with her. Big deal if she didn't know what a dérailleur was, she was getting more excited about riding and was really pumped about her new Gary Fisher Piranha. She had also been getting out to ride around the neighborhood and get more comfortable with a road bike and its handling. K-P was understandably nervous about riding on the road, but I kept telling her that she was built for the bike and she would kill it.

I thought a nice 26-mile out-and-back would be a good starter. Twenty-six miles is a particularly long ride for the first time on a road bike, but KD-Rock never complained (she usually runs farther than this). From the get go she was a natural; always looking comfortable on the bike and with all the killer instinct of cyclist. I planned on keeping the pace easy for the first ride, but we averaged 21 mph on the way out and I was even baited into a little sprint at the end. Headwinds abounded on the way back, and our pace waned, but neither of us let that ruin an enjoyable time .

What meant the most to me was why she did it; for me. I'm pretty sure that my wife would give about two craps about cycling if it weren't for me. This is what makes her selfless and great. Wanting to have an interest in something I love, she sacrificed her time to spend time with me on the road. Good conversations, an appreciation for each other, and some revelations and insight about the people we love the most. The ride came to an end too soon and I couldn't wait to go out again. "When are we going again?" she said. Music to my ears.

Walterboro

2010-05-06T09:36:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday marked the third race in the USA Crits Speed Week series and race number three of the year for me. Conveniently located an hour away in Walterboro, SC, attendance is a must for an otherwise bleak schedule in this area. This race happens to be one of my favorites, though not for my own race, but for the pro races that follow. Race organizers, piggy-backing on these pro races, have consistently improved turnouts to make a fun and festive event. There aren't many places where average Joes like myself can rub elbows with the likes of "B-list" pros like Hilton Clarke, Karl Menzies, Rahsaan Bahati, and six-time national champ Tina Pic.

This was my first criterium of the season. I hate crits. Add to an already nervous time, a bunch of idiots going way too fast, taking stupid risks, and at efforts way too hard and you have a crit. Thankfully Walterboro was only hard and fast--lacking the nerves and idiots. The nerves were taken care of by my water company. Following a few laps around the course, I had every intention of hitting the trainer for a hard warm-up, but apparently, Mt. Pleasant Waterworks had every intention of trying to burn my house down. That day they managed to leave me without any utilities and were now setting fire to a few of my major home appliances. No time to worry about a race when you've got that going on. Thanks Mt. Pleasant Waterworks!

Nervousness and lack of warm-up aside, Charleston Bicycle Company was about to take care of the rest. It's a little intimidating when twenty riders, in a field of fifty-five, are of the same team. To give credit where credit is due, CBC put on a good race and exercised great team tactics. About two laps in I spotted a move by CBC that would establish a pecking order within the race. I knew I had to go with that move. What I didn't know was what it was doing to the rest of the field. A gap was opening up behind me and it was all I could do to stay tacked onto the back of the lead group of ten. Every time I pushed it, I felt like I was going to throw up and shart at the same time. Yes, shart. Maybe quesedillas weren't the best pre-race meal choice.

Things would settle down, but CBC had already finished the script. They communicated as a team without even speaking to each other and rode really well. I was happy to have finished tenth though I always look back on what I would've done if I could've done it.

Afterwards I stuck around to watch the spectacle that is the pro race. Herded at the start line like cattle, $10,000 machines beneath them, the pros zipped around the streets of Walterboro and into the darkness at 30 mph. Fearless and phenomenal--definitely an event worth checking out.

Race to the River

2010-04-25T17:26:00.000-07:00

For the first time in three years, I decided to forgo the Lowcountry Race Weekend in favor of some off road racing at Harbison State Park. The Maxxis Race to the River was just the excuse that I needed to sever ties with my old team and start anew. This year, and hopefully for many to come, I will be racing with the Trek Bikes of Mt. Pleasant--Subaru of Charleston Race Team (more about the team later, just know that we have fun). New team, new bike, new discipline.

Drove up early Sunday with a couple of friends (Taylor and Ken--also on the team) for the race at 10:00. It helps going into a race with people you like to ride with; eases the nerves and provides a little motivation. It was a chilly morning in Columbia and having arrived a few hours early we decided to check out the trail for warm-up and reconnaissance. Truth be told, I was feeling really pumped. Maybe it was the new team, new bike, new discipline going through my head, or maybe I was getting a bit cocky from honing my skills on the local trail. Whatever it was disappeared as soon as I went bombing into a turn and then into a tree. Not two minutes in to our leisurely warm-up and I'm in the dirt with Ken and his 29er piled on top of me (all of us laughing hysterically). Ken said he "thought my throttle was stuck." I thought I had better take it easy and just follow. This was mistake number two.

Trying to follow wheels of those way more skilled than you just doesn't work. What works for them, may not work for you. I would hit the deck again before our warm-up was over, this time much harder. (not to be outdone, Taylor did a nice wheelie straight onto his back). I hit a patch of pine-straw, landed hard on my shoulder, and somehow my leg got stuck in my frame. Ken was quick to lend a helping hand and some encouragement. "Let some air out of your tires," he said as he proceeded to do so. "Just ride your own race. Ride your bike." By this time air had left my tires and my sails. I limply rode back to the car where all illusions of victory escaped me. While I sulked and waited in earnest for my race to get underway, Ken was busy texting our (my) adventures. "Hey Geoff," Ken blurted, "Mike says 'Shut up and pedal'." If that's how it's going to be...

The race started with a lot of doubt and not much fanfare. The key to this race (I was told) is to be the first onto the singletrack (which apparently means "trail in the woods"). Knowing this, I half expected there to be an all-out crazed dash from the road to get there. Not so. I think three-quarters of the field was content with just surviving. "Well if you guys don't want those places, I'll be more than happy to take them," I thought. So I did. I charged into the woods in fifth place and quickly overtook fourth. Third place was just ahead of me on the trail, but he was much better than me on technical sections and would slip away. No matter, I had two chasers to worry about. They would yo-yo behind me for another mile and a half, until suddenly, they were gone. Having shed my two pursuers, I could finally focus on riding my own race.

I felt good. I could see third place in the distance and, although unknown to me, the technical sections were gone. As I slowly gained on him, I kept checking for chasers and reciting friends' words of encouragement in my head; "Shut up and pedal." "Just ride your bike." Soon I was on him. I soft-pedaled behind him up a climb and thought, "I could just ride this guy to the finish and smoke him in the sprint." No, this is a race. Someone might catch me. I need to ride my own race.

I waited for us to crest the climb. The whole time this guy had been using a huge gear and now that we were in a flat clearing, he was spinning like mad (that's the thing I noticed about some MTBers, they use really high cadences even when not necessary). I shifted into a bigger gear and laid it down. As a road cyclist, this was my terrain and I was quickly out of sight. Now I was the hunted and my chaser would catch me on the trail on several occasions (he was much better technically than me). I knew as long as I stayed upright that I could distance myself from him in a clearing or in the finish; and outside of a few dicey moments, that is largely what happened. First out of the woods, I sprinted for the finish; I had worked too hard to lose my place now. The result: third place by one second--much to the chagrin of Taylor (second in his race) and Ken (who finished eighth) who were cheering me to the line. I think I could get used to this kind of fun.

There will be Mud

2010-04-14T17:14:00.000-07:00

Like King Arthur pulling his sword from the stone, I too have pulled this from my local bike shop; This is X-caliber (Jealous?--You should be. Don't hate it because it's beautiful). Due to my obsession with all things self-propelled and two-wheeled (except recumbents) and wanting to try something new, I decided to finally pull the trigger. Nothing could be more foreign.

Aptly dubbed a 29er, this thing has massive twenty-nine inch wheels (the standard bike is a twenty-sixer), freakish hydraulic breaks, and feels and sounds like a tank. It is everything a road bike isn't: huge, heavy, and dirty. What a road bike packs in simple elegance, the Gary Fisher X-Cal makes up for as a monstrosity. Rolling over and crushing everything in its path, 29ers leave everything in their wake--like standard MTBs (mountain bikes for short), me (X-cal proved a bit too much to handle and dumped me on several occasions during our first outing), and hopefully the competition (we shall see next week).

What else? This bike allows me to feel free in ways a road bike cannot. I actually feel limited when I'm on the road with it, but not off of it. With it, I can go almost anywhere yet despite this, and despite the lack of cars to contend with, it has its cruelties. Being so close to nature, you would think that you would have time to enjoy it. Not so. The trail requires almost constant attention and delivers almost constant battering. Where road cycling offers much time for introspection, mountain biking requires quick reaction times to avoid trees, holes, roots, and gnarly snakes. Differences aside, they are both fun. I think I could get used to this.

Relativity

2010-03-31T17:32:00.000-07:00

Around 1905, Albert Einstein was busy laying the groundwork on a theory that would change physics forever. A theory that changed humanity forever. Through the development of his theory of Special Relativity (and later, General Relativity), Einstein was able to explain some of the mysteries of our universe and has since been proven correct. To put briefly, his revolutionary theory changed the way people (physicists) thought about space and time (and many other things for that matter).

I make the distinction for physicists for a reason; relativity is a difficult concept for most people to grasp because it is not concrete, intuitive, or conceivable. Relativity's effects are more confined to the realm of nearly massless particles moving near the speed of light whereas Classical (or Newtonian) physics deal with objects of any appreciable mass (a moving human being falls into the latter category). It impacts our lives by dictating the laws of the universe and the vast majority of us, 99.99% of us, will never directly observe it. However, an interesting consequence of relativity is time dilation. Basically stated, time dilation requires that as speed is increased, time slows down relative to a stationary observer (that is, the slowing down if time is not evident to the traveler).

To be sure, Einstein's equations still hold true and reduce to classical equations when applied to humanly achievable speeds. So, if relativity is more applicable to the macro scale of the Universe or on the subatomic quantum scale, why am I spending so much time thinking about it? Because I've been riding my bike; that's why.

Riding my bike provides me with a mental and physical outlet; cycling has allowed me to draw parallels and antitheses to relativity. Recall that a moving object's length and time both contract with respect to a stationary observer. Here's the parallel: to a cyclist pulling at the front of a paceline (or at least for me) these relativistic ideas cross my mind: "If I go a little bit faster, I can make it from here to there sooner...spend less time at the front...end this misery now..." It is as if time and distance are being shortened. Though these thoughts are easily proven by classical physics (as speed equals distance per time), in my mind they are relativistic in nature. Therein lies the undoing of my cycling induced physics lesson; time dilation and length contraction are not apparent to the object in motion.

These perceptions are only in my mind because I have put them there and not because they are actually occurring or are even measurable at such terrestrial speeds. Obviously that won't stop me from thinking about it. Sometimes the mind's perceptions become reality.

Blythewood sans Roubaix

2010-03-25T18:44:00.000-07:00

Sans me too. Anymore the latest craze in bike racing promotions is to add a dirt section to your race and slap the word Roubaix (pronounced roo-bay) at the end of the name. Named after perhaps the most prestigious one day classic, Paris-Roubaix, it implies a race of shear agony and suffering; the result of a few hundred kilometers of racing over multiple cobbled sections. For Blythewood-Roubaix it implied the twist of a few dirt sections around a seven mile loop.

Implied is the operative word. It seems that the Blythewood city engineers forgot to tell the race organizers that they'd be paving over their dirt section; and it seemed that no one told me that racing, despite not riding for nearly two months, wasn't the brightest idea. Oh well, I was going; you've got to cut your teeth sometime and there's no better way to gauge your fitness than racing. Two hours, some wrong directions, and four bottles of urine later, I was ready to race.

The hours leading up to a race are tenuous--sometimes antsy. You want to make sure you stay well hydrated, but get it all out pre-race. You become very adept at pissing in bottles. Nerves also play a role, but strangely as I was warming up, I didn't feel that nervous. Perhaps I was too busy feeling the gusting wind in my face or the nagging pain in my knee. Whatever the case, the race was about to unceremoniously begin.

Without much trouble the pack reached 36 mph on the first lap. The course was surprisingly non-technical (which was a good thing considering the forty-man field), but did include some nasty little climbs. Staying near the front is always key, but never more so than at the base of these climbs. You could easily find yourself in oxygen debt, legs seizing, and off the back in no time at all. This was the first of s aeries of things to cross my mind. The others being: "Wow, my knee doesn't hurt so bad anymore," and "I guess not riding for those three months really wasn't too bad after all," to "I'm losing places like a rock."

In retrospect, it had happened so quickly. I lost place after place until finally I found myself trying to grasp the last wheel of the field. The Phil Liggett play-by-play would have sounded like "he's blown his engine" or "the field has had one look at him and said 'well are you coming or not' and the answer--not". I had blown up spectacularly. I rode another lap and a half alone until getting lapped by the CAT 1s and called it quits. Normally I would have stubbornly rode the extra miles under the guise of the "at least I didn't quit" mantra, but not today and I didn't even feel bad about it. Instead I left with a few takeaways; until I imploded, I had felt pretty good, my knee had stopped hurting, and I could still make it home in time for dinner with the family. These are the important things.

Spring Classics

2010-03-17T11:04:00.000-07:00

Finally the spring thaw is here. Longer days, less clothes, and the Spring Classics. When most non-crazed cyclists think of the sport, they usually associate it with the Tour de France. While the Tour is the sport's most recognizable spectacle, the spring classics are where the hard men of the sport come to play.

These are beasts of men like Tom Boonen, Fabian Cancellara, and Sitjn Devolder. A few years ago, Devolder, a man whose name rings of how tough he actually is, rode away from his team leader (Boonen) and the entire field at the Ronde van Vlannderen (Tour of Flanders). Climbing the slippery and grimy cobbles of the Koppenburg while wearing the Belgian national champion jersey, Stijn put down the hammer and left the rest of the peloton in his wake; it was all they could do to dismount their bicycles and walk (no joke)! I had never seen anything like it before, but a year later, I would see it again. Soloing across a gap, the Belgian bridged to his attackers and promptly countered, leaving them to watch him and his massive quads and chiseled calves ride away in the distance. I was instantly hooked on the classics and an instant fan of Devolder.

Not to be outdone by a teammate, Tornado Tom, affectionately known as Tomekke by the Belgian masses, has mustered no less than three wins in the Queen of the Classics Paris-Roubaix. One of the oldest races, Paris-Roubaix treats riders and fans to multiple cobbled sections and concludes in a velodrome. If that doesn't sound contradictory? Last year, perhaps fueled by cocaine (Tom is a pretty big partier), Boonen surged and left the field in a fifteen-kilometer cloud of dust. On another occasion, Boonen and two other escapees had such a lead that not even waiting for a passing train allowed their chasers to catch them. The train passed and then Tom summarily dropped his companions. Of course Tom's other win came at the expense of George Hincapie, one of my other favorite riders.

And finally there's Cancellara. Though known more as a time-trialist than as a classics specialist, this Swiss rider ascended from anonymity when he upset some guy named Lance to win the opening prologue of le Tour. Since then he's won two Tours of Switzerland, two World Time Trial Championships (he would have won three, but opted instead to win gold in the 2008 Olympics), countless other races, and Paris-Roubaix. Earning the nickname Spartacus, he is indeed a colossus of roads and one tough dude.

This year be sure to look for these guys in the Ronde along with Paris-Roubaix, and Milan-San Remo, a nearly 300 kilometer march of futility to the Italian coast. They are sure to all be classics.

The would be McCaves

2010-03-14T01:53:00.000-08:00

"...And often she wishes that, when they were born,

She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn.

And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm.

And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim.

And one of them Shadrack. And one of them Blinkey.

And one of them Stuffy. And one of them Stinkey.

Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.

Another one Marvin O'Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Ziggy. And one Soggy Muff.
One Buffalo Bill. And one Biffalo Buff.
And one of them Sneepy. And one Weepy Weed.
And one Paris Garters. And one Harris Tweed.
And one of them Sir Michael Carmichael Zutt.
And one of them Oliver Boliver Butt.
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate...
But she didn't do it. And now it's too late."

--Theodor Geisel aka Dr. Seuss

from Too Many Daves

which would be McCave is your favorite?

Fruit Suit Armor

2010-03-08T15:20:00.000-08:00

Something occurred to me as I peeled my morning grapefruit. Grapefruit and some varieties of oranges have a thick hides. Clearly nature had given these fruits adequate protection, but has man ever taken advantage of this? I bet not.

It's too bad really, as I bet grapefruit rinds would make good Fruit Suit Armor. What am I talking about? As paleolithic man was busy hunting and gathering, always worrying about threats from animals or other nomads, he was also squandering great opportunities to protect himself. All those fruit rinds he cast aside as waste could've been put to some good use.

No one was out smelting new metals. This was before the iron age or the bronze age, and while animal skins did offer early man some form of protection, there was risk. They had to hunt and kill the animal to get it's skins. Not fruit. Just pluck some from the tree, eat the insides, stitch 'em together with some fish-bone needles and vines and viola, you've got a protective suit made from fruit!

Worn like kneepads, grapefruit rinds could easily prevent skinned knees. Plus, when some prehistoric Pterodactyl tried to eat him, Paleolithic man would taste all funny and bitter. Monarch butterflies employ this same strategy (not the fruit, but the funny taste). Oh what the mind is capable of when allowed to wander.

Goodbye Friend

2010-03-04T16:41:00.000-08:00

I finally sold the old the house a few weeks ago and I never want to do that again. Between the showings, paperwork, and hassles, I was beginning to feel as though it wasn't worth it. The new house has erased all of those doubts, and while there are a few things that I won't miss, I am going to miss some of those intangible memories from the old place.

I won't miss the drafty downstairs in the winter, the constantly running air conditioner in the summer, nor the randomly beeping microwave or hints of shoddy construction that are prevalent in South Carolina. While there is no love lost there, I did find myself getting somewhat sentimental as I cleaned the place up; trying to make it tidy for it's new owners. I could see myself in the young couple that was about to move in; DINKs (double-income, no kids) with a dog, full of promise. We officially started our family there and the house had treated us well. Despite the abuse we doled out on it, I feel like we left it in better condition than we found it (not that it was bad to begin with). We made some home improvements and upgrades and family upgrades too, which proved to be the end for that little house. We simply outgrew it.

It took the movers all of four and a half hours to move our possessions a mere four and a half miles and now I look forward to making our new home the best for us. We have already done plenty, but there is always more. There will always be more.

Relegated

2010-02-19T17:31:00.000-08:00

What's the frequency Geoffeth? After spending the better of the last two months off of my bike, I am back. My knee is about sixty percent at best, but thanks to my physical therapy and some new pedals, I am able to ride. For now that will have to be good enough because, for awhile, I wasn't sure it was going to get better.

I had an idea of what not riding would mean for this year. At first I was resigned to deal with it and overcome, but the longer I went, the worse I felt about it. I could barely make it up a flight of stairs without huffing and puffing and my leg hurting like hell; how was I going to race my bike and not totally embarrass myself? Until now, I have had plenty of things to occupy my mind and my time, but now I just stress. What am I stressing about? I'm a CAT 4 for chrissake and a professional one at that. My career cycling aspirations involve maybe making it to be a CAT 3. Why am I letting my outlet become my biggest stress?

I worry. That is what I do. I felt so good about my riding last year and was so focussed on being better this year, that I let it dominate my thoughts. No more. I'm just going to ride and see what happens. If that is defeatist, then so be it, at least I will be on my bike. This year I am riding for fun.

Regression

2010-02-02T15:33:00.000-08:00

I've found myself getting pretty fired up lately; the incendiaries? Documentaries.

The first, Bush's War, was part of the PBS news magazine Frontline. I have always found the Frontline series to be informative, hard hitting, and impartial and this particular episode was all three. Following eight years of misinformation, Bush's War chronicles the buffoonery of our previous administration. Frontline's narrator, Will Lyman, waxes poetic about how the decisions of a misguided few lead to the loss of countless lives and resources of a future generation. Decisions that stretched our military to the limit and created more enemies than it sought to destroy. It sickens me to say this, but my God what a waste. Time to tune to something lighter.

Next up, Food Inc. The film links forty-year old changes in the fast food industry to an unforeseen evolution of the food we eat (You do believe in evolution don't you?) The story had all the ringings of Sinclair's The Jungle; human rights violations and huge corporations controlling the food supply. Driven by the demand of an ever growing populace and with production becoming so mechanized, our food is hardly recognizable when it arrives on store shelves. Food Inc really made me think about what I eat, but perhaps most disturbing, was how disposable the food industry treats its farmers, employees, and customers. Just call it culling the herd.

But perhaps most disturbing was the Nova special, Judgement Day: Intelligent Design on Trial. Scopes Monkey Trial part two, only this time, under the beguile of "Intelligent Design"? Quite a befitting misnomer for something that seeks to set science back more than 150 years. Championing the cause to undo Darwinism, Intelligent Design proposes that certain lifeforms simply appear by means of an "Intelligent Agent", similar to how monkeys just appear out of my butt. I suppose a 150-year setback isn't so bad when you consider the same lunatics took nearly 500 years to accept Galileo's ideas on science.

What do the three have in common? Politics. I'm not one of these political fanatics; right-wing, leftist, conservative, liberal. The extent of my political motivation is voting in the last four presidential elections, beyond that, I could give about a crap. That is, I could give about a crap until certain groups' political ideals begin to affect me; be it pissing away eight years and leaving the country in a shambles, poisoning the food supply, or attempting to take science back to the middle ages. While interest groups and big corporations try to inflict their wills by bidding for politicians' hands, they also impede scientific progress and our advancement as a society. If you want to get my blood boiling, just try fleecing the country to accomplish your political, or worse yet, religious objectives. When are we going to be allowed to learn?

Refuse, Reuse, or make Refuse

2010-01-20T15:03:00.000-08:00

Nine years ago, my wife and I packed all of our of worldly belongings into my Honda Civic and made for Charleston to start our lives together. The Civic's four-cylinder engine begged for mercy from the immense weight of our stuff. The rear shocks sagged from the car's payload, which to my dismay, included a full-size ironing board. The Honda dutifully made several more trips to Ohio and still sits in my driveway; the ironing board still hangs in my closet and sees little use.

A year later, we again packed up to move into our new house. This time the Civic couldn't hold us and nothing less than a twenty foot U-haul would do. That day, with my father-in-law riding shotgun, I learned to drive a moving truck and a manual transmission. I ground through the gears while he ground his teeth as 50-mph was all that truck could muster; it was a nervous time. Buying a home, moving, driving a big rig on South Carolina roadways; there was just cause for using the 'Oh shit!' handles in that van.

It only took us eight short years to outgrow our home and we find ourselves packing once more. Having a family will do that for you, and packing this much stuff will let you know just how gluttonous we can be. The movers have assured me that a twenty-six foot truck is all they will need. But how? How is for them to figure out, but it has got me stressed. Who needs this much stuff? In the course of packing I've found things I didn't even realize that I had, took three trunk loads to Goodwill, and put another three cubic yards in the local landfill. Among the notable finds were 200 T-shirts, six bicycles, a preserved alligator head and a set of shark jaws that my dad gave me, and no less than 12 rolls of wrapping paper from Christmases past (no Christmas trees though, those are in the woods behind my house).

How does someone accumulate so much crap? Clearly after living eight years without using any of it, I didn't need this stuff. So why do we feel it necessary that each home in America have their own ________ (insert lawnmower, gas grill, nail gun, weed eater, or any other item currently taking up space in your garage here)? Why not have a community shed of common items to be shared among neighbors? Each household could have their particular day or week to use certain things. Think of the money that could be saved; think of the fights that would ensue. We are so accustomed to having what we want, when we want it, that we have completely abandoned our communal roots. We allow companies to profit from our wastefulness and unwillingness to share.

Next time, before you throw away that motorized tie rack from your closet, ask yourself: Can I use this for something else? Or can someone else use this? Better yet, before you buy that motorized tie rack, ask yourself: Do I really need this? Until then, happy hoarding.

The Worst Way?

2010-01-10T15:45:00.000-08:00

Couldn't sleep again last night. Between anxiety, my aching knee, and the kids screaming, I just wasn't able to do it. 2:43 am: Finally get settled back into bed.

Mind racing from this to that, it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. This must be what it feels like to drown. Drowning! Yeah, that'll calm me down; I'll just think about drowning. My mind switches focus to an untimely fate and I feel myself gasping for breath. What would it be like to drown? I'm not talking about drowning in river rapids while trying to get back into your raft. No. No desperate gasps for air here. This was more like the getting dumped in the Hudson while wearing concrete sneakers type.

Think about it. Assume you sank straight to the bottom without a struggle. You are calm and can feel the pressure of the deep building in your head; you can hear your pulse slowing in your ear. Holding out as long as possible, the lack of oxygen crushes your chest. You know it is inevitable. You must breathe.

Instinctively you draw in a breath, only this time you half swallow, half choke on a lung-full of water. Violent coughing now ensues as your lungs are flooded with water and explode. With the respiratory system down, the circulatory system is screaming towards cardiac arrest and therein lies the worst part: You're toast and you're brain still knows it. Though you've ceased being an organism, your central nervous system and all of its chemical and electrochemical reactions are still letting you know how bad your situation sucks and still letting you feel pain. I can only imagine that things are pretty chaotic at this point. Maxing out on endorphins and adrenaline in a last ditch, self-medicating effort, your body goes haywire while your brain fades to black. You're dead.

Man that would suck. Sure, you could conjure up a million more creative and seemingly worse ways to go, but this does it for me. Suddenly, I have no desire to go to the beach again. I need some sleep.

The Big V

2010-01-05T17:34:00.000-08:00

So here it is; my long awaited film debut. After much anticipation and thanks to some super cool software, I was able to write, direct, and produce my thoughts into animation instead of the normal pictures and words that you see here. Expect to see more of these shorts in the future as they enable me to convey information and emotion in ways that I otherwise could not.

What follows proves once again that truth is more entertaining than fiction. The names were omitted to protect the innocent and any resemblance to real life may have been completely intentional. For most of you that have seen it (all of the six people that I know), I am sure that you won't mind watching it again. For others, I present to you without much ado, The Big V.

Full Circle

2009-12-31T04:35:00.000-08:00

"Could you take this to your Dad on your way over there?" my father-in-law asked. "Sure, what is it?" I replied. "A baguette pan." With that, a seemingly benign conversation set into motion what I consider a remarkable turn of events. Events that have caused me to do a lot of thinking.

My dad seemed pleasantly surprised by his unexpected gift. While most would consider a baguette pan to be a "white elephant", chucking it aside atop a mountain of useless kitchen items, not my dad. Scoffing at bread machines and sending gluten-free freaks scurrying, dad is always baking up and perfecting some new and tasty breads. As if he needed a reason and anxious to test out his new toy, he set to work. Bread-making is a labor of love that requires artisan-like craftsmanship and time. But on this visit, the family was in tow and the kids were growing restless and punchy. As far as they were concerned, we had overstayed our welcome and it was time to go. Time had run out. "We better get going," I said. "But the bread will be ready in ten minutes," my mom said "C'mon, I'll throw it in a bag for you." Despite all of the screaming and chaos I capitulated, "Okay."

With hot French bread in hand and family loaded up, it was time to head across town to the other grandparents' house. Tired of highway driving, we opted for the Salem Avenue scenic and slightly downtrodden route. The old Tasty Bird Poultry Company (now out of business), Pinky's Fried Chicken (formerly a Lou's Broaster Hut and a Rally's, now all out of business), an old Red Lobster (now a fully functional funeral home), and a beggar on the I-75 on-ramp. "Don't stop, Go!" my wife urged as we approached the yellow light. Too late, I had to stop.

It'll be okay I thought to myself. This guy looked pretty bedraggled; too pathetic to try any funny business. Just don't make eye contact I again reasoned, then he may want something. His sign simply read "Hungry+Homeless." "Should we give him something?" my wife asked. No way was I giving this guy beer money (it's a shame that we have to think this way), but his sign said nothing about money. "Give him a loaf of bread" she said. Pausing for a moment I grabbed one of the loaves, shoved it in a bag, and thrust it out my now open window. "Dude, my dad just made this, it's still hot," I said handing it to him. Without missing a beat, he grabs it and stuffs it inside his jacket. "Merry Christmas" he said stoically. For the first time I make eye contact with him; he seriously looked as if he would cry.

I felt somewhat skeptical about the guy's situation, but I also felt pretty good about what just transpired. Our intentions were good and it really made me reflect on the day's events. What if I forget to bring the baguette pan? What if I decide not to wait for the bread to be ready? What if that guy really was hungry and doesn't get the bread? Our decisions, intentional or otherwise, insignificant or colossal, affect our daily lives, those of others, and our future. It's pretty amazing when you think about it. So many days and people pass right by and no thought is given to how we impact their destiny, most of the time without even knowing it.

I wonder what became of that loaf of bread. I wonder what became of that dude?

Greatest Gifts

2009-12-25T05:01:00.000-08:00

Tis always the season for something and many people use this time of the year to reflect. Why not reflect on some of the greatest gifts given or received?

Rather than focusing on the former and staying away from intangibles and fluffy thoughts (such as the obvious and far too overused "it's better to give than to receive" and "this season, give the gift that keeps on giving, give the gift of life"), I present this; aren't some of the best gifts the ones that you never knew you wanted? Okay, I'll admit, that Sega Genesis of '91 kicked ass, and the Hungry Hungry Hippos of '83 made for hours of entertainment (to this day, Pinkie is still the best). But despite me keeping my Sega through college (and making good use of it too), neither stood the test of time. Breaking or otherwise falling by the wayside of life, only to be left in a scrap heap and a memory.

So what am I talking about? Nothing more than slippers and a bottle to name a few. Several Christmases ago I received some slippers from my mom. I had gone thirty years without and didn't feel the need to change now. That is, until now. Now there's not a wintry day that I can go without. So much so, that when I wore through that original pair, I went out the same day and bought another. The other happened to be a Nalgene bottle that I received from my wife. I drink a lot of water and was tired of spending two bucks a pop on throw away plastic bottles. For the eight dollars that one bottle cost, I have gotten six liters of water a day for the past year. I won't go anywhere without that bottle and won't drink out of anything else.

While these gifts fall short of Castle Greyskull or a chemistry set for "wow" potential, they more than make up for it in practicality and usage. It's unexpected treasures like these that sometimes make a Christmas season.

Ich bin kaput/Winter mode

2009-12-17T17:47:00.000-08:00

I'm doing something that I haven't done here before: filling this post with my own self pity and doubling up on the topics.

I just haven't been myself lately. Sick for three out of the last four weeks, plenty of motivation but no impetus, and my knee is wrecked. Though I cannot cite when it happened, I can tell you that it has only gotten worse. Two doctors and four diagnoses later, and I can barely walk. This sucks. Thankfully, it is winter time, and the mileage and bike riding have slacked off (though I am not usually accustomed to this much slacking). Winter represents a hibernation for most cyclists. A time to build endurance with long, slow paced rides and a time to recover. Having been prescribed six weeks of physical therapy, I should have plenty of time for that.

Facing a mandatory reprieve from cycling, I decided to join up once more with the Charleston Winter Bike League. Like a dog let loose before being neutered, I wanted one more fling with the bike. At first I wasn't crazy with the idea of this ride, but after going a few weeks ago, I was sold. This is a great ride concept with great people and even features some off-road sections that got me feeling like Paris-Roubaix. The rest of the ride was nostalgic, even down to the pee breaks taken alongside an old logging road. It was like a scene from one of those old Tour de France posters where all of the riders stop for a smoke and a beer. Too bad my bones were sawing away again at the tendons in my knee. What a shame that it will be missing out on these rides.

I'm doing something that I haven't done here before: hanging up the bike for six weeks.

Guernica

2009-12-11T12:56:00.000-08:00

Guernica

Pablo Picasso

ca. 1937

Dollars Dehumanize

2009-12-07T12:52:00.000-08:00

Something caught my eye during a recent trip. On the horizon, huge steel and glass obelisks; a city skyline. A few, made totally of glass, caught my attention for another reason; people. Forty stories in the air, window-washers danced on the slanted mirrored surface of this monolith. Enamored, I stared and thought, "what an exciting job!?...like a thrill ride. I'm sure these people are well compensated for their skills and risks." Nope.

According to most internet sources, window washers pull down a hefty $20,000 a year (equaling the poverty level for a family of three). Considering that these jobs predominantly exist in major metropolitan areas, I can only assume that this salary wouldn't pay for rent in the same building. No scaffolding and for no reason. Does someone really need to risk their life for clean windows? Apparently the tenants of this building thought so.

I suppose that in this economy (or any economy for that matter), if there is a demand for a service, there will be a supply; such is the power of the dollar. A corporation will stoop just low enough to allow others to eek out an existence (and gladly do so at that) for the dollar at the end of the stick. It's the capitalistic caste system at work and it is evident right here in my own town in the form of human signs. Have you seen these? People paid to stand on busy street corners holding signs, usually touting "Going out of business" or "Total liquidation, everything must go" on them. Perhaps these places would still be in business if they weren't paying people to hold signs; last time I checked, it didn't cost anything to drive a stake into the ground.

Why are people risking their lives for clean windows? They have to. What is it that drives a wedge between dignity and humanity? The dollar.

Charlotte's got a lot?

2009-11-30T13:46:00.000-08:00

Destination of the week, Charlotte, NC. Breaking tradition for Thanksgiving this year, we decided to pack up the kids and get out of town and Charlotte, the queen city of the Carolinas, provided a logical choice. Not too intimidating, plenty of on-goings for the holiday, and just big enough. First order of business: check into the hotel and find dinner.

This shouldn't be a problem, being a large city and all. Just need a restaurant that is not too pretentious, not a bar, and kid friendly and one that simply does not exist in the city. Our desperate search yielded no less than forty upscale and eclectically named establishments that were devoid of humans. These places would have been better off all being named The Empty Table. Where was everyone? The answer began to reveal itself as did the city's seedy underbelly. On this night, only the city bus stops were inhabited; filled with society's undesirables doing stereotypical stuff. Shooting dice, drinking out of brown paper bag ghetto-sleeves, noshing on a dinner of corn flakes. Honestly it wasn't really that bad and certainly far from the worst situation I have been in, but cities are no place for young children.

"Tomorrow we could reconcile things," I thought. Get some great breakfast, enjoy the Thanksgiving Day parade, wear out the kids at a park, and then chow down for dinner. And, with the exception of breakfast, that is how it worked. Turns out the only places open for breakfast on Thanksgiving were those that value holidays less than dollars; Dean and Deluca and Starbucks! How much does it cost to feed a family of four at one of these places? I'm ashamed to say, but thankful we found them. The parade was fun and Freedom Park proved to be even better. Situated between the affluent suburbs of Dilworth and Southend, the park was a welcomed respite. I began noticing people enjoying their surroundings and with it, I also began noticing all of the bike paths, bike racks, and bike shops throughout the city. Charlotte is a big draw for mountain enthusiasts and roadies alike and also hosts a professional criterium each August. This town did have some redeeming qualities.

Thanksgiving dinner was mediocre and a bit stressful, but with good company. We headed for home the next evening, but not before tooling around for another day and not before doing some reflecting. I am far from a person who believes in fate, faith, or karma, but the tribulations of that first night in town struck me. I started to feel that I was meant to see those that had truly fallen on hard times. It made me appreciate what I had, and for that, I am thankful.

Rants

2009-11-23T09:43:00.000-08:00

"Lennox Lewis, I'm coming for you man. My style is impetuous. My defense is impregnable, and I'm just ferocious. I want your heart. I want to eat his children. Praise be to Allah!"

--Iron Mike Tyson

Lunatic, cannibal, and quote machine

Apparently also a devout Muslim

"Three against one, it's not a big surprise...Don't stand on my dog or I cut your head off!"

--World Road Champ Cadel Evans

Perennial whiner and underachiever

Screw Blue

2009-11-18T16:37:00.000-08:00

Hate is a strong word, but hate is what I feel toward the University of Michigan. There, I got it out of my system. To even utter the name of that wretched place strikes me to my core (therefore that university will herein be referred to as "them", "they", or "group of despicable sucks"). More than willing them to lose every football game from now to eternity, I bid they go straight to hell and die. A plague on all their houses, including the Big House. Why do I feel the urge to spat on anyone sporting the maize and blue? I bleed scarlet and gray, that's why.

My appreciation for football came during my formative years. Starting with running endless pass routes with my brother in the backyard and graduating to barnyard football games, Madden, and Monday Night Football; football consumed the dreary fall afternoons in Ohio. Ohioans love football; Ohio State Football. Look, we have the Bengals and the Browns, okay!? Lovable losers. The real fate of Ohio Football (and to be honest that of the free world) rests with the Buckeyes. National Titles and undefeated seasons hinge on one game. Mediocre and crappy seasons hinge on one game. Life and death hinges on one game; the last game: OSU v. that "Group of Despicable Sucks". You know who I'm talkin' about. The stage is set.

Rewind to the '90s. Ohio State is graced with legendary names like Galloway, Germaine, George, Boston, Pace, Katzenmoyer (too many to list). Unfortunately, the Bucks are also graced by John Cooper. Year after year the Buckeyes are either mediocre or National Title contenders and year after year (for a decade) they manage to lose to those wankers! My college house mates and I had made it tradition to each drink a 40oz. of malt liquor per quarter during the big game. This usually ended in a lot of slurred swearing by late in the fourth. Our one win during the Cooper-era only bought us a lousy Rose Bowl trip since we couldn't put MSU to bed. Frustration.

Enter Jim Tressel. Finally someone that recognized that all of Buckeye nation teeters on the brink of one game. After five years of drowning ourselves in Magnum and King Cobra, no more. Three trips to the promised land, one National Title, and most importantly, only one loss to those pansies from up north. My college buddies and I still call each other during the big game to mock the other team or to vent. It has been awhile since we got belligerent together and shouted hate slogans at the other team (Author's note: To be exact, it was January 3, 2003; a date that every Ohio State fan will remember. My buddy Ted and I decided that it would be a good idea to trade off Irish Car Bombs for every Buckeye touchdown. Good thinking until the game went to double overtime. Anyway, despite not knowing my own name, I was able to tell everyone in Englewood Ohio who the f-ing National Champs were!).

For tradition's sake, I think I'll pour back a few beers this year, root on the Bucks, and give ol' Ted a call. I dunno if I can do the malt liquor anymore and I'll have to keep the obscenities to a minimum, but know this: Hail to the Victors bitches!

Dream Ride

2009-11-11T01:50:00.000-08:00

I have done races, centuries, and double centuries, but it was last year's Tour de Tuck that spawned an idea for my dream ride. Climbing the mountains of the Blue Ridge provides for much challenge, solitude, and soul searching. Battling feelings of self doubt and accomplishment; surrounding yourself in pain and beauty. Why not do it for a week? My own mini Tour: Five stages, 476 miles. The Blue Ridge Parkway.

Yup, here's the plan: Me and four other dudes roll up to Virginia, take to the bikes, and end up on the other side of Asheville 5 days later. We have a fully stocked SAG wagon, rotate drivers, and keep ourselves well fed. It is that simple. Look, these guys did it. I lifted some information from here and there and this is what I came up with:

Stage 1: Waynesville to Peaks of Otter: 86 miles, 8600' total ascent.

What a nice way to start the tour. One hundred feet of elevation for every mile. An appetizer for the main courses to come.

Stage 2: Peaks of Otter to Fancy Gap: 113 miles, 9700' total ascent.

The legs will be feeling it today. The second longest day of the tour only has one major climb, but the rest of the profile looks like a saw blade. Make it past this stage and your body should become acclimated to the pain and numbness that still awaits.

Stage 3: Fancy Gap to Blowing Rock: 95 miles, 8700' total ascent.

Through the halfway point and into North Carolina, no looking back now. Thankfully today is an easier day, as tomorrow is the queen stage.

Stage 4: Blowing Rock to Mount Pisgah: 117 miles, 13, 900' total ascent.

By all accounts, a beast of a day; this alone could be anyone's most difficult day on a bike. Precede this with the first three stages and it becomes epic. The denouement. Passing near Grandfather Mountain and Mt. Mitchell, this stage features two peaks in excess of 5600'. As if this weren't enough, the last 20 miles contain nine tunnels and are all uphill.

Stage 5: Mount Pisgah to Cherokee: 60 miles, 6200' total ascent.

Make sure you set aside at least four hours for the finale, for the shortest day also contains the highest peak; the Richland Balsam at over 6000'. The last ten miles of descending should prove to be quick and emotional, but no worries, you'll have the rest of your life to reflect on what you just did.

Who is in? What is your dream ride? What's next?

Scallops, Wilted Spinach, and Warm Vinaigrette

2009-11-06T09:44:00.000-08:00

This dish was inspired by our neighbor, a chef, a few years ago after my wife asked her to make us an anniversary dinner. I'd like to think that my version compares to that meal, though I couldn't hold a candle to her cooking prowess. I can always aspire to something, no?

For the salad.

Start by warming a handful of crushed walnuts in a pan over low heat. Higher heat will make the fats of the walnuts burn, so this will take some time. You want these added to the salad while still warm and have the smoky flavor of burnt toast. Meanwhile, toss a few good handfuls of baby spinach with some Watercress or other tasty green (Arugula, Dandelion, etc). Add some thinly sliced red onion and you're almost ready for plating.

Now the vinaigrette.

Fifty percent fresh lemon juice, fifty percent extra virgin olive oil, two cloves minced garlic, and Kosher coarse salt to taste. Set aside for later; that was tough.

Scallops.

Cook enough of these for about three large sea scallops per person. Sear the scallops over medium high heat in butter and olive oil until just golden (about 3-4 minutes per side). Again, if the heat is too high, the butter will burn and the oil will break down. Watch it.

Now bring it all together. Add the warm walnuts to the spinach and sprinkle with chunks of goat cheese. Top with the scallops and drizzle with warmed vinaigrette. The warmth of the walnuts, scallops, and vinaigrette will wilt the spinach and, combined with the creaminess of the goat cheese, will meld the flavors together. The simplicity of this dish is spoken through the ingredients and the preparation. The taste speaks for itself.

Milk: A Horror Story

2009-11-02T09:04:00.000-08:00

It is 1986, a young boy sits in his kitchen. Clad only in tighty-whiteys, he is feverishly shoveling his milk and sugar laden Cheerios down his throat. "Hurry up!" his brother demands, "We're going to be late for church!" In a desperate attempt to finish the last of the floating-Os, he lifts the bowl to his face. The sweet, super-saturated sugary goodness graces his lips. The last few remaining oats, having avoided the spoon, will not escape the ritual act of drinking the milk from the bottom of the bowl. Then it happens.

Milk runs down the side of his face, the spoon shifts, he loses his grip. Almost in slow-motion, the bowl falls, dousing the boy from head to toe. He sits frozen, coated in the sour, sticky solution and dotted with Cheerios. "Nice one," as more sibling encouragement arrives, "don't just sit there, get in the tub!" His world spiraling out of control, he stumbles to the bathtub for relief that cannot come soon enough. Thoughts and movements become disjointed while the boy disconnects himself from what is happening. As he is tries to block out the situation and shutdown his senses, there is one that will never leave him: the smell. The rank, foul milk smell induces dry-heaves and the boy gags uncontrollably.

Milk and cheerios had infiltrated my hair, ears, and even my underwear. That's right. This is my horror story. Ever since that fateful day milk has been my nemesis; making me wretch at the sight or smell of it. As a kid, after finishing my cereal, I would race to the kitchen, cereal bowl at arms length, dry heaving all the way (somewhere my sister is laughing). I even switched to using water for my Corn Flakes. Water plus cereal sucks. It's mushy. Ultimately I would give up milk entirely.

Twenty years and a couple of kids later and milk and I are on speaking terms again. It was impossible for it to be any other way. Kids love milk, it literally is their lifeblood. Is there anything more mammalian? And as such, you have to get used to having milk spilled on you, puked on you, or otherwise bathing in milk. Finding a few randomly hidden sippy-cups filled with month old curdled milk could cure any phobia. While I am still bothered by a little milk spillage, it doesn't bring me to the verge of panic-stricken vomiting anymore. And yes, I can again drink the milk from the bottom of the bowl.

Drug Addict

2009-10-20T12:31:00.000-07:00

Me: Hello, my name is Geoff.

Support Group: Hi Geoff!

Me: I am an addict. I have been a drug abuser for several years now.

Support Group: Tell us about your problem Geoff.

Me: Well, in addition to my affliction with crank, I abuse another drug.

Support Group: What is it?

Me: This...

This is the most powerful drug on the planet; abused by more than a third of Americans every day and I am one of them. Caffeine. Despite my efforts to shake it, I have failed.

But why? Many will argue that caffeine is actually good for you; helping to improve focus, giving you a energy and enhancing performance. True. In moderation it does all of these things, but like other drugs, when done daily, you develop a tolerance. And like other drugs, there are side effects: jitters, elevated heart rates, headaches, sleeplessness, and dehydration to name a few. Caffeine also has an human LD50 value around 3 grams (about the amount in 20 venti Starbucks coffees).

Why would I want to quit caffeine? Therein lies the problem. I don't want to quit caffeine. I've quit soda, nicotine (yes, I smoked...dumbest thing ever), and beer (to some extent). So why not caffeine? I enjoy it. Coffee is my vehicle. Rather than quit, I want to limit my intake so that I can still get that occasional wicked-coffee head rush or that performance boost from my energy drink (the UCI actually regulates caffeine as a stimulant, not that I'm in any danger of being sanctioned). The plan will be to switch to decaf and then go cold-turkey on caffeine's ass once the withdrawal symptoms subside. Sometime after the first of the year I will resolve to be resolute and save the good stuff for when it's needed.

20,000

2009-10-15T12:10:00.000-07:00

Together a bicycle and a human are the most efficient transportation machines ever known. Apart they are less efficient or altogether inanimate. Apart one is the most sophisticated life form; what we lack in physical prowess, agility, and speed is countered through ingenuity. The other, born from this ingenuity, allows us to travel great distances at speeds otherwise unachievable under our own power.

20,000 miles is what I have logged on a bike. To be able to power oneself across such a distance is phenomenal and liberating. Three and a half years, several sets of tires and chains, and plenty of time later, cycling has changed me. It has both transformed and consumed me. No longer sedentary, I find myself in better shape now than I have ever been. I have more appreciation for things. Spending all of that time in the saddle will do that for you. The time spent alone on the road allows for much personal reflection, self doubt, failure and achievement, and more than anything, an outlet. Even in the social environment of a group, the mind does battle with itself. It has made me think.

I wish I could use a bike as my primary mode of transport for everything: commuting, running errands, exercise, and recreation; and I could if it were more socially acceptable in America. Cars and highways dominate the landscape. Cyclists are viewed as nuisances; delaying motorists from getting to their destination. It is unfortunate that rather than being seen as another human (one with a family mind you), I'm a moving roadblock. I impede others from being able to hurriedly get to such important destinations as WalMart, their job (that they hate), or church. I'm not suggesting that bikes would solve all of our societal problems, just a lot of them. Until we come to our senses, I will continue to do my best at shirking the norm and racking up miles on my bike.

Saratoga Springs

2009-10-10T03:41:00.000-07:00

Destination of the week: Saratoga, NY; a town where natural springs flow freely and the influence of horse racing abounds. The horse statues that line the streets are accompanied by countless boutiques, arcades, galleries, and restaurants. The town, centrally located to Montreal and NYC has a swanky-smarmy feel. Swanky from the ancient mafioso homes surrounding the town, smarmy from the influx of college kids from the local Skidmore College.

I happened to be in town with others on "business" so I made it a point to do some early morning, and sometimes late night venturing. Being a foodie and given that meals were on the company's dime, I decided to sample as much of the local fare as possible. A veritable Tour de Food; here's a tasting.

Breakfast

Compton's. There are certain expectations that come with a name like Compton. If it's Straight Outta Compton is must be good. Not the case here. The only disappointing meal of the entire trip came out of necessity rather than choice; work started early and Compton's is the only place open at 4:00 am (when the bars close!). Less like a greasy spoon and more like Alice's restaurant, even down to the waitress.

Uncommon Grounds Coffee. Cool coffee shop and great bagel selection. Nothing special beyond that; just good people.

Dinner

Forno Bistro. Standard Italian: Quaint, cozy, and dimly-lit with wine flowing everywhere. The Prosciutto and Fontina chicken was deliciouso.

Maestros. Could be the best food that I've ever eaten. Nothing on the menu was even remotely affordable, but thanks to their Prix Fixe menu, I was able to eat like a king on a beggar's budget. They brought chocolate, made in-house, to sample after your meal. The waitress said it usually makes the bill more palatable.

The Local. Perhaps my favorite place of the week had it not been for the $20 beer (it's a long story). A pub featuring traditional Irish fare where the locals have there own beer mugs reserved. "I'd like a pint of Smithwicks in mug #93 please," says our accomplice Muskrat Mark. The $20 beer you ask? Creme Brulee Stout by Southern Tier. Worth every penny and now available whenever I want it.

Cantina. Awesomely upscale Mexican. It never hurts to serve Margaritas by the gallon either.

Most of the restaurants feature sidewalk dining which we took full advantage of citing the mid 60s temperatures and lack of flesh eating insects. A final special thanks goes out to the fine folks at Desperate Annie's. Despite trying to make the 4:00am last call on our final night, our livers weren't having it, but DA's did their best to help. Foosball, Wild Turkey, and wafts of vomit blowing in from Caroline Street brought me right back to my college days. Man I'm too old for this.

Sylva

2009-10-03T08:42:00.000-07:00

Destination of the month: Sylva, North Carolina. This small town, bordering Dillsboro, finds itself tucked in the shadow of the Blue Ridge mountains. Between them, the two towns consist all of about two miles. If size doesn't deter you, then the locals might.

To clarify, you will probably never find more welcoming, friendly, and helpful people anywhere. The kind of Southern hospitality that just doesn't exist in South Cackalacky. It's more of a righty-lefty issue; Patchoulli-laden natty dreads versus mulletted trucker hats, Toyota Prius versus Chevy Four-by-Four, you get the picture. It's just this that makes Sylva a great place to visit, but I couldn't live there, at least not now.

It is the perfect place for a summer mountain home. Though small, the Jackson County seat has a lot to offer (at least it appeared that way during my short stay). Surrounded by mountains and rivers yet only forty miles from Metropolitania (Asheville, and yes I made up that word). But don't assume that you'll have to make a run into town to find civilization, the streets Sylva and Dillsboro are lined with things to do.

Upscale and down home restaurants (like Kosta's authentic Greek), Bed and Breakfasts, and shops abound. There's a local brewery and The Dillsboro Chocolate Company/Espresso bar combines a few of my favorite things. Speaking of favorites, the area offers some of the best on and off-road cycling around. Ample bike lines, beautiful scenery, and the coolest bike shop ever make it a desitnation location for me. Be sure to add this to your weekend getaway list.

The Tour de Tuck (Part 2)

2009-09-30T03:40:00.000-07:00

And this is how I spent Saturday. Bogged down with bottles, food, and enough cold weather gear to cross the tundra. Thankfully I wasn't going to need the gear, but I wasn't taking any chances after yesterday. The plan was to ride with the group (as everyone does) for the first twenty miles, shadow my teammates over the first climb, and then attack somewhere near the top of the second.

Attack teammates!? I know it doesn't sound right, but before you go callin' me Alberto, just remember it's friendly competition. Bragging rights for next year were at stake. I planned to go near the top of Balsam Mountain (near mile 54 on map) where there was still some climbing left. If I could open up a gap and hold them off on the descent (remember these guys go downhill like banshees), there was a good chance of not seeing them again. It only took 300 yards of climbing before my plans were shot.

They were gone. They had latched on to a strong group of guys at the front and were out of sight in minutes. Crap. Oh well, I'll just ride my own pace and see what happens. So I did. I was in a small group of three when an older guy lifted the pace and I decided to follow. He was riding just out of my comfort zone, but I knew if I could hang on, I would settle be able to in. We quickly gapped the other two on the way to the first summit, where I shifted into the biggest gear and dropped him on the downhill. I also dropped a load in my pants...

The Parkway has long sweeping descents. You can see for miles. The Parkway has bears! "Holy S@%t!" I said to myself. A 400-lb Black Bear jumps out of the woods, shoots me a look, then darts across the road before disappearing on the other side. I tap my breaks, contemplate being eaten, and squeal like a school girl as I rolled past it. Very cool, very scary, but no time to consider what just happened. There was more climbing ahead and who should pass me but the same guy that I had left on the descent. This would be the theme for the day. I passed this guy on every downhill only to have him drop me on the climbs (all except one, that is). We eventually committed to working the final 15 miles together.

More climbing, more downhills. I was beginning to develop a rhythm. At the base of the penultimate climb, I was able to make out the figures of my teammates in the distance. I couldn't believe it. I had caught them and I would have my chance to execute "the plan". Now I was feeling really good. After riding for awhile as a group, I eased into a bigger gear and began grinding away. That was enough to gap Rob. I saw he had drifted back about fifty yards and the next time I checked, he was gone. A few miles later and I tried to shake John. Same results, only this time, I couldn't get out of sight. He kept coming back until he eventually passed me.

To make a long story short, I had to stop four times after this to pee, for water, dropped chain etc. I lost sight of John and went barreling ass down a long descent to catch him. The last time I saw him was at the base of Charley's Creek; a one mile climb with some sections at 15% grade. I'm not sure who Charley was, but he must have been a real SOB. It was the hardest part of the ride (mile 67 on map) and I wasn't going to catch John after that. Rob caught back up to me after ninety miles. I looked over at him and said, "I was hoping I wouldn't see you again." He laughed and made that statement a reality, torching me. While I didn't meet my goal, I did finish within eight minutes of others and I improved on my time from last year. Overall an awesome day.

The Stats.

104.7 Miles in 6:26:26

Highest Peak/Grade--Richland Balsam at 6053 feet, Charley's Creek at 15%

Total Ascent/Top Speed--11070 feet, 47.8 mph

Calories Burned--4519

Fun Factor--9.5/10

The Tour de Tuck (Part 1)

2009-09-27T12:39:00.000-07:00

Headed up to the mountains of North Carolina for the 4th annual Tour de Tuck. The Tour is a 105-mile suffer fest with nearly 11,000 feet of climbing, including the penultimate climb over the Richland Balsam mountain, the highest point on the Blue Ridge Parkway at 6053 feet. The forecasters called for highs in the low 70s and a 60% chance of rain; potentially hellish conditions for an already epic ride.

Loaded up the unofficial team van with John and Rob and made for the mountains. This was my second Tour and their fourth (since the Tour's inception). Though not a race, the route is timed, and a friendly competition had developed between them with John always coming out on top. Last year they had graciously invited me along and gave me a 30-minute trouncing en route to the finish. No surprise really. Both of them are consistently some of the strongest riders around. What was surprising is that I was able to hang with them for 65 miles before getting dropped. This year was going to be different. I wanted to get some of my time back; not just finish alongside them, but ahead.

This year would be different. Rob had the brilliant (and I mean that sincerely) idea to head up early and get in some mountain miles on a route called "The Ring of Fire." 40 miles, 5000 feet of ascent over two major climbs (some at over 10% grade) and potential suicide for Saturday's chances. Why not? You only get to do this once a year. I was all in. Committed. It was sunny and warm as we set off on the Ring of Fire, but all this was about to change.

Working the stiffness from my legs and tuning my lungs to climbing became the objective of the day. The first climb hit us straightaway with some tough gradients laden with gravel. The gravel made climbing that much more difficult and descending that much more terrifying. Descending has never been my strong point; I descend like a 14-year old girl. While the three of us reached the summit together, Rob and John quickly dropped me on the descent. I wasn't taking any risks. Between the gravel, wet roads, and hairpin switchbacks I had other things to worry about. When you're hitting turns at 40 mph on 23 millimeter tires you have to put a lot of trust in your machine. Hit a patch, your toast. Brake too much, rims overheat, brakes melt, and tires explode. Brake too little and well...

By the time things had flattened out and we had regrouped, my arms were so sore from braking that I could barely grip the bars, but there were bigger issues. Rain. First sprinkles, then buckets followed by a steady pour. I like riding in the rain. It's miserable, a blow to the psyche, and invigorating. The problem wasn't the rain, it was the temperature. My bike computer showed that the temperature had dropped 10 degrees in an hour. This was okay for the next climb, but made the descent absolutely hypothermic. My fingers and feet had lost feeling near the top and braking and shifting now required extreme concentration. I couldn't feel the bar so I had to focus completely on my shifters and force my brain to make the appendages at the end of my arms work. It was so hard they actually burned, and a couple of times, slipped off of my levers. I thought for sure that I was in the worst shape, until I saw Rob.

As we neared the bottom I could see that he had slipped back and his bike's frame appeared to be made of rubber. Very uncharacteristic. "You okay?" I asked. I could now see that his wobbling was caused by shivering. The shivering would stop on flat ground and instantly start up again with any kind of speed. "Dude will you ride with me?" he said to John. That's it. Now I knew we couldn't go on and stopping just made us colder. Luckily at that moment, a cyclist-friendly passerby offered Rob a ride back to our car, which he informed us was only a few miles away. I dreamed of sitting in the car, heater on full blast, getting warm and dry. It would take a good thirty minutes for the shivering to stop and I was beginning to question the logic of the Ring of Fire. Tomorrow would tell.

Something new, something old

2009-09-13T11:23:00.000-07:00

So a few weeks ago, facing the prospect of doing no more races this year, I got this half-cracked idea that I could attempt a sprint triathlon. Something to keep my competitive juices flowing and keep me fit. Something to break me out of the doldrums of cycling. What!? Did I just say that? It is true, I had hit a lull (that I was soon to snap out of...more to follow). In the meantime, I had work to do. Biking check. Running, although not my favorite, not an issue. Swimming not so much. I can't swim.

Okay, so I can't swim well. But really, it's only 0.3 miles. How hard is that? Two bucks and 25 meters of community pool later, the dreams of the sprint triathlon were shattered. Swimming is a vile activity. Any sport that requires your body to demand more oxygen and then robs you of the ability to get it is not fine by me. "Just stop and catch your breath," you say. This works fine and dandy in a bathtub, not eight feet of water. But still you argue, "It's all about timing your strokes." Again, too much thinking, not enough breathing. Swim, lose your breath, die; Stop swimming, sink, drown. No thank you to either one. Though not entirely defeated, swimming and triathlons will have to stay on the back burner.

On the other hand, I have rekindled my liking of the Fat Tire (yes, both the beer and the ride). After wrenching on and cleaning up the old Cannondale, she is now ride worthy, complete with new lock and lights. I've been riding it with the family, running errands on it and riding in the dark before work. I had forgotten how fun it was to ride off of the road and I even have the sense that my wife may have a touch of the Crank Addiction (she needs to get more comfortable handling the bike, but she's already promised to dominate on the road). I plan on using it to cross train this winter and perhaps ride it during lunch at work. Who knows, maybe it will blossom into something? Though I doubt it will supplant the roadie in me. There is just something that gets lost when you have to drive somewhere to ride your bike.

Working Schlep

2009-09-06T17:24:00.000-07:00

Two weeks into the Tom, Dick, and Harry work schedule. Gone are the seven day, sleepless work weeks. Stress and serotonin levels are returning to normal. Yup, nine to five..(insert record screeching to a stop here)...

Now, I've seen some people around here that don't work, or that don't do real work, but does anyone really work nine to five? Not in America. Work, work harder, be inefficient and work longer, die. For the past eight years I've been working a rotating shift, seven days a week, at about ten hours a day. Holding on and holding out. Holding on for my next day or two off. Holding out for a regular job schedule and what comes with it: a pay cut, meetings, video and teleconferences, more meetings, and never seeing the sun when Eastern Standard Time returns. Is it any wonder why we, as a society, are so jacked up?

Stacking and re-stacking our beans. Rearranging our hill of beans. Having someone tell us our hill is all wrong and to fix our hill of beans. For what? At least on my other schedule I was home during the day. I could see my family for more than an hour, get in a ride here or there, do some stuff around the house. You know, all of the things that I'm working for. Please don't get me wrong, I don't want my old schedule back and at this point, I'm just happy to have a job, but whose idea was the forty-hour work week? And since when is forty hours not enough?

Someone needs to revisit this from the top down, until then we're all just a bunch of working schleps.

Deep Thoughts

2009-08-30T07:21:00.000-07:00

If trees could scream, would we be so cavalier about cutting them down? We might, if they screamed all the time, for no good reason.

If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is, "God is crying." And if he asks why God is crying, another cute thing to tell him is "probably because of something you did."

If you saw two guys named Hambone and Flippy, which one do you think liked dolphins the most? I'd say Flippy, wouldn't you? You'd be wrong though. It's Hambone.

all by Jack Handey.

DeepThoughtsByJackHandey.com

Waffeling Around

2009-08-24T17:44:00.000-07:00

Tuesday summer evenings in Mt. Pleasant usually mean a trip to the farmers market is in order. This is a great place to get cheap produce, a bite to eat, and just hang out and watch the locals. You get to know some of the vendors, try new foods each week, and look for reasons to come back. This year, as part of the city's plan to remodel Coleman Boulevard (which didn't really need any re-doing...but smoke 'em if you got 'em), the town built a hardened open air structure to host the Tuesday night affair. Seeing this, I was more than pleased in their decision to support an already great event.

The result? This year there are even more vendors, slightly less green-space, and more foodies! Yes, I love food. It's one of the reasons I ride my bike; so I can try new foods and lots of them. So I was extremely delighted when my two interests made an appearance at this year's farmers market in the form of a Waffel stand (no, this is really how you spell it). You're thinking, "Okay, waffels are food, but what does this have to do with cycling?" Waffels are synonymous with Belgium. Belgium is synonymous with cycling (and beer). The greatest cyclists and cycling fans in the world are Belgian. Names like Eddy Merckxx, Tom Boonen, Johan Museeuw. Races like Paris-Roubaix, Liege-Bastogne-Liege, and La Fleche Wallone. As I ate my waffel (or waffels as it turned out), I pictured myself along the cobbled roads of Europe. Gritty cyclists racing by throngs of drunken fans. I was in foodie/roadie heaven. I was in disbelief.

Five bucks for two waffels! The guy at the waffel stand was killing it too. I talked to him a bit and asked how he started his 'business'. His 'business' consisted of him slinging batter into a waffel iron and charging $2.50 a pop for the delicious morsels. He said he'd spent some time abroad in college and remembers eating street waffels all of the time in the Netherlands. I guess this is how ideas are started and fortunes made. After all, my five dollars had just covered this guy's entire overhead. Not hinting at all towards his recipe, my brain cranked into the 53x11 gear (that's the big gear for all of you non-crank addicts) and I plotted my assault on Waffelville. It became my whole goal to replicate them. So much so, that after doing some research and as soon as my family was in bed, I snuck out to the store to purchase the necessary items. What follows is what I came up with; my version of the Liege Waffel.

Liege Waffel

Set aside some time for this one, this is a true waffel love affair requiring a few intermediary steps. It first requires making a sponge. Allow one package yeast and a spoonful of sugar (it makes the medicine go down) and flour to proof in one and a third cups of warm milk. Add this brew to an egg and mix until smooth with about one and three-quarters cup of flour. Allow to rise until mighty big and fluffy.

Next make a paste out of 2 spoonfuls of sugar, a dash of salt and baking powder, a quarter cup of flour, a stick of butter and three-quarter cup of Turbinado sugar (or any large crystal sugar). The goal here is to have some sugar undissolved so as to caramelize and in the waffel iron, which you should probably have on at this point. Combine with sponge and allow to rest before forming into equal rounds. This should resemble more of a dough at this point. Cook in waffel iron until done or until you cannot stand it any longer.

Don a cycling cap and indulge, but be careful. These are dangerous and far from low-Cal. Best share them or hoard them all to yourself. I am on to you Waffel man.

Pilgrimage

2009-08-19T04:14:00.000-07:00

Destination of the month: Dayton, Ohio. Birthplace of aviation (sorry North Carolina, you're nothing more than a surrogate mother to this one) and me. Yep, I'm an Ohioan, a Daytonian, and darn proud of it. Ohio was a welcome refreshment. The foliage was greener, air was fresher, drivers were not idiots. Dayton in particular has a heritage with the bicycle and the airplane, so I spent some time doing some riding around the beautiful countryside. Cornfields and soybeans as far as you can see and the occasional fly-by from a WWII plane or fighter jet showing off for people in town for the International Air Show.

My wife and I have made this trip part of our annual plan for the past three years. Load up the household, escape the blast furnace that is South Carolina, and enjoy some controlled chaotic relaxation with our families. Part of the plan was for me to drive around the city and snap some photos of my favorite landmarks and visit some of the city's history (like the Wright Brothers Cycle shop). None of this came to fruition as we were both very busy and most of these landmarks now reside in the ghetto. What hath happened to my fair city?

Driving down two of the town's major arteries, Main St. (go figure) and Salem Ave., one is confronted with graffitied, abandoned buildings, vacant and overgrown lots, and people on street corners. The sprawl has even reached some of the countryside. Industrial parks and new buildings springing up next to empty ones. "It must be cheaper to build new than to renovate," I blurt out. "Why not just use existing buildings and shouldn't that be a requirement?" retorts my wife. Yup. If you're not going to reuse it, blow it up and make green space. This seems to have been the trend for some time now, but perhaps today's economy has been particularly cruel. Things appear to have taken a step-change for the worse.

Never one to look at the positives (though I'm trying to get better at this), I did find some solace during my travels (by bike and otherwise). I was encouraged by the quaint surrounding towns still untouched by Sprawlville; by the blue skies, green grass, and smell of Ohio sweet corn that permeates the air; by the culture of the people (some of whom still give a crap about their city). Whatever happens, I will always have a special place for my hometown. My love for family and Ohio will always bring me back.

Dayton Renaissance

2009-08-08T10:50:00.000-07:00

Fresh off of two decent performances, I decided to tackle my third race in a week at the Team Dayton Renaissance Criterium. Held at the Renaissance Festival near Dayton, this race seemed more like a mini road race than a crit. No city steets here. An open field, some hay bales, and plywood medeval castles. You could actually see the entire course from the start line.

Knowing this was a smaller race, I spent all week riding and building myself up. I could win this one. I wouldn't do any work during the race. Just sit there, smile, and wait for just the right moment to dole out some pain. I was brimming with confidence. Did I mention that I was also brimming with about six beers, a bunch of chips and brownies, and a host of other food that I had gorged myself with the day before? Umph. I felt like crap. Add a stiff headwind on the back section and a big digger of a hill in turn four leading to the finishing straight and it was time to switch to plan B: just sit there, grimace, and have a nice big cup of suffer.

Neither plan really worked. The field was pretty small (about 20) and was mostly comprised of Team Dayton riders (it was afterall their race). It came as no surprise then, that their strategy was to control the front and keep sending guys on solo breaks to break the spirit of the field. With this in mind, I stayed near the front and fought off every urge to chase the next guy as Team Dayton kept blocking on the front. After a few laps, yesterday's food had begun migrating to my esophagus and the herky-jerky race pace was killing me. The field was strung out at 30 mph on the backstretch, down to 17 mph into the headwind, and jumping out of the saddle on the finishing hill. I was fighting my bike and the urge to puke the whole way.

A prime lap raised the pace and for some stupid reason I thought, "Yeah, a prime!" "Just what I wanted, a new water bottle valued at just over 2 dollars!" I had no idea what the prime might be, but it was probably something along those lines; probably something worth blowing completely up over. Throw the plans out the window kids, papa needs a brand new water bottle. Okay, so I didn't win it. Instead, I decided to assert my dominance over the field by taking a flyer on the front, much to the glee of my family. While I lead the field by all of 20 yards, I could hear the race announcer, "...and there goes a serious attack from the rider from South Cackalacky!?" That felt pretty cool, although I knew my attack was short lived and far from serious. A few seconds later, two kids (half of my age) blow my doors off and I struggle to latch on. Now this was a serious break. If I could only hang on and work with them, we may have a shot. Too bad that at this point I was gassed.

They quickly dropped me like a bad habit and now the field was coming. I had to figure out how to recover and hang on. First to worst in one lap and struggling to stay on the wheel in front of me, who was struggling to stay on the wheel in front of him! Time to make a move. Out of the saddle and sprinting to latch on, my day was about to hit a new low; I get passed by some old dude with a beer gut the size of Vesuvius. Field splintered, I become a straggler just riding it out. There were 3 or 4 of us spread out and then reintegrated as we all recovered from our beatdown.

I flash my wife the "slit-throat" sign to inform her that I'm done and for her to inform my family members to stop cheering for me; as it will only make me feel worse. The remnant pack regrouped and starting working together for the final five laps. I gather my senses and quickly assess that I'm the strongest (and youngest) of this motley crew. Now it is a game. I decide to pretend that I'm in a long breakaway, like in the Tour de France, working to stay away from the chasing peleton. I worked with my enemies until one-to-go and then I turned on them like the female Praying Mantis.

Feeling worse than bad about my performance, I try to make myself puke only to fail at that too (but I did nearly rupture all of the blood vessels in my face from dry heaving). C'est la vie.

Apples

2009-08-04T08:25:00.000-07:00

"Hey, Thom, Johan, do you like apples?" (LA)

"Yeah, we like apples" (JB)

"How do you like them f*&#@%in' apples?" (LA)

Lance Armstrong to Director Sportif and sponsor

Johan Bruyneel and Thomas Weisel during his ascent

to Sestriere in the 1999 TdF

My two-cents.

Third place in the Tour de France, the greatest bicycle race in the history of the world (and possibly the greatest sporting event as well), could only be disappointing to a 7-time winner. Do I think he could have won? No. Whether he chose not to follow the accelerations of his teammate or he couldn't, he is still the greatest TdF champion ever. Do I think he could have finished second? Yes. If not for the selfish antics of Alberto Contador, perhaps Astana could have swept the entire podium. Can he win next year? Not sure. But whatever his motivation for his comeback, he needs no more ammunition.

Kung Fu Dreams

2009-08-01T02:01:00.000-07:00

If you know me or if you're a regular to this site, then by now you've figured out that I'm just not quite right. This won't do any to alleviate that feeling. I'll do my best to explain this one, although I'm not sure that I've figured it out for myself.

I had Kung Fu Dreams as a kid. They would shake me to my foundation, leave me questioning what the hell just happened, and occasionally, I still have them. What are Kung Fu dreams you ask? Allow me to provide you with some background.

First, when Fox hit the airwaves in the mid '80s in Dayton as WRGT, their programming was very limited. One show that quickly became a staple in my house was Kung Fu Theater. Two episodes, taped every Sunday from 2-6 am. Awesome graphic violence. Second, I had a lot of ear infections as a kid. These suck. When I slept, I could hear my pulse pounding in my ear as it was smashed against my head. Pow-pow, pow-pow, pow-pow. I often confused this sound with a gorilla, pounding it's chest, hunting me down (I know, don't ask). Lastly, our family had this huge, orange, old, four hundred pound chair in our living room. Though not the least bit comfortable, it was great for sleeping in; feet straight up, head smashed into the seat cushion.

Okay. Spend late Sunday morning watching Kung Fu Theater. Get tired from too much TV and the onset of an ear infection. Pass out in orange chair. In and out of rem-sleep with visions of Kung Fu ninjas chasing me with cymbals (the gorilla) and Punji sticks. Wake up. Punji sticks still in my ears (as the ear infection) and cymbals still banging in my head (as my pulse). Absolutely terrifying. I cannot recreate it and certainly cannot make this stuff up.

Tour d'Burg

2009-07-28T16:56:00.000-07:00

While the rest of the world focuses on the Tour de France, Sunday my focus was on the Tour d'Burg (short for Miamisburg). While the best cyclists in the world roll past wineries, chateaus, and French farmland, the best cyclists in Ohio rolled past shirtless dudes with mullets and Daytonian suburbia with a hint of reefer. That's right. For the second year in a row, the Tour d'Burg would play host to the Ohio State Criterium Championships. And for the third year in a row, yours truly was there.

Coming off of a solid performance the day before and having finished second in the state last year, confidence was running high. I again had the whole family on hand to provide for the largest cheering section (special thanks again to everyone and to Chad for the photos), so lining up at the front for the start was easy; getting clipped into my pedals was another story. This is why lining up and staying at the front is important; it keeps you out of trouble. After some difficulty, I managed to settle myself down and begin battling for position. About five laps in, and all but a few of us were still jostling. There would be the occasional unsuccessful attack on the front, but largely, it seemed like the rest of the group had been broken like rented mules. Everyone just putting in an appearance and keeping the crit uneventful.

No complaints here. After barrelling through a cobbled section and getting closed out in a turn (I've never gripped the bars so hard. I thought my hands would fuse to the drops!), I was just happy not to have gone down. I felt great overall during the race. My legs had loosened up and I even managed to shoot my wife a smile about midway though. I'd been working on some speed techniques and decided to try them during the race. While staying in the same gear, I try to raise my cadence (rpm) but not my effort. I call it "keeping my legs light" (which is what I repeat to myself in my head). It seems to keep the lactic acid out of my legs while keeping my speed high.

I held steady at the front and had great position on the final few laps (which were miscounted by the officials). Despite this error and despite not getting out of the saddle for the sprint, I still managed a respectable eighth place (which would've been third had they counted laps

correctly). This is the kind of retrospective thinking to be careful of; over-analyzing, second guessing, hindsight etcetera. If you asked me during the field sprint if I gave it my all, I could not have answered you. I could barely breathe. Had you asked me again afterwards, I would have said that I should have gone earlier.

If instead of continuing this discussion with your conscience, you choose to learn from it, you will be rewarded. Next week, we will see if my experience pays dividends.

Troy Classic

2009-07-20T17:23:00.000-07:00

This Saturday marked my third participation in the Troy Classic on the Square Criterium; easily one of my favorite events and this year was even better. The race looks extremely technical on paper. It features ten turns in a downtown setting, a roundabout, and stiff headwinds coming off the Little Miami river. Oh and did I mention that light rain was in the forecast. The kind of rain not hard enough to slow the pace, but light enough to shatter collar bones, put people into barriers, and nearly stop a field sprint on the final lap. It all happened. Despite the carnage, the course was in excellent shape with roads wide enough to hit every turn at full gas. This race has it all.

I came into the race with some serious apprehension. For one, I'd be racing with the CAT 3s in a fifty-three man field. CAT 3 should be synonymous with guys capable of inflicting long drawn-out efforts of pain. Guys capable of going right from the gun and soloing to victory (which is pretty much what happened). Secondly, this was to be my first race in awhile and on an inferior bike. Now, before you go on about, "the bike shouldn't matter, you're the engine." I know. It's a psychological advantage. Psychology is a huge advantage in any sport, particularly cycling. Enter my psychological advantage: the family. I found out a few hours before the start that my folks and a few of my in-laws would be in attendance. Partly to watch me and partly for the kids race that was to precede the Pro 1/2 race. No pressure.

It wouldn't be so bad if I got dropped and ended up riding the last few laps by myself, would it? You know, just to say that I didn't quit. That I stuck it out like some punch-drunk pugilist. I would get a few atta-boys. I'd still be a champion to my kids. Not so bad right? No. Not today. If sparing myself embarrassment meant only sticking with the pack, then so be it. At least I wouldn't be finishing with my tail between my legs. But I would have regrets...

For me, the 2009 edition of the Troy Classic can be split into three acts. The opener: wind and wheel sucking fury. Jostling for position. This is how most crits begin. Soon enough your lungs and legs adjust and you can switch your focus from survival to strategy. Intermission: ten laps of planning, saving energy, and finding out who to stay away from. On this day, I was that guy. I forgot how to corner. I couldn't turn to safe my life. This may have been me over-thinking the turns or perhaps revisiting the pile of very expensive carbon that assembled itself in front of me on the roundabout. Whatever it was, I managed to lock-up my rear wheel twice. I finally was able to regain my composure in time for the endgame (this after nearly crapping myself and receiving plenty of advice from the peloton). The finale: yo-yoing speed, going four-wide into the corners, and guys taking stupid risks; your standard criterium finish. I just held my place and with two to go, made my way to the front all the while thinking, "Dude, do you want that position or not?"

Hitting the final trip around the roundabout, I had a feeling of relief. Relief at being finished, at finishing respectably (I was 10th at the time), at finishing safely. Whoops, almost spoke too soon. With a flash of smoke and exploding rubber the two guys in front of me went down. In almost slow motion, I ride between their broken bikes and bodies while someone shouts, "Don't stop! Go, go, go!" My lost momentum costs me a few spots and letting up before the line costs me two more (a mistake I will never make again) for 15th. Good enough for one point. I'll take it.

The kids ended up being the real winners on the day as they seemed to enjoy themselves during the kids race. Medals and lollipops for all! Having the family there really meant a lot and helped keep me going. More riding and a few more races this week and then back to SC.

Lowcountry Boil

2009-07-14T12:11:00.000-07:00

Get ready to get messy. If you live along the southeastern coast, specifically the Low Country, you're probably familiar with this dish. It is a summer tradition. It is akin to the hot dogs, hamburgers, and potato salad of the Midwest and it is simple. Invite about six friends over, break out your crab-crackers and cocktail sauce, and strap on a bib; eating this is a sport.

The base:

In a large Dutch oven, brown some chopped onions in olive oil. Add garlic, peppercorns, chopped tomatoes (fresh or canned), small new or fingerling potatoes, a bay leaf and some Old Bay or Cajun seasoning.

Cover and simmer on low heat until potatoes soften.

Now the good stuff; the seafood triumvirate.

With about ten minutes to go, jack up the heat, add the following, give a quick stir, and steam.

Crab: true veterans of this dish will insist on whole, local blue crabs. I find these to be too much work for too little reward. Go straight for King Crab legs.

Shrimp: a couple of pounds, shell on. If you want to get really authentic and super cheap, grab these off the boat or catch them yourself.

The Wild Card: this one is up to you. Lobster tails, mussels, even chunks of fish.

Top with a few broken ears of corn and cover.

This dish is best eaten outside. Cover a table with newspaper, dump it all out, lightly season and dive in. Plenty of napkins and cocktail sauce are necessary at this point. Wash down with a delicious Lager (or four).

The Title?

2009-07-11T10:17:00.000-07:00

By now, if you're like me, you may be wondering (or perhaps not): what's up with the title of your blog? Yeah. Truth is, up until a last week, I really had no idea. As I sat on my bike, suffering, sucking wind, and watching the wheels in front of me pull away, I was unceremoniously dropped. I thought, "well, it was the best I could do." It's a mantra that I repeat in my daily life; at work, at home, in my mind. It's an excuse. It's an outright lie. It's the kind of thing, that if someone were to say to me, I would say "bullsh*t!" I know I can do better, I choose not to.

My chest nearly exploding, legs shattered, I drop into a lower gear and try to recover. On the road ahead, the group was splintered by the relentless pace and others are dropped. I start to recover. I start to think, "I can do better." Back into a bigger gear, I lift my cadence and focus on gobbling up the stragglers. One by one, we are re-integrated (though not completely) and my revelation is complete. Perhaps I should adopt the new title. I can do better.

The simple power of suggestion makes a huge difference. Wanting to do better and holding myself accountable have already begun to show results. Am I ready to change my title? Not yet. I kind of like the old one. At the time, it was born of my writing and lack of a better title. I'm not a writer so I'll tell my stories in the best way that I can, hence it's the best that I could do.

My parents often told me that if I do my best, then that is all that anyone could ever ask of you. Anyone except yourself. It is always easy to second guess yourself afterwards. "Was it really my best?" "Could I have done better?" "Maybe I should have done..." But if you ask yourself to do your best, and then at the moment when you feel you've done your best, tell yourself that you can do better, you probably will. Time to change the title? Nah. For now, it's the best I could do.

The Stare

2009-07-08T11:11:00.000-07:00

I used to be able to hypnotize myself. I could get my brain to enter a hyper-sensory hibernation mode. I did this by staring at people doing mundane things. By focusing so intently on their accomplishment of some menial task, I was able to leave my body and become an observer from a different perspective. Sound weird? It is.

Put yourself in a public place, out in the open, and divorce yourself from everything (church is a good place to try this). Begin watching people until you find someone doing a completely thankless task; shelving books, mopping a floor, folding clothes. When you feel a wave washing over your brain, much like a pins and needles effect, it's working. Don't fight it. Soon you will be an observer from a different perspective; that of the person you were watching! I told you it was weird. Your brain and body are left completely behind like a TV that has been shutoff and crackles with static electricity.

The spell can be snapped in several ways: when you want it to, when the person your watching stops what their doing, or if someone physically touches you. You will feel like being awoke from a deep sleep. Refreshed, confused, rebooted. Try it. Get disconnected.

Bellum omnium contra omnes

2009-07-04T01:10:00.000-07:00

"I show in the first place that the state of men without civil society (which state may be called the state of nature) is nothing but a war of all against all; and that in that war, all have a right to all things"

"When God speaketh to man, it must be either immediately or by mediation of another man, to whom He had formerly spoken by Himself immediately. How God speaketh to a man immediately may be understood by those well enough to whom He hath so spoken; but how the same should be understood by another is hard, if not impossible, to know. For if a man pretend to me that God hath spoken to him supernaturally, and immediately, and I make doubt of it, I cannot easily perceive what argument he can produce to oblige me to believe it."

"This considered, the kingdom of darkness… is nothing else but a confederacy of deceivers that, to obtain dominion over men in this present world, endeavour, by dark and erroneous doctrines, to extinguish in them the light…."

Thomas Hobbes

from Leviathan

ca. 1651

Christmas in July

2009-07-01T14:19:00.000-07:00

I've decided to spend this July 4th in France. Actually, I'll be spending the better part of the entire month there with some brief visits to Monaco, Switzerland, Spain, and Italy. Sounds like a great trip and all from the comfort of my living room.

For the past twenty-three years I've been watching the Tour de France. I can remember growing up and watching the pageantry of the Tour. I became fixated with the amazing scenery, throngs of people, place names, and cycling. I can remember Greg Lemond battling for an 8 second win on the Tour's last stage, Miguel Indurain winning five Tours in a row, Lance's seven, and the ugliness of the Festina and Landis doping scandals. Each one different. Each one with a story. The 2003 Tour remains my favorite. I sat on the edge of my couch and watched every second of it. I even watched every replay. This year will be no different.

My wife says that in July she becomes a 'Tour widow'. I spend more time with my British friends Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen than anyone else. These guys are far and away the best commentators in the world. The mountains and towns of France and the cyclists' names roll out like poetry. Mountains like the Col du Marie Blanc, Le Mont Ventoux, Col du Galibier, or L'Alpe d'Huez. Cities like La Grand Bornand, Toulouse, Saint-Ettienne, or Futurescope. Even cycling terms or names sound like a thing of beauty; Mailliot Jeaune, le tete de le course, Sylvain Chavenel. The French even call the winds that blow across their countryside le Mistral. Say it. Le Mistral. L'Aple d'Huez. What is not to love?

This year's Tour promises to be one for the ages. The field is literally wide open. All the dopers have been left at home (hopefully) and the finale will likely be decided on the next to the last day on the slopes of the Ventoux. Will Carlos Sastre defend? Will Alberto Contador continue his dominance or become embroiled with teammate Lance Armstrong's quest for an eighth? Will there be a new winner? Eventually I will go to see the Tour. Until then, I'll stay tuned.

OBX

2009-06-27T15:09:00.000-07:00

Destination of the week: North Carolina's Outer Banks. Think of it as the land of the lost; the land that time forgot, where the locals are as worn and weathered as the landscape. I think of it as vacation and a really kick ass place. A place to get sweaty, salted, sanded, and baked.

My family has vacationed here for awhile now, but this was our first return in nearly seven years. The place has changed a lot since then; strip malls and mega-marts popping up everywhere, more kiteboards than surfboards, and overall, less quirkiness. Apparently during our seven year absence, it had been discovered. It is the collection of hodge-podge and randomness that make the Outer Banks great. For me, the allure of the Outer Banks has faded some. Or perhaps, it was me. I no longer have to own a T-shirt and sticker from every surf shop on the island (my board barely saw the surf). I didn't feel the urge to purchase everything at every general store I visited (most of which, in my opinion, had lost their lustre and intrigue). I didn't stop at every roadside dune to check out the break (though I wanted to). I did get to do everything I wanted, almost.

It is the almost and everything that hasn't changed that will bring me back. The almost I refer to is the 'kid in a candy store' feeling. Unrealistic as it may be, I see something and say, "Ooh look, I want to do that!" Guess I'll have to come back. What hasn't changed is the awesome food and home cooking (which I ate too much of), great times with family, and killer surroundings. Trip highlights included relaxing with the fam, trips to the NC Aquarium and Jockey's Ridge, splashing in the waves at the legendary S-Curves, bonfires and S'mores on the beach, and some 'fishing.'

My Hatteras top five:

1. The Wave Magnet--The Hatteras Light. Been there before, but didn't make it this trip. Extremely cool.

2. The Atlantic--The awesome power of this wave machine. Huge glassy barrels and crushing power.

3. Outdoor showers--My next house will have one.

4. Highway 12--A simple one-lane stretch from Nags Head to Hatteras. It has to be considered one of America's greatest.

5. The vibe--Sea breeze with a light hint of fishiness fills the air. Shirt and shoes are optional everywhere. Everything is chill.

When you leave them, the Outer Banks evoke a great sadness. Sadness at leaving Nature's beauty, good times and memories, and vacation. The sadness of returning to work (like a kid at the end of Christmas break or summer vacation). Work is for sucks. The OBX is for me.

World Championship Wednesday

2009-06-17T15:58:00.000-07:00

WCW. It's no coincidence that World Championship Wednesday (as I dubbed it) shares its initials with he former wrestling league. The team's newest training criterium promised to be a knock-down, drag-out fight. Last night was my first participation, and I must admit, that I wasn't feeling too good about it. Be it getting ten hours of sleep in the last 72, or just knowing some of the names that might show up, I had a feeling that I was going to get shelled. No, shellacked.

Last night's small group of six had me feeling better about my chances. Five of us would be racing for second as there was no chance that we'd beat one guy. The course is a .5 mile loop with wide roads, good pavement, and two turns in a yet to be developed subdivision; a far cry from the previous training crit on the old Navy base (insert any of the following synonyms: hood, ghetto, Compton, projects etc). Fifty minutes plus five laps for the World Title!...or just some recognition among the local cycling circle.

Down to business. The race was on at a steady 24-25 mph, but rather than feeling like a crit, it felt more like a team time trial. Each person took a lap-long pull at the front and rotated out. There were no attacks, though there were a few charges and a few people dropping out. The thought of sitting out a lap did cross my mind. It sounded enticing. It sounded demoralizing. "No, I won't quit," I told myself. There were only three of us still on the same lap and therefore I had a chance at second if it came to a sprint. The lap countdown had begun and on the bell lap, Jamie put in a huge pull. A 30+ mph, three-quarters of a lap lead out for the final sprint. I was in second coming into the final turn and I could feel third coming up fast. Apparently he was starting to feel it too, so I gave it what little I had left and managed to hold on. Second. I'll take that.

Don't expect those kind of results often, but do expect more appearances at the WCW crit. This was awesome crit training and loads of fun.

Royale with Cheese

2009-06-14T13:16:00.000-07:00

Destination of the week: Port Royal, SC. Situated near Beaufort and about 90 miles south of Charleston, Port Royal is one of a countless number of small Low Country coastal towns revolving around easy living. It was recently voted one of the top ten "coolest small towns" in America by one of these worthless internet polls. Having been there before, I could agree that it is a quaint little town. Coolest towns in America? I think not. But since I was in town for some bike racing, I decided to make the most of my once a year visit.

The drive south of Charleston on US-17 is one of my favorites. It is a stretch of the American landscape filled with small towns, open brackish marshes, coastal creeks, and ancient forests. I arrived with a few hours to spare before my race, so I decided to check out some of the town and talk to the locals about how to spend my twelve hours in Port Royal (which is all anyone would ever need). The staff at the Old Village Coffee Haus were more than accommodating. They said I had to have dinner at the Dockside Restaurant and be back by 6:30 for the Saturday evening concert series. Decisions made easy.

After my race, I bummed around town for awhile checking things out. Port Royal is on a small peninsula surrounded by intercoastal waterways and just north of Paris Island. The town is shielded by massive Live Oaks and draped in Spanish Moss. The shrimping industry and Marine Corps presence can be seen everywhere. Every house and business has a large, welcoming porch. I was immediately struck by the shanty shacks next to new construction homes, the older local crowd next to the shirtless, mulletted yokels. A sign of a town growing in no particular direction.

I stuck around to watch the Pro race before heading back to my hotel to get cleaned up for dinner. This was a mistake. By the time I had returned, the Dockside restaurant's parking lot was packed, and by all accounts, I wasn't getting in anytime soon. Luckily I had been eyeing a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint on the edge of town (quite a step down, but I was hungry enough to eat the hind-end off a hobby horse). I decided to waive my other options, a Thai place in an old one-room schoolhouse or a sandwich cafe, for calzones and beer. Another mistake. I make better calzones. At least I could make it to the street concert for another beer, some dessert, and good music.

The street was filled with Port Royalty. Lawnchairs, kids, and the smell of steamed shrimp (quite a contrast to the burgers and potato salad of my Midwestern youth). The sounds of Jo hn

McCutcheon's folk and children's music were entertaining and a great endcap for the evening. Retiring for the night, I vow to be back next year, family in tow.

Low Country Challenge

2009-06-09T19:02:00.000-07:00

Headed south this weekend to participate in the Low Country Challenge, an omnium consisting of an individual time trial (TT), a criterium, and a road race. This was the second year for the event and my second participation, but it was to be my first time doing a TT. I borrowed a pair of aerobars from a friend and had been working on time trialing over the 40-kilometer distance. I knew the winning time at this distance would be under an hour, an average speed of over 25 mph! I also knew that this was beyond me, so I was shooting for a respectable 1:10:00. This was more than achievable. During practice, I had done 43k in about 1:15 with traffic.

I had always been skeptical of time trials. Aerobars look goofy and who is there to race against but yourself? Exactly. The time trial is often called the race of truth. How hard can you push yourself for a sustained time period without blowing up? Sometimes you surprise yourself and sometimes the truth hurts, either way you learn something. While I did enjoy the time trialing experience, I decided to fore go the TT in favor of sleep. Work was again getting in the way of my professional cycling career.

Other than being more humid than a Norwegian sauna, Saturday's crit went off without much fanfare. The non-technical course and the officials cutting the race short, lent it to being one of the fastest criteriums I can remember. There was no respite the entire time, and my heart rate monitor showed it. I averaged 171 beats per minute, maxxing out at 183. This was after starting with a resting rate of 100 bpm (over 40 bpm higher than normal, thanks to nerves and Starbucks!). I stayed near the front throughout, but got passed twice in the sprint to end up with tenth.

I awoke for Sunday's road race to rain. Not wanting to trash the Tarmac, I considered riding the old bike. "Naah, you only live once right?" I reasoned. The course was another fairly non-technical route on the Marine Core Air Station in Beaufort. Forty-one miles, fresh pavement, a couple of torrential downpours, and not much more. The pack stayed together most of the time, letting breaks go and then letting them get reeled back. I chased one down myself, at about the 25 mile point, as a matter of a personal vendetta. I considered this break a potentially serious one, but mainly I just didn't want this guy to win. He had been riding like a moron, weaving everywhere, so I nailed him back and just sat on him.

I again stayed where I wanted and ended up in third position lining up for the sprint finish. Perfect, except that I was already on the limit. I felt myself fading and about 500 meters from the line, I gave it the last few digs for 17th. Nothing special, but I felt good for doing it.

Flight

2009-05-12T10:27:00.000-07:00

As time passes and people grow older, all but the most poignant, exciting, inspiring, and sometimes painful memories fade into a blur; much like staring from the window of a speeding car. But it is for those memories which we remember that we look back and laugh, cry, shudder, or share stories. Please allow me to share a story here, told from two perspectives, taken over 20-years apart. It is one that is all of the above for me (except painful, though you would think I was torturing myself at the time).

I must have been eight or ten years old when I learned how to ride a bicycle. I can remember begging my parents to teach me. They would spend evenings, for what seemed like a month, running beside me, holding the seat of my brother's Green Grasshopper bike (complete with what he said was a special squared-off, slick grass rear tire and banana seat) or my sister's girlie BMX-lookin' bike (which I proudly rode, mind you, until I got a bike of my own). On occasion, unbeknown to me, they'd let go of the seat and let me ride for yards on end until I wobbled out of control and they were there to save me. The only painful part of my entire recollection came not from crashing, but from frustration.

My mantra became, "I give up! I'll never be able to ride I bike!" "I can't do it!", I'd sob. As frustrating as learning was to me, it had to be doubly frustrating to my parents. The cycle went like this: beg Mom and Dad to run with me in the yard, not believe them when they told me I could do it, scream and bawl my eyes out until both parties had enough, repeat in a few days time. I think they eventually put my brother and sister up to this just to spare themselves some of the agony. And so it went until late one Saturday morning, when myself and the Earth were in perfect balance (planets aligned, Vernal Equinox, etc) and I actually rode my bike. My parents had worked with me most of the morning and suddenly my cries turned into nervous laughter. I still needed a push to get going (learning that would come later) and I ran into the Silver Maple a few times, but I did it. Free as a bird with wheels. Self-motorized transport.

Fast forward twenty-plus years. I now have kids of my own with bikes of their own. My youngest wants to ride anything with wheels, while his sister requires some prodding. Just getting her to ride with training wheels is a battle, forget about riding with the possibility of crashing. Instead of begging to learn how to ride my bike, my wife and I were now begging her to learn how to ride hers. Begging became pleading, pleading became bribing, but finally we were able to convince her. After several wobbly attempts and much whining and complaining her mantra became, "I don't wanna ride my bike!" "I can't do it!", she'd sob. Things had come full circle. I was getting a dose of my own medicine. As frustration set it on us both, we swallowed the bitter pill and put her bike away until next time.

The next few attempts brought much promise. Several unassisted trips down the sidewalk or across the parking lot. Fear turning into nervousness and then into confidence. Our frustration turning into smiles and exuberance. At less than half the age that I learned to ride, she can now do it all alone. Free from such terrestrial things as feet. Free to fly.

Units

2009-05-09T09:57:00.000-07:00

calorie (cal)-the amount of heat required at one atmoshpere to raise one gram of water by one degree Celsius.

Calorie (kcal)-one thousand times the above quantity.

The latter is how your food is represented on nutritional labels. The average adult requires 2000 Calories per day just to sustain itself. This is equivalent to the amount of heat required to raise the temperature of a metric ton of water by one degree Celsius. A seemingly enormous amount until you consider that this is the same energy required to power a 60-Watt light bulb for a day and a half. Makes you appreciate the efficiency of the human body.

Ear Experiment

2009-05-06T17:19:00.000-07:00

You may not want to hear this. You may wonder why I'm telling you, but every six months, I lose my hearing.

Before you go freaking out saying, "What, oh my God! What's the matter?" Just hear me for a second. For whatever the reason, my ears don't shed their wax (again, before you get completely grossed out and consider me a freak, read on) and it's not for lack of trying. I clean my ears regularly. No, not with a Q-tip (apparently you're not supposed to do that anymore), but my finger (I knew you'd still be reading, it's like a train wreck). So to remedy the situation and keep my sanity, I'd go to the local urgent care and have my ears chiseled and irrigated. Sounds kind of embarrassing doesn't it? It was, but only for the first visit.

What was I to do? I wanted to hear. After doing the normal routine of yawning and finger-prying to pop my ears and having no success, it was time for minor ear surgery. I'm sure the nurse at the urgent care thought I was being a wuss and exaggerating...exaggerating until she looked into my ear. I told her that I was sorry that she had to do this and that it was probably pretty gross. She shrugged it off, said that was why she had chosen the medical field, and went to work. Without hesistation she dug right in with a precision ear picker, syringe of hot water, and a bed pan propped under my ear. I could hear and feel the stuff coming out of my ear. At one point I even smelled it. This stuff must have been buried under my ear-strata for awhile to smell like that. Gross huh?

Forty-five minutes per ear and several iterations later and it finally happened. With a "pop", I had a moment of clarity that I had been missing for some time. I could hear. Not just hear, but hear with ultra sensory perception. My car sounded so different that I thought it needed a tuneup. It was then that I decided that I must do this every six months. Everyone should. Like a haircut, a message, a dental visit; it should be scheduled human maintenance.

And so I did, twice a year, until I managed to smuggle out my own ear chisel and irrigating syringe. Now I do it myself at home. That's gratification.

Breakfast of Champions

2009-05-03T19:10:00.000-07:00

Breakfast is by far the best and the most important meal of the day. Nothing kicks off metabolism and brain function while staving off hunger and morning breath better. I spent a large part of my teenage and college years skipping it; never again. Bagels, fruit, coffee, eggs, cereal, cold pizza and on and on. The list is endless and universal, but for you, I have provided some of my favorites.

In a bowl--try any of these simple and quick breakfasts for the bowl

Wheat and barley cereals--satisfying and healthy. Add some berries for natural sweetener and antioxidant power.

Mueslix--this mix of nuts, grains, and dried fruit can be eaten with milk cold or hot (or the Euro-way, overnight in the fridge covered in milk).

Parfaits--mix your favorite fruits, yogurt, and crunchy cereal for this tasty and complete treat.

Fruit--enough said.

On a plate--more effort required here. Well worth the reward.

Fried Egg Sandwich--eggs, cheese, mustard, and any breakfast meat. Fry the eggs in the renderings of the meat for extra crispiness. Not the healthiest of options, just the tastiest. Especially good after an early morning surf session on the beach (hint, hint).

Padre Island Gumbo--with fried potatoes and onions, eggs, cheese, and meats, this is a veritable trash bowl of breakfast. My parents used to cook this in our backyard in cast iron skillets over open coals. They'd have their friends over and all be wearing overalls and straw hats with signs that read "Welcome to Claytonbach" (still not sure what that was about). If we had neighbors, they might think we were crazy. I thought it was pretty cool and delicious.

The faves--my current favorites. Restaurant quality, easily made at home.

Salmon Benedict--top two toasted English Muffins with spinach or basil, smoked or grilled salmon, two poached (firm but runny) eggs, and cheese. Season with cracked pepper and Dijon mustard. Packed with protein and healthy fats, this will keep you going all day.

Huevos Rancheros--boil then pan fry and season about a handful of fingerling potato wedges. At the same time, brown some sausage in a pan and then add in black beans. Combine these ingredients atop a toasted tortilla. Garnish with salsa, sour cream, and cilantro, top with a fried egg (again, runny is better) and get ready to tuck in!

Mix it up. Try something different each day. I do.

A Pivotal Weekend (Part 3)

2009-04-30T09:48:00.000-07:00

(continued) Sunday was the SC State Criterium Championships. My race was strictly CAT 4s around a non-technical oval course. My strategy was to stay near the front, and with any luck, be in a position around the final turn to take something in the sprint. My legs didn't feel particularly good, but the nerves were gone. Another huge field and this time I made it a point to take my spot at the front of the line.

"It'd be a shame if a VW guy didn't win this one," the race official jibed. We were the home team and there were ten of us in the race. The race was on and a teammate and I lead the first lap. The stiffness immediately left my legs and I felt as if I could stay out all day. One lap in and a solo break happened. As leader of the pack and a member of said home team (a term the French would call the race Patron), it should have been my responsibility to bring him back, but I knew he wouldn't succeed and I had other intentions for the day.

I settled in place and stayed there for most of the race. At times I'd find myself drifting back and I'd have to reel in my place. Of course, there were the occasional hard charges toward the front followed by idiotic screams from the back, "Right, right!" or "on the left, left!" These chants signaled that someone was trying to escape and shoot off the front. They are idiotic in the fact that the people screaming them have no intention of chasing down any break, nor do they understand the work that goes into trying to organize one. A completely amateur move.

I chased down one of these breaks only to find myself right on the front again where I stayed for half a lap. A bit winded and crossing the start finish line, I knew I had to slip back. The race had about ten minutes remaining and I needed time to recover. Just then "Prime on the next lap, prime, prime!" the announcer bellowed. I knew this was trouble. A prime (pronounced preem) is a prize for the winner of the next lap. The pace was about to ramp up just when I needed to recover. I managed but I was hurting. With 5 laps to go, I settled in perfect position and remained focused on the goal.

The pace had slowed down significantly until the final lap. Planning. Waiting. Getting boxed in. Damn it! The same moron that had boxed me in twice already was doing it again! "Dude, pull through!" I shouted. Too late. I had lost about twelve places and was only able to get a few back before the final sort out. I finished 18th. Though disappointed about the final lap, I was pleased about my attitude and strategy.

And by the way, a 'VW Guy' did win the race. As for me, I settled for my own blue ribbon.

A 4-year Old's Perspective

2009-04-27T18:45:00.000-07:00

Do you ever look at the things around you? No, really. Do you look at objects for what they should be instead of what they could be? What society deems them to be. Or, if you are like me, are you in such a rush as to not even spend the time to examine what is around you?

The ability to use our imagination and look at something objectively is a trait that is often lost on us. Somewhere between preschool and adulthood, the demands of society and everyday life will ween most of us from our free spirit, only to be revisited by it on rare occasion. I probably spend less than 5% of my day examining my surroundings and imagining. Instead I use my analytical mind to solve life's puzzles (most of which I've imposed on myself) or toil it away with the doldrums of work. Most of the time I need an outside source to rekindle what is important; a catalyst. Kids.

Children make you grow and age in ways you couldn't imagine.

Children make you imagine at an older age in ways that you otherwise couldn't. The same is true of my kids. I see myself as a child through them. I see them gleam of light in their eyes, hear the excitement of their discovery, witness their creativity. And while I cannot see their imagination, I can see them using it. It hasn't been wrung out of them by reality or society's rules. I hope it never does. Not to be stymied or stifled in any way. It is powerful.

Ponce de Leon searched in vain for an answer that is growing up all around us; at knee level. Our youth, our own pasts, are in our own youths. Get down own their level and look around. You see much more. They are imagination magnifiers; they get the details and make up the rest. The small look bigger and the big look larger. These pictures were taken by a 4-year old. Take a look at life through the eyes of a 4-year old and see life in ways you wouldn't have imagined.

A Pivotal Weekend (Part 2)

2009-04-24T10:57:00.000-07:00

(continued) A mind shift and here is where and how it happens. My wife says to me, "Just keep your head on straight." A simple yet poignant suggestion that sticks with me as I sit on the start line for the CAT 3/4 race. "Yeah. She's right," I say to myself. I breathe deeply, "Just keep my wits and I'll be fine." They would be my last deep breaths for over an hour. The whistle is on and after only a lap, I find myself three-fourths of the way back in another fifty-four man field. Just wanting to hang with these guys is all I wanted. Mission accomplished; proof of nothing.

About halfway through the race and I can see some of teammates working the front. Soon one is drifting back and I know what he's going to say. "Get your ass to the front!" he shouts at another. I'm next to hear, "Go to the front," and I have to do it. With no chance of winning, my sole responsibility lies with trying to help those that can. In an almost effortless maneuver, I move to the front where I stay for half a lap. Past the start/finish line and I'm running out of gas. No longer able to keep the pace, a gap develops. "Stay with them," a voice shouts. I cannot, my engine is blown. You see this happen many times. Someone pushes the limit too far or one too many times and pop! Thank you very much. They're off the back and their day is done. This is where I was. Oh well, it was a good try. Maybe next time.

But wait. I had drifted back to my original position, the pack had slowed and I had recovered. Five laps to go and I started thinking. "You need steel-like nerves to do what I'm doing right now." "You need less than half a brain!" On the final lap, I managed to catch my pedal going into a turn. My bike jumped laterally three feet, my rear wheel dug in hard, and I nearly soiled myself. Feeling that I had pressed my luck enough and needing new pants, I was resigned to finish a respectably disappointing 24th. None of which mattered to my family; they made me feel like a champ. Some simple words around the course of a race and I had a new outlook. "You know what?" I thought. "F@*# it!" I'm not racing this damned expensive bike to just survive. Tomorrow would be different.

Hiatus

2009-04-21T10:27:00.000-07:00

"I was explaining to people the other night, but I might've got it a bit wrong – this is just the end of something for U2....It's no big deal, it's just – we have to go away and ... and dream it all up again."

Bono at the end of the Lovetown Tour, 1989.

The start of a metamorphosis for the band

and what I've been and will be doing for awhile.

A Pivotal Weekend (Part 1)

2009-04-18T16:53:00.000-07:00

Cyclists from around the Southeast descended on the Lowcountry this weekend for Race Weekend presented by Pivotal Fitness/Trek Bikes of Mt. Pleasant. This is my cycling teams' annual race and a chance to get in some great racing in an amazing setting. The backdrop for it kicks off in I'on Village, which can best be described as a slightly European-style community with a Southern twist. The first time I did this race, I had delusions that I was a Pro-cyclist in Milan-San Remo barrelling down the Poggio along the Italian coast. The neighborhood is absolutely beautiful.

Saturday played host to the I'on Village Smackdown. Ne'er was there ever a more appropriate name for a race, especially the CAT 4/5, than the Smackdown. In particular, the I'on course features a little bit of everything: a roundabout, chicanes, sharp turns, cobbles and sharp turns with cobbles! Mix that with with some sketchy CAT 5s and you've got 45 minutes of shear terror.

In case you're new to cycling, every racer starts as a Category 5 and after meeting a series of wickets, you can "Cat-Up" to the next level. In each successive level, it becomes harder to upgrade and the competition gets stiffer until you can make it to the Pro/CAT1,2 level with the truly elite. Until this weekend I viewed myself as a career CAT 4 racer; destined to slog away and maybe steal some glory at the schlep level. Truth be told, the fours aren't much faster than the fives, just smarter.

I'd be doing two races this day, the CAT 4/5 in the morning and the CAT 3/4 in the afternoon, with differing approaches to each. My goal in the first race was to place high while avoiding the inevitable crashes that come with racing with the fives. The goal of the second race was to finish with the field. Both are flawed strategies for criterium races. In a criterium, or crit as they are often called, it is important to be near the front of the field. Positioning is key. Staying near the front and defending your position will help you (1) avoid crashes at the back, (2) require less energy and (3) maintain a high standing in the field. If you go into a race without a clear objective to stay near the front you will assuredly lose.

Jitters. Nerves aided by a fifty-four man field and racing my new and expensive bike (at the encouragement of my wife saying, "Why did you even buy that thing if you're not going to use it?"). Five laps in and settled into my comfort zone when the peloton exploded into a mass of metal, carbon, and broken bodies. A manhole cover claimed its first victim sending riders careening into an uncontrolled flesh-burn. I looked over in time to see two dudes landing on a front porch! Shit. Crashes have a psychological effect on the group that have a half-lap half-life. No sooner had I forgot about that crash when the rider in front of me pinned the guy on his right against the curb. I moved left just in time for him to fall head first into my crank and then bounce off of my rear wheel. I somehow managed to stay up and now there were five laps to go.

"Five to go, five to go, five to go!" the announcer shouts. This is everyone's cue to take insane risks and act like an idiot all for five seconds of fame. I was sitting nicely in about twelfth heading into the final cobble-stoned turn of the last lap. Nicely until two riders in front of me jostled in the corner and went down. Tires exploded. I nearly came to a dead stop to avoid them and by the time it as over, so too were my chances. The crash had caused a split in the field and I was only able to make up one spot for 12th overall.

Neither bad nor good but gaining confidence, the CAT 3/4 was next (to be continued...)

Words

2009-04-15T17:20:00.000-07:00

Doppelganger--(dŏp'əl-gāng'ər, -gěng'-) n. A ghostly double of a living person, especially one that haunts its fleshly counterpart.

Boomslang--(boom-slahng, -slang) n. a venomous, tree-dwelling snake, Dispholidus typus, of tropical and southern Africa, having black to greenish scales.

Worm-burner--n. A fast-moving ground ball in baseball

Hellbender--n. 1. a large salamander, Cryptobranchus alleganiensis, of rivers and streams in eastern North America, having a flat, stout body and broad head. 2. Informal. a reckless or headstrong person.

Slobber Knocker--n, v. especially in American football, a powerful collision or a match featuring unusual phsyical violence or intense play; (hence) also in other sports, an exciting game; an exciting or emotional event.

Some of my favorites.

Stupid Movie

2009-04-12T19:59:00.000-07:00

I'll probably end up taking some guff for this one. I don't care. If I did, then I wouldn't be posting it. It is sort of funny how you can sit down to watch a movie, having no expectations about the movies' content or theatrical merit, and walk away a shell of your former self. Some are poignant, while others mindless, but all leave you questioning your purpose, putting things in perspective, and setting you straight.

The two most recent films that come to mind are Bobby and Marley and Me. There, I said it. Marley and Me. A stupid movie with stupid actors and little to no theme that absolutely cut me to the bone. In case you haven't seen it, I won't spoil it too much for you. Here's the plot description (from the box):

"Based on the best-selling memoir, this feature adaptation centers on Jennifer and John Grogan, who, as newlyweds about to start a family, learn many of life's important lessons from Marley, their lovable yet trouble-seeking canine. This heartwarming story examines the highs and lows of marriage, maturity and confronting ones' own mortality, as seen through the lens of family life with a dog."

Yeah, not the deepest plot line. Just one that at the moment, seems to mirror my life perfectly. The last sentence says it all. Though I'm sure it wasn't unique to my situation, I couldn't help but to feel as if my family were the people in the film. Decisions we've made in our lives involving jobs, each other, our families, and their progression. Though not wanting to, I identified with the film. It grew so emotionally painful for me that I wanted to tell my wife to turn it off, wanted to scream at the TV, wanted to hate the movie for how it made me feel. It was too much. Made me do some hard thinking.

Bobby, on the other hand, made me mad for other reasons. Perhaps it was that I knew the outcome before I entered the theatre. Perhaps it was that as I watched the promise of the peoples' faces on the screen, I couldn't help but feel how things might have been different. Couldn't help but feel how as I sat there, Emperor Bush was screwing things up.

Economies crashing, wars waging, Americans existing; not prospering. I couldn't hold it all in. I tried. My wife asked if something was wrong; yeah. My wife asked if I was okay; no. I just sat there and lost it. I sat there and contemplated how idiots were affecting my children's future. I was bawling in the theatre.

There you have it. One movie leaving me with a new perspective on life, the other leaving me powerless and crushed. Be sure to check them out.

Do you think?

2009-04-09T12:14:00.000-07:00

"Chemical Ali" sentenced to death again.

Headline as seen on CNN

which begs the questions:

Is this guy already dead or will he be executed twice? and

Why is someone wasting time doling out two

punishments that cannot be carried out?

Doctors say implanting fewer embryos will mean a smaller chance of pregnancy.

Headline as seen on CNN
Really? Doctors said that?

This is why I don't regularly watch the news.

Are you anxious, panicked, depressed, schizophrenic?

Advertisement I saw on the back of a bus

for Mental Health Centers of Charleston.

If someone had one of these problems, don't you think

reading this ad would exacerbate their condition?

Try our fish. It's way better.

Wendy's Billboard.

Way better than what?

Are they not confident enough to say that it's the best?

After the Bridge Run

2009-04-06T10:04:00.000-07:00

Four years ago, this was the first century that I ever did. With my body shutting down, a throbbing dehydration headache, and six and a half hours later, I was pretty sure I never wanted to do that again. Nine centuries later and I've made this one of my favorites.

The After the Bridge Run spring century dubs itself as fast and flat. That it is. Bring plenty of water because there will be no stopping and with barely a ripple, this is the fastest century around.

8:00 am. and the group (500 total with about 100 for the century) couldn't have asked for better weather. Low: 65 High: 75 and light winds. It took only about a quarter mile for the pack to settle in to the pace it would hold for the next one hundred: fast. So much for the warmup. In fact, it would be 25 miles before I settled in. It sounds strange, but it takes a period of time before the body gets accustomed to some suffering. Sometimes you never get over it; those are the long days. Other times, if you can make it, you experience periods of strength that you never knew you had. This was one of those days.

While I wasn't out there taking monster pulls or soloing off the front (I leave that to the truly strong guys), I did have my moments. At about the halfway point, a group of about seven had slipped off the front and somehow the pack wasn't chasing. It looked like this group had some strong guys in it and I interpreted this as a serious threat to stay away. Apparently so did two others. Out of the pack and onto the chase wheels. Following some rude efforts and some periods of doubt, the three of us had bridged the gap and eventually, so to did the rest.

Following a slowing down of the group to allow for pee-breaks (some stopping and some peeing from the bike, a real Pro maneuver) it was time to chase back another. A triathlete, who for most of the day was doing his own thing at the front, had pulled away. A paceline was formed to bring him back. Showing some of my giddiness from earlier, I pulled through and lifted it to near 30 mph. With a flick of the elbow, signaling to the next rider to pull through, I moved over only to find that I had gapped the field. This can do bad things at the back of the peloton. Ideally, the person rotating through should do so smoothly so as not to cause a speeding up and slowing down at the back. It's just better to continuously pedal. Oh well.

Laid low for the next 30 miles and managed to bridge one more gap with about 3 miles to go. Despite some ugly smack talking in the last five miles and a weaving, wobbly-tired moron on the way out (who received a stiff-arm from me for his efforts), this was a great ride. At 3:56:47, I had finished with my best time and come a long way since that first century. Best of all I felt good doing it.

Daddy Starbucks

2009-04-03T10:07:00.000-07:00

I'm going to try something different this time. Instead of complaining and badmouthing companies that I hate, I'm going to talk about a company that I really believe in, and explain how they're screwing it up.

Like me, many of you too are struggling with addiction. Caffeine. Starbucks caffeine. The 'Meigs County Gold' of caffeine. Signs that you are suffering from this addiction are:

-not driving past a Starbucks without your car veering towards it
-finding yourself standing outside a Starbucks waiting for it to open while pulling on the door
-planning trips around Starbucks locations
-being recognized by Baristas
-showing off your new Starbucks locator cell phone app

If you or someone you know experiences one or more of these symptoms, get them some Starbucks now.

Believing they were and evil empire, I used to despise Starbucks. That is, until I actually tried their coffee and saw how they treated their customers. For such a huge company they treated me and their employees well. Offering me free beverages if I were ever inconvenienced by waiting, and despite their taxing and seemingly thankless job, doing it with a smile. I soon became their proponent, swearing off other coffees and spreading my satisfaction throughout the land. This was all to change about a year ago when Starbucks reintroduced its Pike Place brew in an attempt to compete with McDonald's.

If Starbucks is ever to fail, history will show that this was the beginning of the end. By competing with McDonald's, they became McDonald's. I've noticed customer service starting to slip and with it so goes my business. Below is a copy of the letter I recently posted on Starbucks' idea website entitled Don't lower your standards to compete.

Dear Starbucks,

If I wanted crap coffee, I could go to any number of gas stations across the country and get 74 ounces of burnt, sludgy, tar-flavored oily water, but I don't. Instead, I can just go to my nearest Starbucks and get a cup of your Pike Place Roast and enjoy crap coffee in an expensive cup.

"But wait," you say. "Pike Place is our original brew. It's what made us who we are."

Please. What I go to Starbucks for is a huge cup of wake-up. Something bold that will smack me in the face. Please don't patronize me with the premise that you are 'revisiting your roots.' If you are simply trying to cut costs to compete with rivals (say McDonald's) and passing the buck to me, you are completely wrong.

Their clientele aren't interested in Starbucks or coffee. Other than soccer moms, you don't even pull from the same demographic. What I'm saying is that they are not even in your league. Stooping to their low standards will only cost you customers who, like myself, are disappointed in their $2.14 venti. Please go back to the way you used to do business and stop peddling reheated English muffins and dirt coffee. Leave that to the fast food joints.

Within minutes my post had received many positive votes of others supporting my feelings. Check it out for yourself and I'll keep you posted.

Out like a Lamb

2009-03-31T19:05:00.000-07:00

March is probably easily like my most favorite month. Be it because of being my birth month (which I also share with my dad and my son) or being the start of spring, March has always held a special place in my book. I still remember being introduced to the Lion-Lamb concept in Mrs. Mehafee's first grade class. The class would vote on what we thought the previous day was and tally the lions and lambs at the end of the month. Not understanding the concept, I always voted lion (lions are way cooler than lambs). I didn't care, it was a win-win situation: lambs winning meant great weather, lions winning meant maybe a snow day and defeating the lambs!

March is the month when the snowy, short days of winter turn to the crisp and sunny days of spring. The time of the year just before the unstable late afternoon thunderstorms of April through June rolled in. Barnyard football turned to backyard baseball, and if you were lucky, a freak snowstorm got you a snow day on your birthday or extended your spring break.

With no chance of a snow day down here, the month came in like a lion: dreary, rainy, and cold, but quickly turned to lamb-like conditions and reshaped my attitude. Like the green grass or the budding trees, I am reborn. Looking forward to the busy spring and summer ahead, now I'm a lamber.

A Cobra?

2009-03-28T12:37:00.000-07:00

Dream if you can a courtyard
An ocean of violets in bloom...

Prince

When Doves Cry

Dream if you can a cobra

A vision of violence in bloom...

What I thought it said.

What? It made sense.

Mediterranean Salmon

2009-03-25T11:22:00.000-07:00

I made this dish on a whim, using random items I had left in the pantry; turns out it was pretty good. Feel free to add to it whatever you like and vary the ingredients to suit your portions. Sometimes I toss in chopped asparagus for more texture and freshness. Serve with a side of risotto, a mescalin or micro-green salad, and a glass of wine (if you're into that).

Mediterranean Salmon
In a large, deep-sided skillet, sweat some yellow onion over medium-low heat in olive oil. Add garlic and diced tomatoes and allow to simmer and reduce.
Toss in capers, Kalamata olives, and some halved artichokes. More simmering.
Push salmon (steaks or fillets) to the bottom of the pan and spoon mixture on top of the fish. Cover. Cook fish about 4 minutes per side until fish is just pink or still slightly red in middle.
Serve topped with mixture and risotto to the side.

There you have it. Risotto makes an excellent pairing for this dish as it cuts the salt and soaks up some of the residual liquid. Even more so, up until you add the salmon, the dish doesn't require a whole lot of baby sitting or prep work. You can focus on getting your risotto right. The olives and capers add plenty of sodium, so don't add any yourself. I like to eat this meal a day or two before a huge ride. It combines the right amount of protein, carbs, sodium, and good fats for sustained efforts. As for the risotto, stay tuned.

Wholly Cow

2009-03-22T16:44:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, the last time I wrote about doing a century I bashed it. Well, the fact that I did another one, and that in two weeks time I will have done a third should tell you that they are a necessary evil.

It is disgusting what you do to get yourself ready for one of these things. The filth that you put in your body just to keep it going. All sugars: fructose, glucose, galactose, lactose, maltodextrin, and high fructose corn syrup. So much sugar that despite being in glycogen debt, your body begins to reject it. The list of stuff I ate reads like a Atkins dieter's nightmare.

Breakfast:
Oatmeal with cranberries, almonds, and apples
Peanut butter sandwich
Orange juice and coffee
Banana

During the ride:
Four Clif shots (sugar and electrolyte blocks)
Chocolate power bar
Handful of cashews and raisins
Half a PB&J
Washed down with 2 liters of Cytomax (more sugar)

Post ride:
Philly cheese steak
Big ol' bag-o-chips
24 oz. Coke (the extra sugary fountain kind)*
*This amounts to my 3rd Coke in five years. I only allow myself to drink it after one of these rides. Riders in the pro-peloton have been known to down up to 10 of these during a stage. The pick-me-up of caffeine, sugar, and carbonation is second only to an IV.

So it was only appropriate that this ride was sponsored by the Wholly Cow Ice Cream and Coffee shop. The ride left from Ravenel (just south of Charleston) and immediately I noticed the vibe was relaxed. I recognized a few of the locals and a group of about 20 of us rolled out at 9:00. The pace and the weather were brisk, 46-degrees, but both would soon change. The conversation of the pack soon faded and turned to grimaced faces. By about the 50 mile point the pack had been whittled down to about 15 (although we would pick up few more from the metric) and things were beginning to change. I started playing cyclo-banker.

Cycling can be analogous to a bank account. You make deposits and withdrawals, and so long as you don't write checks your legs can't cash, you'll be okay. Until this point, I had been doing my share and feeling pretty good. Then some people began to take some hard pulls, and I almost bounced some checks. Already hurting, we approached a gnarly bridge that would lead to Edisto Island. The group hammered up the bridge as if it were flat and it was all I could do to hang on and regroup on the descent (withdrawal). By the time I caught up, I decided that if I was to hang on, I'd have to sit out a few pulls to recover (deposit). The trouble is, it was about this same time that we turned south and into a nice tailwind. Not wanting to waste it, the group surged ahead. I just kept thinking, "Guys we've got to come back this way, shouldn't we save something for the headwind?" The group had other plans.

At the halfway point, a few of us rolled on while the majority stopped for a break. There were now just six of us, and whether it was lack of numbers or the 20 mph headwind, we had lost our impetus. I kept expecting to be caught by the others, but they were nowhere, so on we cranked. We were working together, or surviving, quite nicely until the lure a another rest stop cost us three more riders. Now down to just three, the other two left me to my own devices. I was the third man on the road, which it was how it would stay for the next 35 miles. For the better part of the next hour and a half, my mind wandered, my legs and brain ached, and I felt like my chest was caving in. I wanted to look at my odometer but I knew I couldn't; the result could be devastating. I had to stop once for water and to pee and with about a half-mile to go, the original group finally caught me. I gave it one more go to get on their wheels and roll to the finish.

I had not felt like that in quite awhile and it was good to be done. What is the half-life of pain? I'll let you know in about two weeks.

I do surveys

2009-03-19T12:27:00.000-07:00

As far back as I can remember, I have always found myself enamoured by data. Statistics. Sheer numbers. Organizing everything according to size, color, shape, batting average. I once recorded every inning of an 81 game season I played on Nintendo's Bases Loaded (my cleanup hitter, Norton, banged out 70 dingers that year). Pouring over the data, breaking records, compiling numbers. Not statistics dealing with odds or probabilities, just stats.

Surveys are a statistical gathering method, so naturally, when opportunity presented itself I took advantage. I'd feverishly fill out every survey that came to our door, be it by mail or in person. Sometimes surveyors would come to our house and ask "Are you the man of the house?" Well, if there was a survey to be had, the answer was "Yes I am!" (I guess they didn't notice or question how a 12-year old kid wearing pajamas was able to keep a house in the country). I even filled out questionnaires about my favorite brands of cigarettes, and for it, the company mailed me nine crisp one dollar bills. This survey thing was paying off.

I've done the Nielson ratings, internet and phone surveys, and been asked to try out new household products. People often made fun of me for taking the time to fill them out, but it was worth it. I'd occasionally be rewarded with coupons, products, cash, or more surveys. Last year I even won a $100 to a local Trek store. It was like a coke-head winning free crack and no one laughed at me after that.

I don't do as many surveys as I used to, I just don't have the time. Instead, I'm more selective. Internet surveys often result in an inbox filled with junk mail and little chance of reward (there are simply too many entries). I limit myself to local, phone, and mail surveys where my odds are better. Try it. I promise that the first time you win a hundred (or nine) bucks you'll be hooked too.

Blythewood and Forest Acres...

2009-03-16T03:25:00.000-07:00

...or just Forest Acres, and even then, not so much. Woke up sick Friday morning. Mentally sick from the beat-down I took the night before, getting dropped no less than three times on the first Thursday night ride of the year. Physically sick from a sore throat and head cold. Not ideal circumstances coming into the first races of the year.

Ignoring the sore throat and pretending to feel better wouldn't make it go away. Saturday, feeling even worse, I faced a 2-hour drive and the prospect of doing the Blythewood crit in the cold rain. Deciding to cut my losses and have any hope of meaningful racing this weekend, I forfeited my entry fee for Saturday and focused on feeling better, enjoying some time at home, and getting ready for Forest Acres on Sunday. Sunday's forecast: rain, 51 degrees, and demoralization.

Rode up to Columbia with a former teammate now riding for Team CBC. The conditions were cold and soggy, and the course looked gritty and oily. It offered a sweeping downhill finish and a hilly backside. There would be no resting on this one and my focus was all wrong. Instead of trying to be near the front on the last hill section (a key to winning), my mentality switched to staying with the pack and not crashing (a guaranteed loss). This is something I apparently had not learned well enough last season.

After a brief warm up, I stripped off the layers and had enough time for a few practice laps. The steady rain and 49-degree temps made the backside hill feel stiff and the downhill absolutely hypothermic. With no time to spare for the start of the CAT 3/4 race, the layers went back on.

I'll cut the story to about as short as I cut my race. I got popped off the back after only 2 laps, meanwhile, a CAT 3 was soloing off the front to victory. At this point it would have been merciful and prudent to just pull off. I dreamt of warming myself in the car and waiting for the finish. Instead, not wanting to quit, I decided to try and at least get in a good workout and likely a pneumonia too. I was going to finish. I was going to get lapped by the field. Each lap became survival mode. I began looking for the laps to go sign; looking at time past (another no-no).

As the laps counted down, people encouraged me over the hills. This made me feel good and lame at the same time. One fan in particular kept shouting, "Okay, go #424, alright!" I wanted to tell him what to do with that #424.

Soon enough it was over. Shivering and cold, I was finished and finishing paid dividends. In addition to not giving up, I was rewarded 10-bucks for my troubles. I felt guilty for taking it, but it would recoup some of my losses and pay for lunch. Despite my poor showing, I'm glad to have done it. It reminded me that my attitude must change and that I still have much work ahead.

Be a Man

2009-03-13T10:57:00.000-07:00

Be a man
We must be swift as the coursing river
Be a man
With all the force of a great typhoon
Be a man
With all the strength of a raging fire
Mysterious as the dark side of the moon

I'll make a man out of you

from the Disney movie Mulan
Badass of the Disney Princesses

American Car Companies

2009-03-10T12:12:00.000-07:00

This isn't about the bailout (I don't even know what that means). This is about American Car manufacturers plain getting whooped by their competitors, and for good reason too. You cannot continue to build inferior automobiles at higher costs and expect to survive. Take note of the next five cars you see dead on the roadside, all American. Take note of the leaders of hybrid and alternate fuel technology, Honda and Toyota. For years, Toyota's business model has been touted and revered as a revolutionary way of doing business. Now look at the other side.

Unions pushing labor costs through the roof, causing the Big Three to purchase their parts from cheap foreign countries, all while screaming, "Buy American". American? That's what got us here in the first place. America didn't invent the automobile, we merely perfected a method for building them. Satisfied with this, they (the Big Three) pumped out gas guzzlers, road hogs, and muscle cars for the better part of a century, basking in their fruits. No, wallowing in it. And like most egocentric Americans, they grew cocky and complacent. The Japanese and European automakers crept in and before you knew it they were reduced to pathetic bums asking for bread money. Innovate or die. It is apparent that Chrysler, Ford, and Chevy have chosen the latter.

Oh, and about that innovation, just look at what the newest domestic cars showcase: Blinking tail-lights (wowee, zowee), tape decks (yes, I said tape decks), and OnStar (I guess they were thinking cell phones would never take off). I suppose the OnStar will be useful for calling a tow-truck when your American-made hunker breaks down. These cars don't even have 6-digit odometers! Are they telling us something here? Do they expect their cars to fail? The answer is yes. Again leveraging on Americans' patriotism and stubbornness, they know people will come crawling back. Not me.

Nothing but Honda and Toyota in my driveway. Change the oil and put gas in it. I'll never buy anything else, and chances are, I'll never have to either.

Ode to Odometer

2009-03-07T14:21:00.000-08:00

Turn turn odometer turn,
with every revolution,
gas you will burn.

The odometer. Is there anything more intriguing? Like a hamster mindlessly running on a wheel, so too does my mind wander. Call me a simpleton, but much achievement is brought to me when I turn over the miles. Thankfully, I'm lucky enough to have an older car; one with the analog type odometer, and therein lies the beauty of it all. Putting miles on a car. Watching the next mile tick over. Watching the gas gauge dwindle down thinking, "whoo-hoo, I made it! My car has lasted another mile!"

The newer digital odometers spoil some of the fun. You can't watch them rollover, they just change. You can't anticipate that next mile. You can't push over the ones, tens, hundreds, etc. Nope. Regardless with every passing mile, you can rest assured that you're getting your full nickel. With every passing mile, there are new games to be played. Try it.

Play odometer poker. Look a full house! Four of a kind! A straight! Look for palindromes. 123321 hoorah! The best is undoubtedly when you rollover the thousands, ten thousands, even hundred thousands. Score! Time for an oil change. Better get the tires rotated. Where would we be without the odometer?

Setting Goals

2009-03-04T11:26:00.000-08:00

Each Thursday during Daylight Savings Time, I meet a group of other cyclists for a 40 mile ride through the edge of Francis Marion Forest. And while this may sound quite lovely, I can assure you that it is nothing more than a pain-fest (at least for me).

The ride starts with a brief warm up and promptly turns to moderately hard speed followed by ridiculously fast. It is during this warm up that I'll know what the night will be like. I'll know how my legs and chest feel, I'll know which guys there will make it painful, I'll know if this is gonna suck! My thoughts at this time generally range from "Wow, I feel pretty good" to "Man I don't want to do this tonight" and "Crap, I can't believe that guy showed up". You see, some guys will use this ride as their recovery ride. By all accounts these dudes are strong, but for me, this is my hard-paced training ride.

For me, the goals are to get in a hard ride, ride respectably, assess my fitness level, and not get dropped. The hard ride is a given. It is going to happen. The latter three are not exclusive. To feel good about my fitness, I must ride respectably and not get dropped. To ride respectably, I must not get dropped. I must not get dropped. To ride respectably, I feel that I must do my share of pulling at the front. Maintain the pace and pull for what I'm comfortable doing. This is longer than some, shorter than others. Faster than some, slower than others. I must go until I feel tired, go a little bit longer without exploding (this is key), and then pull off.

The next goal becomes survival. At this point, I'm usually hurting. I have to glide to the back and grab onto the last wheel. Thoughts become "Get that wheel, come here wheel, don't stare at his wheel!" to "Quit, don't quit, quit, don't quit, man this sucks". I usually do some yo-yo-ing until I get recovered and it is about this time that I'm second to the front again and have to do it all over. Doubt creeps in. "I don't want to do this". "I can't maintain this pace". "Ah screw it, it looks like I have to". So back to the front again and back to the key point I made earlier.

At the front, I set goals for myself. I'm going to pull this far, this fast, for this long. I try to maintain the pace and be comfortable for as long as I can and then some. I do this with small mental games. I say my ABC's, count lines on the road, change my breathing, or go until it hurts and then pick a road sign to pull to and pull off. Here's the thing. If you make it to the goal that you've set for yourself an amazing thing happens; you recover, you feel better and stronger, you can go a little bit more. It seems as though the power of the mind and making it actually gives you a boost. You no longer have to worry about catching wheels in the back either. You are revitalized. But if you quit before your goal, you are beaten down, down trodden, defeated. No matter how well you actually did, you're a failure. And that is how you'll feel until you get another chance to redeem yourself and break the cycle.

Goals. I can't wait for Thursdays this summer.

Risotto

2009-03-01T11:58:00.000-08:00

Risotto is often made with an Italian rice called Arborio. It can be served as a side to most any dish or by itself. Its real versatility comes from the preparation, addition of ingredients, or how daring you're willing to be with it. You can even try it as a dessert.

My risotto tends to be somewhat less creamy than those you'll find in restaurants or in other recipes. As you'll see, this is largely due to the lack of butter or heavy cream (and calories) in my recipe. The result is still delicious. I've included a few of my favorites, but feel free to experiment.

Risotto

Dice and sweat half an onion and some celery in olive oil over medium heat. When fragrant, add several cloves of chopped garlic and a cup of Arborio Rice. Stir occasionally until rice begins to brown and smells like burnt popcorn. Add enough white wine to cover and allow to evaporate.

At this point, I hope you have the rest of dinner on auto-pilot because the rice will need some attention.

When the wine has evaporated, ladle in a cup of hot chicken broth and allow to absorb/evaporate. Repeat one ladle at a time until the rice is al-dente. With some liquid remaining reduce to low heat and add a good handful of finely shredded Parmesan (the better the cheese, the better the risotto). Serve. Eat.

This is the base risotto. Good enough, but in need of some variation. When adding vegetables, consideration should be given to their cooking times. Try these:

Wild mushroom and Butternut squash risotto
Shitake mushrooms add great flavor and texture.

Asparagus and goat cheese risotto
Not a fan of goat cheese? Stick with the Parmesan and toss in some shrimp for a meal.

Applewood bacon and apple risotto
Cook the rice in the bacon drippings.

As with anything else in the kitchen, experimentation is key. Try it.

The Grocery

2009-02-26T19:00:00.000-08:00

Growing up, I had been conditioned with a Pavlovian response. It could be argued that my Dad meant to do it; seemingly purposefully rattling his keys in his old metal coffee cup on his dresser to elicit my attention.

"Where ya going?" I'd ask. "Crazy," he'd say. It was the response to which I was accustomed. 'Crazy' could have meant any number of places. A trip to Grandma's place and the thrift bakery (if it was Saturday). For a drive to Dairy Queen for a banana split (me driving and Dad pushing the pedals...something completely unheard of in today's society). Sometimes nowhere and absolutely everywhere or even just to the filling station and back (mind you, gas wasn't $3/gallon then, so driving for the sole purpose of a fill-up wasn't too absurd). But more often than not, these 'crazy' trips lead to one place; the grocery store (again, mostly for no real purpose other than to stare at random food items and come home with a bunch of things we didn't need). Thanks Dad!

It is because of him that I love the grocery store. The smell of the store's deli and bakery. The bright colors of the unique fresh fruits, vegetables, and meats. The intrigue of all of the new products and their flashy packaging. There is just something about it. I go to the grocery and dream up all the good foods I will make and eat. Sometimes I don't even have to dream. Free samples! On a good weekend you can eat your way through an entire store. Some of the upscale gourmet groceries have even taken it a step further; have your food made and eat it in the store. Grocery shopping is an art. Having a list is one thing. Purposefully deviating from it and filling your cart with random stuff is another. It takes skill.

Most major groceries have everything you need: food staples, ethnic foods, trinkets, utensils, small modern art masterpieces, etc, and they're usually willing to get what they don't have. Occasionally you'll need to go to a specialty store, but most of the time you can lean on your favorites. Here are some of mine.

Publix--A reliable standard for weekly food runs with unmatched customer service.
Whole Foods Market--Find something new every time. Exotic food and people.
Dorothy Lane Market and the Englewood Kroger--High end goodness. Lots of free samples.
Rodanthe Texaco and BP--Everything and nothing you could possibly want at a General Store.

So take a list, lose it, and get lost in an aisle of your favorite store, I do.

An Irish lullaby

2009-02-23T04:16:00.000-08:00

Over In Killarney,
Many years a go,
Me Mither sang a song to me
In tones so sweet and low,

Just a simple little ditty,
In her good ould Irish way,
And I'd give the world if she could sing
That song to me this day.

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Hush now don't you cry!
Too-ra-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-ra-loo-ral, Thats an I-rish lul-la-by

Oft, in dreams I wander
To that cot a gain,
I feel her arms a-hugging me
As when she held me then.

And I hear her voice a hum-min'
To me as in days of yore,
When she used to rock me fast a-sleep
Outside the cabin door.

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

J.R. Shannon 1914

and to my kids every night.

MB Metric Century...

2009-02-20T10:04:00.000-08:00

...or why I get annoyed with organized century rides.

It is a ride people, not a race. Not that I'm opposed to racing, hammering, or going fast, but someone should have told that to the organizers. If you don't want people to race, don't give them timing chips and a finish line! Everyone already knows their times, all of these dudes already have cyclocomputers. In fact, what don't most of these dudes have on their bikes?

Panniers, mountain bike tires, huge mirrors, a freakin' camera, and God knows what else taped to their frames! Look, I'm not exempt from criticism either but most of society already views cyclists as abnormal freaks. We don't need rolling sideshows to further this belief; Lycra, shaved legs, and skinny tires are enough already. It is like this at most every century. More power to them, I'm just here to do my own thing.

Right from the start we were rolling at a decent pace into a nasty headwind that would only get worse throughout the morning. I wanted no part of that and my legs were already feeling a bit like wood (I'd like to believe that it was the flu that I got setting in, but maybe my form isn't what it should be). It was cold that morning so I just wanted to stay in the middle of the group for awhile until it warmed up or at least until some maniac in front of me locks up his rear wheel (going uphill no less). "Jesus!" I shout. I guess this is why it's safer at the front.

To the front I go to avoid the crazies. The peloton was about 80 strong at this point and about 20 of them must have confused my move for an attack, because more crazies kept coming (another phenomena of centuries). I thought, "Here comes crazy blow-up guy," and "Look there's way too small gear, way too high cadence guy." Again, I'm not beyond reproach here and have done this in the past, but now realize the err of my ways. Finally a guy sprints out of the saddle to be the first to reach the top of the overpass. Another jibes, "Go ahead and take the points!" Cycling humor.

Things finally settled down and sped up a bit on some open roads with tailwinds. A few solo breaks went away and came back. The group had whittled down to about 50 where it remained until the route returned to Myrtle's main drag. I have to admit that it felt pretty cool flying through the touristy part of town at 30 mph. Amongst the high-rise hotels, tourists and tourist holes, I imagined I was in a pro-peloton riding through the French Riviera instead of the Redneck Riviera. Screeeeech, wobble, pothole as another dude nearly eats it in front of me. Back to reality, I'm a club rider again.

Now there were some legitimate attacks with multiple riders, gaining small gaps. I had no interest in any of this. I was suffering to stay in the pack, my head was throbbing, and I was ready for this to be done. What is wrong with me? Finally with 22 miles to go and a group of about 25 (the same 25 that would finish together), one guy went. I didn't see it, but apparently he had a teammate on the front blocking for him. Regardless, he was gone. No one solos off the front and gains on a group unless they're a seriously strong rider with metal fortitude to boot. My jealous side wants to say "well screw that guy," but the cyclist in me gives him all the credit.

After that I decided to salvage what I could of what remained. I got a rotating paceline of about six of us going. That lasted for about 7 or 8 rotations. "What? None of you other dudes want in on this?" Alright then, no more work for me. I'll just sit in for the ride and do my little sprint finish at the end. And so it happened. I rolled across the line in fourteenth, just under 2:50. The family was there to greet me, which made me feel better. Overall not a bad day, just one that could have been better.

26.2

2009-02-17T12:36:00.000-08:00

My wife is officially now a superhero. As if giving birth to my two children two different ways wasn't enough, she has now completed her first marathon. Twenty-six decimal two miles. I cannot imagine nor want to fathom running this far. I detest running.

Sure, I can sit on a bike for 6-plus hours and 100-plus miles. I can assure you that this does not compare. Enduring a broken arm, 3 broken feet, a possible broken hip, and some serious gastrointestinal problems, I watched KD never give up her goal. Through all of this and having virtually no meniscus in her right leg, she did it. She did it well.

6:30 in the morning and I was there to send her off. The weather was brisk and the crowd thick. An hour and a half, a Starbucks, and 12 miles later, Coco and I are back to cheer her on. Looking good. Just 14 miles to go, see you at mile 15...or not. Did she stop? Nope. Was she in trouble? Nope. Are we morons? Yep. Truth is, KD was haulin' ass. After missing her for nearly eight miles, she reappeared with 4 to go. Time for us to haul. Load up the kids and rush to the finish.

The finish clock read 4:09:16, which is more sleep than she got in the previous night, thanks to some rotten milk. Nothing like the smell of regurgitated chicken-parm and milk. That is a story for another time. For now her goal was met, not bad for a first marathon, and I don't anticipate this being her last.

I already knew that you were phenomenal and now so does everyone else. Just see for yourself.

Thanks to everyone who supported her and especially those that were there to share it with us.

Consolidation Nation

2009-02-14T04:21:00.000-08:00

What do you do with those last few drops of shampoo in the bottle? How about those crumbs in the bottom of the chip bag? If you're like me, you'll squeeze out every last drop, every ounce, and put it into another container!

Consolidating two things into one makes me feel accomplished. "Yes! Look at all of this space I've saved!" "Wow, another laundry detergent bottle bites the dust, whoo-hoo!" This may make me sound compulsive, lame, even freakish. Right. It is. In case you haven't noticed, I have some fixation with wear, waste, and consumption of goods. Combining things in the interest of saving space and at the expense of throwing something else away, satiates this fixation.

So use up the stuff in your house, fill your recycle bin, and rush to the store to buy more! Repeat.

Speck and Arugula Za

2009-02-11T12:02:00.000-08:00

Rustic simplicity. This is what I had a few weeks ago at one of my new favorite pizza places, EVO. Located near Park Circle in North Chuck, EVO is one of many restaurants that are popping up in an unlikely area. The area around East Montague has been revamped. Full of restaurants, bars, and coffee shops, you wouldn't know that you're surrounded by an abandoned Navy base.

Speck is a German bacon much like Prosciutto, but less salty. If you can't find it, feel free to substitute with an equivalent meat. This should take you all of 15 minutes to prepare and cook. Perfect for a light but filling dinner.

Speck and Arugula Za

Start with some lightly grilled flatbread. Top with good extra virgin olive oil and as much Parmesano-Regiano cheese as you like. Grill some more until the cheese is just melted. While warm, top with a handful of Arugula and some shaved Speck. Done.

Simple with an old world feel. Serve with a good pale ale or wheat beer

Major League

2009-02-08T12:07:00.000-08:00

Bats, they are sick. I cannot hit curveball. Straightball I hit it very much. Curveball, bats are afraid. I ask Jobu to come, take fear from bats. I offer him cigar, rum. He will come. (PC)

You know you might think about taking Jesus Christ as your savior instead of fooling around with all this stuff. (EH)

Jesus, I like him very much, but he no help with curveball. (PC)

You trying to say Jesus Christ can't hit a curveball? (EH)

Exchange between Pedro Cerano and Eddie Harris
from Major League

Yo, bartender, Jobu needs a refill.

Up your butt, Jobu.

Eddie Harris to self
from Major League

The 4th Season

2009-02-05T12:49:00.000-08:00

Winter. A picture photo montage of my three days of winter this year, courtesy of the Ohio Valley. Enjoy.

This is the view my parents' backyard. Country living at its finest. It took me growing up to realize how lucky I was to live here. Fresh air, open spaces, and beautiful scenery.

A giant silver maple. I wonder how many winters it has seen? They winter air was cold and stagnant, the sound of silence deafening. It's amazing how your senses are heightened by the snow. Sound carries, ice is sharp and clear, skies more blue.

One of two chicken coops. It still smelled musty and barn-like, but all the chickens had long since left. My wife asked me if this was ever a functioning out-house. The Osage Orange trees in the background wash over the hedge like a wave; their roots being pulled from the ground by the weight of the tree. The wood of these trees is extremely hard and a beautiful orange color. In the fall they drop hedge apples, a strange, green, brain-like fruit that exudes a sticky milky substance and give horses gas!

A foreboding and ominous winter sky over a forest of trees provides a reminder of how small and vulnerable we are. It is a necessary dormancy that will soon release its grip. Though only a short time, I use this as a time to reflect.
Soon enough I am without it.

Wear it out

2009-02-02T11:21:00.000-08:00

Have you ever examined the bottom of your shoes? Your car tires? An old T-shirt? Things wear out. Keep something and use it to the fullest extent and eventually it will fail. The study of wear is part of a science called Tribology, and is a huge concern for industry. Companies spend millions studying it. Developing new lubricants and materials to prevent it. Some materials are even made to wear or wear a certain way. Sand paper, tires, bearings, baseball mits. At the same time, consumers spend even more replacing worn out stuff. It is a viscous cycle yet we keep coming back for more.

To clarify, I'm not talking about just buying new things. As Americans, we are the worst of glutons; buying everything in sight just to have it. No. I'm talking about using something until it breaks, siezes, or wears too thin to be usable and then replacing it. This process is fascinating and gratifying to me. To have used something up. To have gotten your money's worth. Fantastic.
Buy something. Use it up. Run it into the ground.

Purgatory

2009-01-30T04:03:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-27T20:56:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-24T15:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-21T11:37:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-18T04:24:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-01-15T12:20:00.000-08:00

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.