None shall pass

I don’t often want to complain (or feel like I am complainin’) on this blog. I try to keep it light and family friendly.
But there is an aspect of blief.net that serves as a journal of events. So, years from now I might go back and recall Bork Uncle or reread one of my more popular posts about Dandelions.

This is one of those posts.

I don’t want to remember to drink plenty of water.
I don’t do want to forget the pain.
I don’t want to forget the day “Dada Had a Kidney Stone”.

I am still not clear as to whether “events” have passed, as it were, but right now I am relatively pain free and happy to write about it and share more than I ever thought I might.

Monday I noticed the telltale signs. I will spare you details as this is still a happy blog and not rooted in medical reality. Sometimes I like to push the truth around for artistic effect but let’s just say there was stuff in there that shouldn’t be in there – and you know urine you’re in trouble when it looks like coca-cola.

By Wednesday afternoon I had met with my doctor and some analysis strongly suggested that indeed “Dada Had a Kidney Stone”. Wednesday night there was little left to dispute.

Pain
The worst pain in my short life. After waking up Monya for yet another babysitting stint at oh-dark-thirty The Mommy drove me to the ER, the good one…in Bellevue.
I tell you that even knowing how much I detest the close one I wasn’t sure it was the right choice about 1/2 way there. Turns out it probably was. Remembering just how long The Mommy waited for pain relief when she had her appendix out we probably did a darn sight better at Overlake, even with the drive.

I digress.
The Mommy, by the way, was not happy with the reversal of fortunes. She (and we) are much more accustomed to the shoes being on the others foot. Now she knows why I speed drive hurriedly in those situations and now I know why she yells at me when I do.

Back on track
So, here I am, writhing in pain (the nurses words not mine) and the docs are discussing which pain meds to administer, about where they might get it, and who should do it.
Mind you, they were doing this expeditiously I am sure, but in my state of mind time was elongated and every word took ten times longer to travel through the air. Mine didn’t. I answered questions before they finished their statements with single, clipped, answers.

Mr. Writhing-in-Pain, are you allerg…
NO
…ic to any medica…ok.

Have you ever had a kid…
NO
…ney stone bef…ok.

Do you have a primary care phy…
CELMER – C.E.L.M.E.R
sician…ok.

I have to mention that on the way to the ER I was thinking about just how much medicine I wanted them to give me. I thought, “just enough to knock the top off of this” I don’t want to be so whacked out on some crazy drug that I can’t feel anything.

By the time the nurse finally got to the point where she was about to put the needle in my arm I didn’t care if, in fact I was wishing for, an entire dose that could stop a rhino. She said

You’re gonna feel a…
FINE
…big poke.

I didn’t feel anything, in my arm anyway. In fact, if it would have meant whacking off my arm at the elbow in order to get better access to a vein I would have agreed.

Finally, about 2-3 minutes (that felt like about thirty) after they gave me the painkiller in the IV I was brought down to a level where I could speak in full sentences.

No more writhing
So they took me in for a CT scan, for verification purposes, and the doc later tells me that it is pretty small, only 2mm. “Yer gonna be fine.” Like somehow because it is small I don’t have bragging rights or something. Fine whatever. I have since learned that the tube it is in (the ureter) is around 3-4 mm in diameter. He probably said I would be fine knowing that my stone wasn’t nearly as big as my ureter. Based on my experience I would venture that the measurement they are taking is outside diameter.

Now 2 mm is about the size of the head of a pin – just what does that mean? I looked it up, for your benefit and find that it is about the size of the head of a pin.

So smooth and shiny

Hm…I don’t think that quite cuts it. That just doesn’t do it justice. It’s too smooth, too simple.

I imagine it looks more like this.
Much more realistic

Or even this.
Not so smooth and shiny

But it ends up feeling more like this.
hurtful beast

And that’s even in the right spot too.

Okay, enough reliving the pain.
Enough complaining.
This too shall pass.

Good Deed, Bad Deed

This morning I stopped and helped a fellow biker, in the I-90 tunnel. He broke his tire lever on his 4th flat tire of the morning.
As I rode away from that short rest I thought I should have just given him that one because I have two, they are practically disposable items. Oh well.
Compare and contrast that with what happened next; about 15 minutes later on the waterfront.

I was riding a little quickly, near the 15mph speed limit, for the multi-use trail alongside the road but not recklessly.
I usually choose the road because there are just too many pedestrians and entrances on that trail but today there was a ferry, so the trail, while slower than the traffic is actually less hectic.
Approaching the condos, at the foot of the harbor steps, I approached a couple walking their two poodles.
Their right side (my left) was no good because of another pedestrian and I momentarily wished against the multi-use trail.
I kid you not, everything I describe went through my brain in this order…seriously.

Just then, when I was about 40 yards out, the woman moved hard left (to my right towards the steps) and the man briefly did not.
It was at this point that I was off the “gas” and thinking about alternatives and briefly across the transom of my mind flashed this thought

That guy is belligerently hogging the trail with his dog

Maybe that is about the same time I wished against the multi-use trail.
But as suddenly as I thought it, and two steps later the man also moved hard left – I am about 20-30 yards away now – going an estimated 13-14mph.
Okay, clear road, back on the gas and

BAM

The guy jumps, and I mean literally leaps, back into my path, right where he was, and points at me with his free hand kinda like this.
Yahhhhh
Only he didn’t have big poofy hair, a robe, and he was caucasian. But the face was eerily similar and amazingly he made as much noise as this picture…none.

I slammed on my brakes, which are actually pretty mushy with wet and dirt and overuse. I slowed to walking speed just three feet in front of him, still in this pose-
Yahhhhh
and then just as abruptly he non-chalantly assumed a more natural position and walked away with his poodle.

I don’t scare easily, or react abruptly to stimuli such as this (that might be a bad thing…depends on the scenario) so I don’t think he got his desired effect which I can only assume was to make me wreck.
I did get a healthy shot of adrenaline which was released in a string of unprintable words which I can’t remember ever having strung together in exactly that manner before.
Probably not my finest moment – definitely not his.

Another thought that instinctively crossed my mind was to attack him from the back and just as quickly that thought passed.
It’s a good thing it did because the ref always penalizes the second guy and, in the end, he wasn’t worth the wrestle.

Womens Recumbent World Record – 12 Hour

I just “watched” (virtually) Maria Parker of Cruzbike set a new world record for a recumbent; I am actually a little confused on what exactly the record is was because claims abound and well…they tell me it is a new world record and I believe them. I know what it is now.

Jim, over at CyclingExperiences.com, live-blogged the whole thing keeping us Cruzbike enthusiasts on the edge of our seats all day with hourly updates (every time she crossed the start line).

According to his post Maria Parkers World Record she traveled an incredible 240.1 miles in 12 hours an amazing average of 20.08 mph.

As of this writing the record is not certified but it is certainly amazing!
Way to go Maria Parker!

And much thanks to Jim at CyclingExperiences for setting up shop in what sounds like a remote part of North Carolina to keep us all informed.
You can see his flickr photostream here

Oh yeah, and one of the interesting parts of this story, somewhere on lap #7 Maria suffered a minor crash because wind gusts and wheel covers don’t mix. They quickly changed to her back-up bike (her husband’s bike that was outfitted for her, which by the way is another really cool feature of the Cruzbike Silvio) and she only lost an estimated 3 minutes. She rode her husbands bike the rest of the way.

And the coolest thing, for me personally, is that she did all of this on a (specially outfitted but still) stock Silvio; just like mine.

For part of the time she had wheel covers true but for Lap 7-12 she had no wheel covers and questionable weather with wind gusts and all.

I am so impressed.

Normalcy

Last friday I was on the Central Link light rail leaving Seattle…and I was late.

I had already missed the faster commuter train and was using the Link to get me closer to home so I could go fast for 20 minutes instead of having to go fast for 50 minutes.

Both put me home about the same time but one gets me home more rested – ready for a night out with The First Mermaid.

I was the fourth bike on the car and moving my Silvio side to side at each stop to stay out of the way of pedestrians, of which there weren’t many. At one stop two “fare checkers” boarded my car and swept the joint. After they were done and perhaps one minute before the next stop they approached me purposefully. By the way, they interrupted a casual conversation with a fellow cyclist about my bike that had started something like ‘that’s one hell of a bike.”.

The first one, for lack of a better name let’s call him TDee, waved and wagged his upright finger at me and my bike and said

Sir, your bicycle is not authorized to be on this train.

By this time TDum had taken his place by TDee’s side.

I was astounded. I thought they were joining the pleasant conversation I was having with the other cyclist and now I was presented with the sudden and real possibility that I would be kicked off the train, and somehow I didn’t “fit in”. And furthermore I would be REALLY late for my date. I couldn’t have that. Date’s are infrequent occurrences at best and besides…he just wagged his finger at me and my babybike, did he not?

What? Why not?

TDum this time, helpfully;

Sir, you are in the best position you can be in on this train, you really are, (referring to me being out of the way of peds) but your bike just doesn’t fit.

What is the problem? I don’t understand.

At this point who-said-what get’s a little hazy but the wording was clear.

That is not a normal bike.

I reacted to that like the mother of a small, innocent, and insulted child. I got a shot of adrenaline (probably why who-said-what gets a little hazy) which clarified my thinking and I replied, leaning forward, with a small amount of mock confusion,

What? Why…ahhh, would you please define “normal” for me? What is a “normal” bike?

TDee pointed at the bike-hanger and stammered, looking over the geometry of my front wheel drive, moving bottom bracket, 700C, short wheelbase, recumbent bicycle and was obviously confused. It clearly didn’t match his thinking and was in direct conflict with his directive…but he couldn’t figure out why or how – because there really was no problem.

I had a flash of the engagement I had two years ago with the conductor on the Sounder who claimed that my chainring being exposed, as it was, to the “people” on the train was somehow inherently dangerous and I followed TDee’s eyes to my chainring. But TDum helped out.

Well, it doesn’t fit. It couldn’t be hung up there (in the bike cubby).

By the way, even if I COULD hang my bike in that cubby, (which I have tested, and I can) I don’t want to.

The problem is that it is free hanging nub of a hanger that you hook only one wheel over and with every bump, stop, start, and course correction of the irregular track and driver the bike rattles and bangs all over the place. Really lame solution if you ask me.
It is also a real trick to balance yourself, in cleats, while en/disengaging your bike, holding it in mid air as the train is lumbering to a start/stop. Much, much easier to just keep the rubber side down.

I replied, with conviction

I could hang it there, absolutely.

Then TDum made a measurable statement.

Well, your bike is just longer than those.

At this point I unfolded my drive-train from it’s “tucked” position and said

It is not?! If you put his bike right down next to mine you will see that the wheelbase is the same.

…and just in case “wheelbase” was too much jargon for them I added, pointing with both hands at the same time along the vertical line of each axle,

Where each wheel hits the ground is identical.

I was taking a wee chance on that one but I knew the difference was negligible and I considered that point settled because they had just given a brief, eyebrow-raising, stand-up-straight, moment of recognition. Okay, ready for the next one.

You see, I have read about these altercations, and heard all the arguments before – I had that clear thinking-ness rolling and was ultra-confident they couldn’t convince me anything was wrong.

I was also confident that they would STILL kick me off of the now stopped train, out of pride or authority or spite…or all three.

Their next action was the most surprising of all (and probably a really good reason not to call them TDum and TDee, at least not TDum anyway).
TDum turned to TDee and muttered something low and in passing and without another word or even a glance at me; as if it had never happened, they just…got off the train.

I was still bristling (inwardly, and perhaps outwardly as well) but basically kept a cool (to me) visage and “talked ’em down”.

The other cyclist, as he was getting out, shot me a questioning glance that said “what the heck just happened?”, shook his head in confusion, and got off behind them.

It took me about four miles, three mock-continued arguments (wherein I always won – again), multiple retellings, and one blog post to put it behind me.

The commute bar has been lowered

A couple of things before I get to the meat of this one –

This is about biking, specifically my new bike, and because I spend up to two hours a day on my bike; well let’s just say that she doesn’t have a name…but…she…does seem to have just acquired a gender.

This is about statistics, which is a thing some people who get freaked out about their bikes do. Not all bike freaks do…well for that matter I wouldn’t have considered myself a bike freak in the truest sense of the word except that I have just spent 10 minutes thinking and talking about how I am going to describe to all of you Mermaid lovers just how cool my new bike is, new bikes are in general, and thinking of a clever way to entreat you to read this post anyway.
Oh, and I will be prattling on about statistics related to my bike.

Let’s move on.

This morning I was paying close attention to an unexplained shimmy after about 32-34mph coasting downhill. When I hit 37.8 without a single shimmy** and then proceeded to hit every green light through Renton (NEVER HAPPENS!!!) I decided

This is a good day for a record attempt

** Grumpy may be disappointed to hear this considering how much fun he was having talking about ‘lateral elasticity’ but I am not saying it is MIA just yet. The only difference between yesterday and today is I re-inflated my tires to their proper psi (110) and finally figured out how to properly inflate the head shock. It may have been darn near flat before – I have no way of knowing. Also, I was paying close attention to it…that always makes problems disappear.

I stop at the airport for a shot of albuterol (just in case) and mumble something challenging to myself at a passing rabbit commuter. I caught him at the north end of the airport.

The headwind down Rainier nearly sunk me, that and my left hamstring was troubling me but being the freak scientist that I am I tarried on. Well that and last night I just read that part in the Call of The Wild to La Grande Mermaid where Buck wins his masters foolish bet by breaking a 1000 lb sled loose from the ice and dragging it 100 yards by himself.

Gee!
Haw!
MUSH!!

So I couldn’t give up on a count of a little wind.

After a nice climb through Seward Park (she climbs pretty fast) I came down to the Blvd and found a reverse rabbit*. He looked strong and he was clearly out on a training run. That is, I have a built in excuse for when he overtakes me; he is training and I am ‘commuting’. So I hammered it up to 22mph and in the headwind settled into a mildly strenuous 19mph.

His headlight only ever got smaller.

* a reverse rabbit is another biker that you encounter in your travels that never actually starts in front of you, like a plain ‘ol rabbit. Usually you see them enter in your mirror, this time he came from a side street and pulled in behind.

Another commuter rabbit came and went and soon I found myself closing in on downtown. I ran into a few red lights that killed some time but holy cow, I found a new skill this morning – a high speed sprint and it REALLY goes. The ability to pull on the handle bars makes such a profound difference in the feel of a sprint. I don’t know objectively if I can crank it up any faster than on my Thunderbolt (no gender by the way) but she certainly feels lively and quick and springy and fast.

Now I come into stoplight ‘heaven’, but it’s good cause I can get a breather. Still I wish we could learn from the dutch on this one. I make my way through the chicane of buses, cars, pedestrians, and other bikes down to my straightaway finish – the waterfront.

I engage my newfound skill and sprint up to about 25mph and I top out. I guess I shoulda had something to eat this morning. There is more gear and more go in my body but something gives out and I just don’t have the energy to keep the sprint going as long as I usually can. So I settle into a hard-ish 21 or so, dodge a few tourists bound for the slow boat to Alaska (and some goofball blocking two lanes while performing a textbook 13-point u-turn) and I skim up Wall St.

This time I only slip my wheel once…I am getting better.

My ride statistics (my computer is not calibrated well so on the avg I have adjusted the number based on my time – the rest of the numbers don’t matter too much so I didn’t bother.)
Top speed – ~37.8mph
Distance – adjusted 16.85 miles (reading 17.09)
Time – 58:01
Average Speed – adjusted 17.4 mph (reading is 17.8)
Total odometer – 96.7 miles

As it turns out that was a fun story to recount, I hope the Mermaid lovers weren’t put off by my initial bike-siren and got this far.

Eulogy for Thomas Erskine

This is the printed word, from which I spoke the eulogy at Thomas Erskine’s funeral service on the 25th of August, 2009. It probably isn’t exactly what I said, I can’t be sure, but it is very, very close.

Introduction
My name is Lief. He would rather have introduced me as Shawn.

While in my youth I may have tried to deflect childish jokes for a unique first name Grampa may have wanted to deflect praise; he once told my brother he preferred a pine box to a fancy coffin. But, praise him I will, and we do, and deservedly so.

We are here in praise of Thomas Erskine. In his 88 long years he was a son, a brother, a husband, a 2nd lieutenant and bombardier, a father, an actor, a marketing manager, a hunter, an anchor, a romantic, a deacon, a servant, a grandfather, a woodworker, a philanthrope, a master gardener, a story teller, and a great grandfather – through it all he was a family man who drove a hard bargain with a legendary handshake and a satchel chock full of one liners.

However, all of this and all of you, would not have been but for one of those strange turns in life that saw Tom, a young bombardier, sent separately to a class while his crew-mates were shot down over enemy lines. Except maybe for Sis over there, you know? He lived with that pain, in the service of our country, for decades. Some salve was applied later to that wound when he found out near the turn of the century that four of his crew-mates survived.

His legacy then, as events would have it, is embodied in us, his family and friends and the myriad steps that bring us all to this place, together, in praise of him and his life.

Overview
In his youth he was called The Ox and throughout his life he cut an imposing figure.

But I bet he didn’t squash Granny’s knuckles when first they met because she married him in 1943 and they were together for 53 years until her passing in 1996.

Together they had seven children and he had pet names for all of them:
Tuggy, TTRTX, ShortFat&4F, Boy, FourEyes, Bones, BrightEyes, and Scutter

At bedtime he would say? “Allright girls, up the golden stairs.”

I am sure many of you carried one or more of his monikers as well.
I really think he had some sort of an inside joke with everybody and it might take another 88 years to find them all.

He dearly loved his family, cherished his time with them, even when he fell asleep in his favorite chair gracing us all with his now infamous open-mouthed snore.

With the passing of his first wife Tom again found love with Maggie and they married in 2000. Apparently he just couldn’t stay away from children and family and endearing women so he endeavored to increase the size of his family two-fold.

Maggie and he enjoyed travelling together and the now even larger family gatherings.
He loved to shine light on her beautiful quilts.

Military
He entered active duty on March 4, 1944, and served admirably as a navigator and bombardier with the 513th Squadron, 376th Heavy Bombardment Group, 15th Air Force.

In addition to the near miss I mentioned before he and his crewmates once limped home on only two engines and a prayer.

He was discharged from active duty in June of 1945
He once said to a daughter that he wasn’t worried during the war because he was living his life as a servant and he was at God’s disposal.

Sense of humor
Growing up with 7 brothers and sisters, Married with 6 daughters and one son, and tacking on a tour of duty – Tom had ample occasion to develop his wry wit.
While he told a good story his one liners were a calling card.

Once on a hiking trip with a family friend, Giuseppe from Italy, the all male outfit treated their guest of honor to the mornings inaugural pancake. Now, these are camping pancakes and likely not the tastiest treat for even a hungry hiker. So, one at a time they endeavored to enjoy their meal, and when Giuseppe’s turn came around again he declined a second helping.
“Plenty Plenty”
Taken aback at this refusal Tom called for a vote.
“Who here thinks Giuseppe should have a second pancake?”
“Aye”
slap :
“That’s Democracy.”

He relished a good joke and drove home his one-liners.

If you asked him a question the answer to which you were not entitled he would answer
Layovers catch meddlers.

For the one that got away?
If dog rabbit.

and of course the self-explanatory:
If you can’t win don’t lose.

The Arts
Tom enjoyed the arts, Poetry, The Theater, Opera.

If you spent any time with him you would hear an opera or two, be read a poem or three and he would sing under his breath leaving a restaurant, or recite snippets at opportune moments throughout the day. You might think he invented the phrase “Trouble in river city” until you chanced on a production of The Music Man.

“The Childrens Hour” by Longfellow was one of his many favorite poems, (an excerpt)

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

In his life he circled back to cherish his children and their children…and their children.

Never one to shun good entertainment he would regularly read The Family Circle and Dennis The Menace. He even flaunted a British accent in the theater while living in South Dakota.

I recall attending The Phantom of the Opera with him and while the scale of the production is great – it seemed the grandiose notes were music to his ears while the lyrics, if you could pick them out, really sang to him.

His Italian was measurable and to reinforce your understanding he would simply ask – Capiche?

He loved the arts.

Gardening and Retirement
I wrote down here that he “retired” in 1980 but for my whole life, and perhaps many of yours, I remember that a call from Grampa was a call for work.
He dug post holes
He planted trees
He built decks
He installed toilets
and so many other things too numerous to count

He became a master gardener with no small measure of skill and was proud of his Christmas tree plantation.
He would later donate 50 Christmas trees per year to charity so the less fortunate could celebrate Christmas with a proper tree.

He loved to do stuff with his hands.

Faith
Thomas completed training as a Deacon in the Catholic Church and was ordained in the first Deaconite class of the Archdiocese of Seattle in 1973. He served as Deacon at St. Madeleine Sophie in Bellevue and later at Our Lady of Good Counsel in Eatonville, WA.

One of the larger aspects of Tom’s life was his commitment to service. He felt blessed with a strong family – so with a deep commitment to service and sacrifice, a deep commitment to his God and his religion, and with an enduring belief in himself he reached out to others in the community who had less.

He shared what they lacked: advice for a hard decision, money for a tough month, food for a hungry mouth, a hammer for a loose nail, and perhaps the most difficult – an ear when someone wasn’t heard.

But he didn’t just give, he firmly believed that he must teach that man to fish. His reward was the sense of community and cohesion he built in his service

“By myself I couldn’t do diddly. I couldn’t drive myself (to work) if not for the support of the people.”
– Thomas Erskine 1985

He was at God’s disposal – he loved, and lived, to serve.

Philanthropy
The first act of pure philanthropy of which I am aware was that night when he heard of his crew-mates fate. He set about treating his Italian host family to a lavish dinner. They were likely subject to rationing but it seems like Tom, even then, held a deep and abiding respect for life and family.
He celebrated the living.

As a member of the church, he would volunteer at BBQ’s slaving over the hot coals, and as a father he would make fresh white popcorn for trick-or-treaters.

His focus continually returned to the children, whether his own or those of strangers; children remained central.

In later years he expended much energy donating his time for children in need in his parish. He recently personally ensured that thousands of donated dollars were spent on cart loads of childrens toys, to be given at Christmas time. And when he found out that the establishment gave a 10% discount for charitable buying he cinched up his belt and added to the haul with a drive hardly recognizable as an octogenarian.

He loved giving and he most loved giving to children.

Conclusion
With Grampa it really began and ended with service and family.

He was safe and secure in his home with Maggie and his only son when he passed.
He volunteered, during my last visit, that he was happy with his life and that he felt he had done the best he could with a mistake or two along the way.

And I know that every time he saw his children and their children (and their children) flit about his home and about his feet he was happy.

Where have you gone then Grampa? – Layovers catch meddlers.
You’ll be allright then? – If dog rabbit.
Ok well, up the golden stairs then with you and remember, if you can’t win don’t lose.

We all love you Grampa, capiche?

Our Literalist

lit·er·al·ism: n. Adherence to the explicit sense of a given text or doctrine.

In swimming lessons recently WeeOne was getting used to having her face in the water. She isn’t afraid of it really, she and her mer-sister dunk their faces in all the time. In fact, WeeOne has always been more comfortable with water on her face than LaGrande,

BUT

She is three now and if she isn’t (is?) in the mood, she interprets instructions very literally: sometimes honestly and occasionally, and even successfully, as an escape. We may never know her motivations on this day but literalism mode was on.

The instructor put the front of her own face in the water, blew some bubbles, came up for air and said:

Okay ladies, it’s time to get our noses wet!

With these ‘clear’ instructions WeeOne promptly dabbed her free hand into the pool, brought it up to her face, and patted her nose until wet. Next.

Decisions Decisions

I made the decision to buy a recumbent.
I made the decision to commute by bike.
I made the decision to use a field-of-vision limiting fairing.
I made the decision to NOT buy a bus pass this January.
and
I made the decision to go straight on Rainier this morning.

That’s the teaser.

Approaching a hill this morning I saw a new, manhole-sized, brick lined, pothole. We are talkin’ deep, 1911, Denny-Renton bricks. With cars approaching (from behind) on the western hemisphere of this abyss I chose the eastern hemisphere. I saw the driveway entrance to the sidewalk and committed.

I missed the eastern hemisphere of the entrance to Wonderland and found myself nose-to-nose (or rather, wheel-to-curb) with a stealth curb. It was hunkered, a mere 2-3 inches above ground level, in a clever burm of sand that smoothed it’s cliff like appearance not unlike a VW bug in 25 inches of snow.

That’s the decision I had to live with now and at about 10 mph my small, front wheel approached that stealthy little curblet at a VERY acute angle. Then that part of my body closest to the ground, for the second time in just over 12 hours, kissed the pavement. I think my right cheek was jealous of my left cheek; this time I had momentum.

A skilled forensics team may yet determine the speed at which impact occurred by measuring the scratches, accounting of course for a thin layer of spandex which remains (thankfully) untorn.

I would say my ego was further damaged, because I always say matter of factly

I don’t fall.

but it really isn’t; I am still gonna be Spider-Man someday.

Hey mister…

Coupla days ago I was riding BopOp’s Globe (an upright, diamond-frame bike) home from the train. I was cursing my strained pelvic floor (rather than thinking about how to fix my recumbent) when one of those small ironies of bicycling occurred.
With perhaps a slight redefinition of irony, let’s explore this and see what comes out.

Coming around a long slow corner I pulled my head out of it’s slump to notice a vehicle in an unusual location. It was stalled on the far side of the street and a disheveled man was just getting out with a small gas can. As I made eye contact he ironied me.

Hey! Can you spare a brother a gallon of gas?

In my current condition I wasn’t real quick, and the question actually stunned me for a moment, but I still had the wits to come up with this retort as I rode by;

Sorry man, all I got is burritos!

I chuckled to myself all the way home and even tried coming up with a better reply.
I only came up with

Looks like you need to get a bike!

I think the burrito’s one was better with all due respect to the zeropergallon.com website but I think this remains one of the great opportunities, a TON of material, for a truly good one-liner.

Can you think of a better one (I’m lookin at you Jame)?
I kinda want to have a ringer pre-loaded for the next time somebody asks me for a gallon of gas…while riding my bike.
And, if your retort can pull double duty for when someone in the stall asks me, standing at the urinal,

Hey! Can you spare a brother a square?

…well, if you can do that you will get special recognition on blief.
I am the judge and jury on this one and I still might be the winner cause the burrito line was good.

We TRI-ed it

As previously posted, in the warmer days of summer, I convinced Tony and Tom to swim, bike, and run with me, all in one day.
Now, in the colder days of near-fall, we did it.

A short recap before we get to the nitty gritty.
Cold, Wet, Windy, and Tired…pretty much in that order.

Cold
We arrived at oh-dark-thirty to get our stuff readied. We were about sixty minutes earlier than we needed to be. So we hung out and chatted with our support team. When we thought it was a good time to take off our warm clothes and wait for our turn to dive in…well…we were about sixty minutes earlier than we needed to be. So we froze and the lake water almost felt good…at least on our feet…when we actually did dive in.

Wet
Mind you it thought about raining all morning but never really got going and after standing in the misty cold mornin’ air for darn near three hours we got the green light…or should I say the air horn of death. The 1/4 mile swim only took about 11 minutes to complete but based on the number of times I was kicked, swallowed water, and well…shivered I would have guessed it at more like 20. In the end of that stage I was certainly ready to do something I was more familiar with; ride. Tony wasn’t talking to me, that’s how much fun he had.

Windy
I was most worried about getting really cold riding the bike after being wet. Turns out that wasn’t what I should have worried about; more on that later. The ride started out flat, and turned hilly quick. Tom and I were accustomed to our rides and quickly out-paced Tony. His conveyance, let’s call her Bessie, was borrowed, heavy, shift-challenged, and generally not well suited for a time trial. Milking maybe, time trial – no. After it became clear that we were too far ahead to simply slow down for Bessie to catch up Tom and I stopped altogether to maintain the brotherhood. That was the point after all; more, again, on that later. So finally Bessie made it ’round the mountain and promptly cursed us and our steeds.

At least he was talking to me again.

So we made our final descent more or less together (apparently Bessie’s udders were draggin’) and dismounted for what was billed as ‘the easiest part of the whole thing’…by a marathoner.

Tired
Lemme just say that after biking about 3,500 miles since February I was feeling, well…fresh after the bike section. A twelve mile ride to me is like chocolate milk, it goes down smooth. About 200 meters into the 5000 meter run I was acutely aware that my chocolate milk had gone sour with a consistency of cottage cheese. I guess I should have trained for this and this is what I should have worried about.

And loping along in front, just out of reach, like a school boy on recess was Tom. Run backwards in front of me again punk, see what happens. So the marathoner in training with his quaint advice

Just hold your fingers together at the tips, like you’re holding an egg.

and Billy Elliot prancing around just out of reach of my gasping fingers prodded me along like a recalcitrant mule. I think I would have rather had a clothespin on my lip and a pair of roller blades.

I am not a runner, I mean look at these bowlegs for chrissakes! Eeee-hawwww!

So I dragged my sorry butt up that long stretch of pavement footstep by footstep, wishing I could spin into another gear, dreaming of a world where wheels ruled the land when at last we rounded the final turn. And lo and behold, if there wasn’t some fight still left in me. We managed a furious and objectionable sprint for the finish line and finished bang, bang, bang – 1, 2, 3 – alphabetically.

That really made it all worthwhile though and even my immobile and lactically challenged legs today aren’t enough of a reason to keep me from another start.

And by cracky, we all did better than Jennifer Lopez. (Never mind that she did a longer tri.)

Place 111 (out of 143)
Swimming split – 0:10:20
transition – 8:34
Biking split – 1:06:35
transition – 4:08
Running split – 0:28:52
Total 1:58:29