Crushing sorrow

Went to little David's viewing tonight.

The sight of a 20 month old little guy in an open casket is not easily forgettable, and it puts into perspective, once again, just how crucial the time is that we have here.

I don't pray much, but this is one of those times that I can't think of anything more appropriate. More cheerful writing will come soon enough.

Thanks for reading, whoever is out there browsin'.

Sad news

We just found out that the boy across the street passed away yesterday. He wasn't even two--his parents are inconsolable, by all accounts from their next door neighbor. He had some sort of blood disorder, as he was in and out of hospitals during his short life. We just saw him running up and down the driveway a couple of weeks ago, with not a care in the world.

The viewing is tomorrow night - K suggested that I make some adobo, a Filipino soul food dish to help with the throngs that will be paying their respects. The house smells like garlic, vinegar, and soy sauce. It's a smell I usually associate with good times, but today it's just a bummer. When I see the family the waterworks will most certainly begin.

I can't imagine what they're going through right now...

Futility

Last night the Caps lost to the Panthers in a game marked by stunning flatness in the first period, then some signs of life by the third period, ending with a disappointingly anticlimactic shootout. I was with my brother in law Bill, who has season tickets that he gladly shares. The futility of the Caps' season must be frustrating for those who shell out lots of hard earned clams to watch their team sleepwalk through the season.

The most notable moment of the game, however was before the national anthem, in which the arena got dark and film of Sean Taylor's exploits were shown, from high school through college through his too short career as a pro, with a moment of silence in his memory. In an arena the size of the Verizon Center, I only heard 1 voice, that of little kid, while this moment was honored. Chills happen when thousands are unifyingly silent.

Stopped by the office on my way home to pick up my gear for morning meetings and decided to spend a bit of time finishing some of the mind numbing paperword to cover my ass in the one particular project that is moving at exact opposite of the speed of sound. By contract we should have been wrapping up this month and instead the project is only 30% complete. Again, an exercise in futility as this paperwork consists of "Request(s) for Information" (RFI's) that the contractor puts forth in order to justify change orders, a process rendered moot by the tedium of the decelerated schedule. The phony sense of urgency is only heightened by all of the overuse of Blackberry's/Treos as we all must be so busy that we can't just do one thing at a time.

Didn't ride last night, but Tuesday night intervals indoors were intense. 5 sets of :30 on /:30 off descending intervals (5-4-3-2) and then 5 sets of 2:00 on/2:00 off were enough to elicit a distinct response. Thursday night intervals again; Friday rollers; Saturday slow and steady ride; Sunday the penultimate 'cross race of the season at Reston, where it will be cold and rainy. Perfect 'cross weather--the effort will most certainly not be a futile one.

Reset

In an earlier post, I wrote about blogging as a way to write about what comes to mind in a not so entirely self-conscious manner. I've tried writing in journals all my life, to no real effect other than documenting my life in snippets and in a voice that is stifled by a sense that someone may stumble upon these passages and, well, laugh hysterically at my meanderings (and that's not a good thing, as this perceived laughter would be AT me instead of WITH me).

But now that this is out in the open, one would think that self censorship is limiting. [[Analogy Alert!!]] Writing in a journal is like designing from scratch. With no boundaries, I actually find the process of creativity more constrictive. In architecture there are no new ideas, only the innumerable variations of set patterns. Start with a pattern and the world is your oyster...Blogging in an environment where I know that a couple of people will see this, and now I can have some fun, since, like most of us social beings, I yearn for an audience. And at this point I really don't care who laughs AT me.

I'm also getting forgetful in my approach to middle age, so that means that this blog will also be a record of how I'm spending the ever-so-swiftly passing years.

Exotic places

So I'm standing in the elevator on my way up to my office this morning and the group of people in there with me are chattering about their Thanksgiving plans. One of the women will be spending the turkey day here and then will go to Ecuador to hang out, do day trips and stand on the equator. As the doors are closing behind me I overhear "I've never been anywhere, like...exotic".

That's a sentiment that's probably shared by so many people, which is probably why the cruise line business is so popular.

My dad was in the Foreign Service, so I did get to see lots of exotic places. I consider myself lucky that way, though I've always been envious of those that have roots in one place. We traveled so much that when K and I got married we made a conscious decision NOT to move around so much (except for the 3 moves in 3 years around Silver Spring and Kensington, but that's another story), as she comes from a military family (her dad served in the Army). So we established ourselves in one place, and maybe we'll travel a lot again when the kids fly the coop and move all over the world. That is, when I'm not riding my bike.

Speaking of which, I usually (read: almost always) don't ride on Mondays, taking it as a real rest day since I weekend warrior through the previous 2 days. So Tuesday I start again, and I will do intervals on the trainer for an hour or so, since there ain't no daylight to ride in...

9 hours

What a weekend, despite 'dem Skinnies dropping a close one to the hated Cowboys. I was hoping to unleash a guttural scream of joy at the end, assuming they could close the deal in that last drive. I reminded the family that 2 years ago on that Monday night game when Brunell and Moss combined for two quick strikes to pull out a victory, I had to suppress my celebration due to the fact that I would have woken everyone up. Gingerly jumping up and down and hollering through clenched teeth at midnight isn't quite as cathartic as the real thing, but satisfying nonetheless.

I rode 9 hours this weekend, which is much more than normal. Note the following: while Sunday's ride was the typical Bicycle Place shop ride, Saturday's ride was a 6 hour slog for 40 miles with a few Boy Scouts and their parents. A primer on lower than Zone 1 training, thusly: Accompany a group of youngsters and some of their parents on a trip up the C & O Canal from Dickerson to Harper's Ferry on various bikes, mostly of the MTB variety. Start at 9AM from Dickerson. Eat lunch at the Swiss Miss at Harper's Ferry, plan on a few breaks along the way as this crowd isn't used to riding long distances. Return to Dickerson at 5PM. That's about 6 hours in the saddle, about 6.7 MPH, estimated 100 feet of climbing (and that's being generous). If THAT doesn't get yer motor revvin'....then the walk across the railroad bridge into Harper's Ferry sure could, as the steel grated staircase offered dramatic views into the river. It certainly helped for Sunday's ride, a 50 mile affair with the usual mixin' it up with the big boys (and the rest of the unwashed).

The coolest part of the Saturday leg, though, was the amount of time spent with my 12 year old son, who got to be with me and away from me at the same time, as that is his tendency at this age. He rode at his own pace while I swept the rear with a kid who had probably never ridden longer than 5 miles in his life, and he was really hurtin'. They all made it though, and probably got to know themselves better in the process. These are moments to enjoy, as they are as fleeting as the autmn colors, which we also saw plenty of.

As good a time as any.

All right. I’m ALL IN. After years of lurking, this here is the first post of many to this strange, oddly sociopathic medium which opens many doors and crushes fingers when some of those doors slam shut…

I’m 42, married to my best friend, two imperfectly perfect kids, great extended family and in-laws, lots o’ friends, and have a satisfying career to boot. As an architect, I’m PAID TO DRAW. Actually, I make graphic instructions for contractors to make buildings, if you distill the daily grind to its core. Life’s damn good, and I can’t complain. I’m just waiting for the other shoe to fall.

Many people know me as Johnny, many others as John. Some call me Johan, or Gianni, or Giovanni, for reasons that relate to my pastime of choice: I also love to ride and race bikes (of the non motor variety). Cycling’s huge in Belgium. And food—a love affair that will never end. French fries are my Kryptonite. French fries in Belgium are known as frites. Hence my blog name: Johnny Frites, coined by a Mr. C. O’Brien, a friend and teammate who scoffed at the possibility of reading this blog, which will be replete with much exciting banter.

A minor introspective detour:

Why do we do this? I’ve been reading blogs now for some time, irritated by the origin of the name (web log) in the same way that the word “druthers” has always stuck in my craw. But the content has been fascinating; I’ve gotten to know people who don’t know who the hell I am or would care, unless they also had some sort of interest in what I write about. Certainly I have been interested in what others have written, their style of writing, what they do, how they live—no matter how much we think we are individuals we are affected by what we see, hear, read.

The issue here is the audience. If this were to be intimate, or private thoughts, or not meant to be shared, then why do this on this medium? Clearly there is a narcissistic tendency that we have when we broadcast these postings in this manner. When I post on listserves or even send out e-mail, I’m careful to see how the structure of the message can be interpreted, as the nuances of body language and facial expression add immeasurably to the message when given in person (or even spoken). So this is a new mode of expression for me, and old hat for the many others I’ve read, so be patient and maybe something good can come of this.

So here goes.