River Road

Usually on our anniversary we take the day off and do something cultural and eat something lavish.  The romantic escapade ends with last minute shopping for Christmas.

Since our work schedules prohibited this interlude on the appointed day, we planned on doing all of that today.  That is, until the 60" water main broke in Potomac/Bethesda and washed away our best laid plans.  Thinking we would be without water (and we were, as the faucets featured a trickle), I ran to Safeway to stock up on some H2O.

We still went out, shopped, ate, and even looked at some tile for the kitchen before coming home to the kids, who had their Christmas vacation bonus of 2.5 hours, as the County shut down all schools due to the broken water main.

But we got everything done that we wanted to, and got to spend some time with each other.  Double bonus--I'll take that whenever I can.

Hoping that both of you have a merry Christmas...

Happy Anniversary

Tonight marks 18 years of marriage. 18 is quite a number--the number of years before the passage to adulthood, as it is hard to believe that some kid is now allowed to vote after existing for as long as we have been married. On an completely non romantic and non reflective note, it is the jersey # of one of the best base stealers in the '80's MLB (who happened to have an 18 year career), the number I wore playing baseball in my glory days. I would be remiss to not mention that, while 18 is not a prime number, it is close in its coolness. And marriage is quite a cool thing, especially this one. Without Karen I can confidently say that I wouldn't be where I am today.

Little did I know 18 years ago tonight that I would be playing Christmas carols with the entire fam while sitting around our suburban enclave...on a guitar, no less, an instrument that is slowly becoming less unnatural to me, after wasting 8 years of my parents' hard earned caiiish on piano lessons when I was a non-practicing imp. K and S on the piano (duet), A on the sax, and me strummin' along. On the last run through we actually sounded decent, but we're not (and never will be) the von Trapps.

Great weekend of getting things ready for the Christmas cavalcades. We went to the annual party at Mike and Diane's place, a party that has morphed into a showcase of musical and lyrical talent. It's become a tradition that more and more people perform, and we and our neighbors did our annual butchering of some Christmas carol in the manner of relating to local life and times, and it was well-received (so well-received last year that the evite poll required us to create a new song). Hanging out with our friends, kids running around being kids and teenagers, and plenty of good stuff flowing. It was, as usual, a great time.

When Mike turned 40 a couple of years ago, he had an "Open Mike" (get it?) night party, where all of us were to perform some sort of musical number. Paul and I decided to "explore the space" since we "had a fever" and that was that. Another great party. They're all memorable, especially when kids break their arms at them.

These are the parties that we went to when we were the kids, watching our parents let their hair down a little while we were hanging with our buddies and trying to figure out how this all fit together. Then we started having them as teenagers while our parents were in the inner recesses of the house, venturing out only to show that they were still boss, but trusting us enough. Then of course the group house parties where the neighbors call the cops because we're too loud, or the beast from the hills stalks one of your housemates because he gave him the hairy eyeball. Then parties turned into "soirees", when we were young and sans kids, but less raucous and more mellow because we were more "mature." And then we didn't have them for awhile because the house becomes the domain of the napoleonic tyrants who don't care that your're no longer cool, since now it's ALL ABOUT THEM. And then they get older and we can let our hair down again, although some of us don't have any of that anymore. And the cycle begins anew.

Sad anniversary

I was cleaning out my garage yesterday and wrapping up some final trim work with Hank, the contractor, when I saw some rare activity across the street.  Our neighbors who had left their house mysteriously a couple of months ago were getting their mail and checking up on some things.

I ran across the street to greet them.  We exchanged warm hugs, handshakes, and Christmas greetings.  I asked them where they went, and what's been up, knowing that the answer was directly related to the tragedy they experienced last year.  As Laura started to speak I could tell that the words were not coming easily, so I told her to say no more and we redirected the conversation.  David is working at Dulles Airport now, so they've moved to be closer to family and work.  Their grief is still raw, and staying in that house is no longer an option.  We exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep in touch, but after they sell the house I'm afraid we won't see them again, as we're a part of that sad memory too.

Green thoughts

Earlier today, driving back from a meeting in Elkridge MD with one of my co-workers, we were discussing non-business stuff as it's as good a time as any to get to know people better, especially those you spend 40 hours a week with.  Somehow the conversation turned to '80's music, specifically the Smithereens, a late '80's/'90's formulaic garage style group that cranked out AOR radio fodder (is that repetitive?).  I saw them at the Fairfax County Fair in 1991, and missed them at the Herndon Fair last year.  No matter; see them once, and that's all you need to see, though they were definitely solid.  And grim, too, in their lyrics about relationships and memories.  And Pat DiNizio--check out the Mavic cap.

Their album Green Thoughts is in heavy rotation in my playlist even now, as a 43 year old guy who tries to see the approach of the latter years through the eyes of a 23 year old...music has that way of staving off the inevitable ageing process.  The title song is all about envy, an emotion that I would say is my Achilles Heel.  There's something about that insecurity of greed that highlights many memories of life, as bad memories can stand out as boldly as good ones.  It's always a puzzle to me as to why jealousy exists when I'm, simply stated, a pretty satisfied person.  But it's there, as green thoughts that cloud my judgement and color my views from day to day, without pattern. 

Don't know how or why, just it's there every once in a while...

//Green thoughts come around

every now and then

When they bring you down

Run away while you still can//

Great song, especially the harmony on the the last chorus.

Polly wants a cracker

The day ended well, with belly full of great catered Asian fare. Caps win again (Varlamov the young 'un stoned the Blues in the net), and it's Thursday, just days before we take a break from the grind.

The day started, though, with what could have been a confrontational meeting with a client who specializes in micromanagement. A couple of nights ago I logged into my work email (first mistake) to take care of some minor business. I had to respond to an incendiary email from this client, though my finger hovered over the SEND button for a while since I'm no proponent of email wars and pissing contests. I've always believed that email is a prop for people who can't say in person what they really want to say, and is often the refuge of chickens. At that point I didn't care, and knew I would be seeing this guy today and tomorrow, so I sent it anyway, knowing that I may regret it later.

Didn't regret it, and let's just say that this person was chastened. Everthing was cool today, though the meeting was longer than anticipated, and everything is backed up at work again. By the time I got back to the office, I was a real grump, and was reminded of some Christmas office shindig that I was invited to by my partner. Didn't wanna go. Too much work. Just chill out and go already, he said. So I did. And had a very relaxing evening. The food was awesome, catered by Raku, and enjoyed by all. As it turns out this was at a consultant's office who shares a connection beyond work.

About 3 years ago, while I was cuising back through Kensington on the N2 with the usual suspects, I was talking with Mike D about work and life, the small talk that fills in the gaps after a decent base mileage ride. He's a pretty strong rider, and a good guy too. Small world moment, as we found out that his wife was the same person I had been dealing with on a very successful project in which she was the landscape architect. Since then her company has provided us services for landscape design, and it's pretty sweet work. Enjoying some holiday cheer with some other professionals in my field is yet another benefit of this relationship.

One last thing that indicates a return to some sense of normalcy: I literally dusted off my guitar (construction dust is still everywhere), tuned it, and started learning "Polly". Just a bunch of power chords, and I've always wanted to learn it, so there's no time like now. I just need to get back on the bike and everything'll be crackin'.

Tapped out and ramblin' on

So my buddy asked me today why I haven't posting much lately.

I'm pretty tapped out.  All of my visceral moments have been exhausted in the past two months at work.  We're juggling demanding clients, a dwindling economy, skittish job prospects, unyielding bureaucracies, and cashflow that is more of a trickle than a, well, flow.  Couple that with clients who are holding on to their money instead of paying us for services rendered, thus continuing the domino tipping that forces us to delay paying our consultants for services they've rendered in good faith.  Non-profit developers, while noble, are not liquid.  Their visions are often not congruous with our need to stay in business.  But they're our clients, so we work with what we've got.

On the upside, we were humming like a well oiled machine for the deadline we just wrapped up today.  For the first time in many moons we generated a synergy that has made the process not only bearable but somewhat pleasurable.  We're ultimately paid to make instructions for contractors to build buildings.  Boiled down, it's graphic communication to be understood by all.  Too much nebulous information, and it's obtuse.  Too little useful information, and it's useless.  Too much useless information, we're just filling up paper and covering our asses.  The key is to synthesize the information in a way that the plans are transparent in their ability to communicate.  A good set of plans is worth umpteen times more than the fee required to generate them.  And therein lies the rub--a good set of plans looks like anyone can do it.

Kinda like racing a bike (or not, as has been my MO of late).  Looks easy.  How hard can it be?  They're just pedalin' and yakkin'.  Some morning radio guys were raggin' on us this morning--one of them lives in Kensington, near Beach Drive, the place where "the freaks in lycra turn into their own personal Tour de France" and "take their lives into their own hands".  This all stemmed from the news release of the NYPD copper who assaulted the Critical Mass rider this past July--if not for YouTube the cyclist would have been in a heap of trouble, not the cop (who really put himself in a heap of trouble).  Ask George Allen what he thinks of YouTube.  If not for viral video he may have been the prez.  But I digress--the point of this paragraph is that we're hated on the road by more people than we think, and many people probably think the Critical Mass rider got what he deserved just because he was riding a bike.  It doesn't help that Critical Mass flaunts its "subculture-ness" and doesn't apologize for it--it just sucks that we become the objects of scorn, derision, and sometimes violence because of it.

I'm done.  I'm also too lazy to link to that video.  It's there on YouTube.  While you're there check out the video that prevented yet another good ole boy from possibly becoming our next pres...

Affirmation, baby!

Monday night football is on, and as I watch the talkers go on and on, I think back to the days when Tony Kornheiser's radio show was at its best, when the listeners riffed on whatever was on TK's mind that day.  One of the best examples of this was when he mocked Stuart Scott's unflappingly self-aggrandizing story of playing pick-up ball with none other than Michael Jordan.  After dishing MJ a (so says Stu) sweet assist, Jordan points at Stu as they go back up court, acknowledging the play.  To which Stu Scott says "Affirmation, baby!"  This became fertile ground for endless humorous mockery, as the more talented listeners to TK's show riffed on this one for weeks on end, finding ways to crow "affirmation, baby" any way they could.  So much so that some dude started a Tony fanboy blog with this title.

I guess we do this blog thing to feed that part of our yearning, to be recognized by others, especially those more skilled than we are , in our particular endeavor.  In my own egomaniacal way I had an affirmation baby moment when I received mention in this guy's blog, an incredibly prolific writer and relentless rider, a dude who captures the visceral nature of racing, training, and the camaraderie that accompanies it in prose that flows.  

In his description of the cyclocross scene, I'm one of the many he thanks for making his season a memorable experience.  Life got in the way yesterday, preventing me from getting out to Reston for my second favorite race of the 'cross calendar.  I made a donation to the cause with my entry fee, but my new kitchen and dining room needed to be cloaked with 3 colors.  It looks great.

Glad to be a part of that bigger picture, Jim.  It's been a pleasure seeing you out there, so keep on keepin' on and we'll see you on Super Sunday in College Park for the last gasp of this 2008 season.

Shapers

Here's an opportunity that I don't indulge too often..a little bit of appreciation for the mentors in my life.  I'm amazed at how much I learn about other people and ultimately myself just by watching how they do things and how they react to the daily grind.  What they say or don't say, how they react, how they lead, how they follow, and how they communicate.  There's no magic bullet here--I guess it's how I receive their leadership or choose how to listen to them.  

Since most of what I get paid to do relies on graphic communication, I've spent the last few weeks and especially the last couple of days honing my craft of conveying the details of how the skin of a building cloaks its frame.  Mundane stuff, to be sure, but the personality of the designer is often transmitted through the steel, concrete, bricks, and mortar in ways that are amazingly subtle.  Buildings can speak volumes, especially if they're well-conceived, efficiently executed, and contextually solid.

We are who we are by the way the people around us affect how we change our own lives.  On a daily basis, that makes for some pretty rich livin'. 

Bombs away

I'm glad I don't feel the need to be tethered to office e-mail.  The constant use of handheld devices to access e-mail, while very much a part of our lives today, is one thing I feel the need to rail against, should anyone care to listen.

If I had read the bomb in my in-box moments after it was sent, I would have been a basket case all weekend.  It was sent on Friday morning, Day 2 of the National Eating and Shopping Weekend of Excess (US NESWE, for those keeping track at home).  My naps throughout this special holiday would not have been so fruitful.

As it turned out, I read it on Monday morning.  The net effect was an increase in my already high heartrate, since the first day after any relaxing long weekend is stressful in itself.  Set the tone for the day.  Much angst was expended in anticipation of resolving this small situation, which essentially was well-placed criticism of some drawings that didn't quite meet the expectations of the client. 

The resulting meeting that I had today regarding said e-mail was surprisingly pleasant and cooperative, once again corroborating my thoughts that electronic correspondence written in haste does nothing to lubricate the wheels of communication, rather has a negative effect, even though this is not always intended.

Just goes to show that a new day is just a turn of the page, and always a chance to start fresh.  Things are never as bad as they seem, especially after a nice snooze.

At least I didn't accidentally shoot myself in the leg at a nightclub, like this guy.

Catching some zzzz's

I laid myself down on the floor, and the heat enveloped me and ushered in a host of daydreams.  It was the most relaxing moment of the Thanksgiving weekend.

Life of late has been work at work, work at home, spend time with the family when possible, and fit in a ride or a race around the edges.  The kitchen is substantially complete as of today, most deadlines at work are done, and we're re-ordering our abode (savagely decluttering is another way to put it).  The family obligations that accompany the holidays also require an energy that is quite depleting even though we are ostensibly relaxing. 

So in the wake of repeating the repetitive redundancy of the daily routine, I found myself at my parents' house over the weekend, after a waffle breakfast cooked in part by my dad (a monumental event in itself), with the sounds of  family catching up wafting in the background. I laid down on the living room floor, which is radiantly heated.  Amazing relaxation washed over me, and I started sawing some wood, as they say.

It was a short nap, but the essence of vacation.  It's not often that we get respites like that one.  Needless to say I didn't do much riding either, just a short jaunt on Friday with some of the boys.

Lots has been goin' on

and I'm pretty tired lately. The renovation is going on schedule, and I hung the entire ceiling this weekend, something I wasn't planning on doing, but once I got started it was pretty systematic. Ten sheets of drywall overhead can cause Chaplin-esque moments as I'm trying to control dead weight directly above me with 2 deadmen who sometimes have minds of their own. I figured that if I hung it right then finishing would less of a pain in the ass, but there's no avoiding that either way.

Mixed in a 'cross race today (DCCX) and had a great time, but given my abject lack of training, especially a dearth of interval work, I cramped massively toward the end of the race. When I finished it was all I could do to rub these cramps out, as they were in opposing muscle groups and relief on one side was met with pain on the other.

So that's it. Work is work, it's Sunday, and here we go again.

Little by little

The office move is substantially complete, though I still have some boxes to finish unpacking.  The volume of work is steady but reducing in intensity, and the space is arranged in such a way that we can see virtually everyone in the studio, with no major visual blockage.  There's some cool volume to the space that really feels different than a standard office floor.  It's going to turn out quite a bit better than I expected.

The open plan has its downsides, too, as I was on a phone call and everyone was giggling in a way that became irritating, and I almost resorted to the old "Hey let's cut this out and get back to work because we're too busy to laugh" speech, the standard management mantra.  Until I saw the source of the amusement, an image of the newest father in the office proudly holding his day old infant in his arms.  Only this infant had the photoshopped head of another poor bearded soul in our office, an image so unsettling that my irritation dissolved into peels of laughter that joined the chorus.  There were no innocent bystanders here.  I still laugh thinking about it, and was in tears as I was describing it to the fam at dinner.

I asked the perpetrator of this heinous and hilarious crime not to post the image on the wall as I will not be able to suppress laughter if I were to look in that direction, which is and will be often (pardon the butchering of the pluperfect--or is it subjunctive?).  Next source of entertainment will be one these cool Air Hogs Havic Heli's buzzing around.

Don't eat spicy Thai food for breakfast.

What is the deal with the UPS ad campaign, the whole "Whiteboard" scheme, with mullet boy pitching their wares?  As far as seven heads go, this may be more of an elongated pageboy cut.  Regardless it's ugly, and memorable.  Certainly successful in that regard.

MNF is on in the background, and it's mellow in the house tonight.  Yesterday while the 'Skins were flaying the Eagles (YEEHAW) the game was on in the background while we installed a beam into the new opening, did more demo, framed the peninsula wall, and traced and reconfigured all of the 1950's era and 1980's remodel era wiring through the kitchen and dining room.  I use "we" in the royal sense, as I was a glorified laborer amongst real pros.   Hank the contractor is a true craftsman, an amazing magician with tools, always working, always moving forward.  My brother in law Bob is a meticulous electrician, also hard-working and efficient.  By watching and observing their ethic I'm able to continue to shape mine.  In addition, despite the small talk and banter that accompanies these all-encompassing tasks we seemed to work well enough together to not have "pass me the tape" or "grab this end" be part of the conversation.  Much of this was unspoken and the work went smoothly.

What wasn't going smoothly was the tempest in my intestines (2nd Sunday in a row now) which I think was bought on by the lingering bug in the house as well as the Thai Basil Chicken (with extra hot peppers) that I had for breakfast before everyone arrived.  Good thing I didn't ride.  By the time I retired for the evening the full blown chills and cramping was underway, and when I closed my eyes under the 3 quilts that I crawled under all I could see was a psychedelic millieu of vibrating color.  This did not bode for a good night's sleep.

Needless to say I cut short my day at work after my son's school called me around mid-day and told me that my son was sick.  After picking him up I laid down to "rest my eyes" and next thing I knew it was 4:30 PM.   I guess the rusty chassis is trying to tell me something...

Sunday morning

Typically on a Sunday morning, especially one so beautiful in the fall as this, I'm out on the bike.  In the past five years since I got back on the saddle it's become a ritual touchstone of the weekly cycle.  Lately, during 'cross season, I'm headed to a race (about 5-6 times a season).  The usual comment at the end of the ride to the disparate group of friends is "Have a great week", knowing that we'll see each other on the next Sunday ride.  It's a comforting routine, and helps reset my attitude for the coming week.

So when I'm sitting on the computer writing about riding while I should be coming out of Rock Creek Park with 100 others, it feels a bit strange.  I was planning on a shorter ride today, since Hank and my brother in law Bob are coming today to help me remove a masonry pier and reset a beam to keep this kitchen renovation ticking along.  On a free day we can get a lot done.

Instead when I woke up I felt like I had been run over by a truck.  Two of four humans in the house are fighting serious head/chest colds, and I'm not one of them, thankfully, yet.  After a long road ride yesterday, soccer, and tearing out the subfloor to prep for the hardwood (in addition to some more wall demo), this morning my body said uncle while my mind planned on joining some neighbors for a spin into the park and a rendezvous with the Sunday group until about 10, when the calvary was to arrive to conquer this pier.

So here I sit, with intentions of a younger, more energetic man belied by the creaking, aching body of reality.  Can't do it all.  Oh well.

Back on the road

The morning is open tomorrow--lately I've put in a short ride since soccer season is upon us and take out the 'cross bike just to open up the legs a little...

Tomorrow is an afternoon game so the itch to get back on the road bike needs to be scratched.  It'll be nice to feel fast again, to stay out for more than an hour or so, since riding the cross bike on pavement, while a good workout, is not quite the same.  Definitely plush, though.

Lumber Liquidators in the late afternoon, then me and my SkilSaw will get acquainted again as we do a number on the old flooring and subfloor in order to usher in the new hardwood.  Sunday will be more demo, this time of the vertical nature.  The portion of the wall that used to be the exterior (before the addition was built in the '60's) is right smack in the midst of circulation.  Tearing this out won't be easy, as the brick and block load bearing masonry construction of the '50's makes for quite sturdy construction.  That's what 10# sledgehammers are for.

Feline playground

The rest of the ceiling is down now, and after Hank left I did some more demo work and laid out the recessed lighting housings.  The more I can do means the less he has to do, ostensibly reducing the costs of this whole project.

One of the side benefits of doing renovation work in the house is the opportunity we humans give our pets to figure out new ways to explore the abode.  Our three cats are in heaven now, with the ability and opportunity to climb up into the rafters anytime they please for this next week or so.  Our Pavlovian response to their yowling when they want to go into the attic can take a break for a little while, as their access is now unfettered, for the time being.  Feline attic patrols are good, since they are voracious hunters and they tend to keep the rodent population under control.

Living sculpture:

I don't have a picture of their darker side, which was revealed to me this morning on my way to the car in the driveway.  Every once in a while they bring some prey home to us, leaving a dead mouse or bird on our stoop.  I have a regular pet cemetery out back now.  Other times they eat too much grass and clear out their intestines, in the manner that certain "cyclocross racers" do the same at certain "races" on this certain "past Sunday".  This morning I found both:  the back half of a mouse vomited onto our walkway.  Sometimes breakfast doesn't quite sit well, does it?

Dust everywhere

I'm typing this now, feeling the dust that has settled everywhere, including the keyboard, from two days of demolition of our kitchen and dining room.  Last time this space felt this open was sometime in 1956, when the house was built.

One day during that year the carpenters framing the bulkhead in the kitchen probably had a conversation that went something like this:

Working stiff #1:  "Just how much material can we use to build this non-structural bulkhead which doesn't even conceal ductwork?"

Working stiff #2:  "I dunno, but let's use real 2x2's, 16d nails every 4-6", and glom the whole thing together with rockwall, chicken wire, and a healthy coating of stucco."

editorial note:  those were the materials available at the time.  

opinion:  THEY USED TOO MANY OF THE SAID MATERIALS FOR A LOUSY ARCHITECTURAL EMBELLISHMENT.

WS#1:  "Make sure you toenail every member, and set the whole thing to a sheet of plywood at the ceiling joists, for good measure."

WS#2:  "You got it, king.  I'll just use 4 nails at every connection when one will do.  Come to think of it, let's add some more nails to ensure that the dead weight of this thing won't collapse on some poor schlep stirring their soup."

WS#1:  "There's no such thing as too much overkill.  Natty Bo's are on me!"

And so it went.  I conjured this conversation as I was loading up 8' 2x2's on the truck today with nails sticking out every which way.  Looked like a stegosaurus tail, fercryinoutloud, only longer.

Anyway, what a difference two days make.  On Monday morning, the old kitchen presented itself thusly:

Monday afternoon, the wall between the dining room and kitchen is gone.

Tuesday afternoon, virtually all the cabinets are gone (to be donated to Habitat For Humanity).   Half the ceiling is out, and dust is everywhere.

Wednesday:  rough-in for light fixtures and receptacles.

Holy Cow.  This thing may be done by Thanksgiving.

Too much

So in my previous post I announced that a 'cross race in the middle of an office move would be an antidote to all that ails me lately.  I didn't pre-ride the course, as I was familiar with it from last year, but it was much muddier than last year so I really should have.  As I sat in the start grid with Jim we made small talk about how the next forty five minutes were a prime opportunity to work out a lot of pent up aggression.  Starter's whistle, and we were off.

About 4.5 minutes later I was on the ground on the back nine, doubled over and leaving my breakfast in one of the ponds.  When I flame out of races it's not this dramatic.  The current working theory is that the virus that was floating through my house (the one that cut short my son's NYC field trip last week) had settled into my small (or is it large) intestine and decided to have a good time.  Next race will be DCCX, four weeks away.

Despite driving one hour each way to ride a bike about 4 miles total, from a practical standpoint this was a complete waste of time.  The bigger picture, however, yields a different viewpoint.  The rap on cyclists who compete is that the scene is pretty uptight.  This scene, however, is not at all like this, at least not now, as the sport is still incipient in its popularity.  Our club has one of the biggest group rides in the area, with a healthy offshoot ride on Saturday mornings patterned after the 10AM, only 2 1/2 hours earlier.  Since my club has a small road racing group, it's great to see the expansion in the 'cross ranks.  Six of us (KMK, K2, Conor, T-Chad, Todd) and Jeff were there this weekend, continuing the trend we started at Charm City.  The other thing that is cool about this scene is the opportunity to meet those whose blogs I read, so it was good to put face and name together with this guy.

The weekend ended with the 'Skins sticking it the 'Boys in their last matchup at the world's dopiest stadium, a meeting with the contractor that will transform my house, and an evening at the office.  Sour stomach be damned.  At least I left all of that at the race.

10# in a 5# bag

This is one of those weeks when expectations by clients are quite high, deadlines are looming and not spaced out properly, and we're moving our office at the end of the week to new digs after spending the last 7 years at our current space.  These events are coming together to form the sharp edge of Damocles' sword, or at least it feels that way.

Rewind to 7 years ago.  We were a smaller firm back then, in Class C space in downtown Bethesda.  Our office was located above the Starbucks at Woodmont Triangle, with a great view of the intersection of Woodmont and Norfolk/Cheltenham.  I sat behind the FEE of the corporate marquis, while my associate (now partner) sat behind the STA of this same signage.  Three other workstations backed up the RBU, CKS, and COF portions of this ubiquitous green logo font.  From where I sat it felt like the bridge of a ship, with my view of this heavily travelled intersection.  Spring, summer, and fall were particularly nice, as the "people" watching was prime.  Sometimes I wonder how we got our work done.

The landlord says get out by October 1, 2001.  OK we say, so in July we start looking for space.  How long can this process take, really?  After checking out a bunch of spaces, sticker shock is the order of the day.  By the time we settle on Class A space at 2 Bethesda Metro Center, we realize that our overhead will be taking a major hit, so we chalk that up to growth.  By late August we're finishing the design, and we realize that our backs are up against the wall to finish drawing, sending docs out to bid, procuring permits, and getting the space built out by October 1.

Early September, and we've finished the drawings and selected a contractor, but there is that small issue of a building permit.  On Tuesday September 11, I remember finishing these drawings while the TV is broadcasting images that are now indelible in our collective psyche. We submitted for permit the next day via a walk-through process, responded to comments, and walked out with a permit on September 14.  Construction had begun that week, but now it was legal.

Within 2 weeks the space was built out and we slid under the wire with inspections on September 30.  I don't know how we did it, though I seem to remember a vibe in the air after 9/11 in which everyone we dealt with was more mellow but more purposeful.  The irritating minutiae that is the hallmark of bureaucracy and the CYA attitude that accompanies it was strangely and thankfully absent, as we built out our space and moved without hassle.  I think that we collectively had Bigger Fish To Fry.

Our current move is not nearly as stressful, but a hell of a lot more expensive and unforgivingly mixed in with our unusually high workload.  Like the move 7 years ago, though, it will happen and it will not be without hassle or snafus.  The nice thing about it is that by this time next week it will be largely done.  The best thing, though, is that right in the middle of all of this I'll have the respite of the Ed Sander 'cross race on Sunday morning.  Kinda cool that an hour of hard work at Lillypons Water Gardens with 100 other like-minded afficionados, despite the pain and discomfort that accompanies the pursuit (suffering is too dramatic or a word) is the small oasis in an otherwise working weekend.  

It'll all get done.  It always does.

Happy birthday

to my sister Maria, who I don't speak with much but think of lots.  While we always talk about keeping in touch more regularly, life seems to get in the way...hope you had a grand day.

This year I got TWO pint glasses

at Charm City Cross, my sentimental favorite race of the fall season.  This is the one I cut my teeth on a few years back, and now we witness the growth of the sport, with the numbers of BPVC participants doubled since last year.  Six of us made the trek to Druid Hill Park; 4 of us raced among other geezers in the Masters B pack, one (newbie) in the Cat 4 race, and the other (newbie) in the Women's Master's Race.  Mix in some acquaintances, friends, family, fans, and other supporters and you've got a guaranteed good time on a Sunday morning in Baltimore.  Since my family had other things to do, K asked that I bring home 2 pint glasses, as last year's is a favorite in the glassware collection, such as it is.

Unfortunately, I had to buy them.  No winnings here.  Happy to say I finished in the top 100.  76th, to be exact, and some 85 people finished out of 104 starters, so I was in McCain grad class territory.

Even though I've only managed to get in weekend rides this past month, the time spent working on technique has definitely paid off, as I had my best start ever and felt great during the first lap.  The downside is that those weekend rides don't do much for my endurance, so my performance essentially followed the same downward arc as my 15 year old Makita drill--the one with the big heavy battery that holds a solid charge for about one lap of a cyclocross race and then just whirs down steadily until the last bits of energy in the last lap are spent among the dudes warming up for the next race.  'Scuse me fellas--I'm still racing here.  As I was fading, KrossmasterK was ragin', until he rolled his tire and ended his race.  And as I was fading some more, Coppi Jim passed me with authority but I kept him in my sights to maintain a respectable finish.  So strong start, + weak finish = I've got a lot of work to do.

The bike was solid, too, as I paid some attention to it these past two weeks instead of neglecting the  machine, as has been my MO of late.  Handling on the course was definitely spot on, with no biffs or mechanicals, as sometimes unfamiliarity with the venue and lack of time on the ride breeds sketchiness. Neither was an issue today.  Only the engine was lacking.

Which will come with time.  Or not.  In any case, the sheer fun of riding a fast bike on undulating (not treacherous) terrain yields a sweet spot that has few experiences in sport that equal it.  More to come this fall, with Ed Sander next week and a three week break before DCCX.  Out of town travel will prevent the gem from last year to be repeated (Rockburn - great course), then finish up with Tacchino and Reston in late November and early December.

Icing on the cake is the buena gente that I see at all of these races--teammates, the group I train with at Takoma Park MS, the other acquaintances that I only know through bikin' and bloggin'.  Not the usual group of preening aggros that tend to define the racing culture, and that's a good thing.  I know.  I was one of them once.

Some good news...

This year has presented an unfortunate uptick in bad news from family, friends, and acquaintances in the form of sickness and deaths (some timely, some not).  A condition of ageing, I suppose.  

Good news, this week, though.  My friend and colleague became a father for the first time.  Congratulations all around.  A healthy baby boy.

Which leads me to another introspection.  A few years ago my wife told me that I needed to get some friends.  Years of grad school, being a dad, hanging with my extended family, and working at a vocation that I love winnowed away the robust group of individuals that helped shape who I am today.  I keep in touch with many of them, but in a lot of cases it's perfunctory and annual, in the form of the seasonal greeting that is either a terse card with a family picture or a long-winded (anywhere between being very well written and entertaining to mind-numbingly self indulgent to the point of being comedic) form letter.  I lost my closer circle of buddies to time and life.

Enter this guy (who doesn't keep his blog current), who I befriended in the early '90's when I worked at College Park Bicycles.  After marriage he moved to Virginia, never to be seen again, until 5 years later.  Moving back to Maryland where he grew up, he somehow convinced his wife and daughters to move into a smaller house so that he could ride his bike on more friendly terrain (at least that's what he told me).

The house needed to get bigger, so he called the only architect he knew and struck a deal.  Design and permit/construction drawings for a bike, since this architect had gotten way fat as he was losing his circle of friends over the years, and wanted to get back into the training/racing scene again after a 15 year hiatus.  From a monetary standpoint the client brokered an almost criminal bargain, but on my end I was able to funnel myself back into the scene that I left in disgust years ago, with the following benefits:

The Bicycle Place Sunday ride

A solid local shop to patronize, with all of its characters

A standing Saturday ride (the N2) that we started

An instant network of aficcionados (not always like-minded, but always interesting) 

Sharing their highs and lows (and tragedies)

A healthy network of business contacts 

A valued colleague and perhaps more down the road

Some new friends to fill the void (including the 2 K's)

Cyclocross

Lost some weight.  Now I don't look so puffy, though Ray may beg to differ.

Not too shabby.

Blank slate

I haven't written in a while.  Five minutes ago I had a flowing essay composed, ready to spill out onto the screen in a style so fluid...but now it's a blank slate.

It's been quite a busy time at work the last few months, and we have several deadlines looming as well as an office relocation, a confluence of events that seem impossible to accomplish as they approach.  Somehow we get through it all.  My job, with as much pressure as I think it presents, is really a series of puzzles to be solved with a healthy sprinkling of challenging personalities, all of which need to be managed differently (delicately, brusquely, and all manners in between).  It's not life or death.  It's not that hard.  It's just, at times, a lot of noise.

I just realized that I said pretty much the same thing in a previous post.  Goes to show that it's weighing on my mind and that the stark perspective of measuring daily activities as they relate to life altering decisions is my way of seeking refuge.

Anyway, the ebbing of these deadlines as we complete them, as well as the prospect of a fresh start in a new space next month is having a salubrious effect on my 'tude.  Life is good, and it's Friday.

Charm City is two days away.

Abrasiveness

I am preparing for a day in which I will sit in two lengthy meetings, each of which have the potential of going south quickly as the current culture of blame in today's workplace changes the nature of how we interact with each other.  The past few months have been fraught with unease, as money for professional services rendered has been quite scarce, despite the fact that people sign contracts and tend to blame the economy for reasons why they can't seem to come up with the cash, all the while expecting the same level of service that they have grown accustomed to in a robust atmosphere.  Not to mention the dysfunctional personalities (and I'm sure I'm the object of this derision among other parallel conversations).

Waaah waaah.  At least my daily decisions don't have to do with actual life and death decisions.  Now THERE'S some real stress.  The rest of what we're dealing with really boils down to nuisance.  What's the worst that could happen?  Go out of business, get sued, snivel about not getting the proper respect.  At least I'm working.

What's really irritating is that I just paid my third speeding ticket (camera violation) in a month AT THE SAME LOCATION.  Just north of Chevy Chase Circle on Connecticut Avenue exists a silent sentry that photographically rakes in $40 a pop for every Tom, Dick, and Jane that guns it over 35 MPH (posted speed 30MPH).  It's quite easy to move that fast on this arterial road.

So now, with a lighter wallet, when I head into that part of the Burgh of Affluenza I will travel the side streets.  Take the cars off of the main thoroughfares and we can clog up the neighborhoods.  Traffic control and revenue enhancement with unintended consequences.  That'll show 'em.

Indian Head Highway

Between jobsites today I saw the picture of pure happiness.  Freedom with nary a care in the world, a countenance so pleased with itself that every vantage point offered a new perspective on life, even though it was repeated in a cycle for as long as I can imagine.

He was a standard issue hound dog of some sort, big and clumsy.  This dog bounded about the flat bed, ears flowing with the wind as he (?) perched himself precariously on the edges of the pickup.  He went from starboard, to stern, to portside.  Over and over again.  He looked at everything going by with great interest, as if it were the first time he had ever seen these objects, vehicles, and people.  He wasn't in a cage or a 5 point harness.  He looked happy.  His drool painted the sides of the pickup as he lived in the moment.  What a life.

Non sequitur:  While I watched this, I heard someone say this on the radio:

"Describing your life in seventeen syllables is very diffi"

Snapshots in my mind

That vacation was fabulous, but unfortunately now just a distant memory.  During that time I was, in my head, quite prolific, as I composed blog posts like a banshee, chortling at my incredible wittiness and ease at which I communicated the mundane banalities of life in such a way that the reader would say "Despite his tendency to use run-on sentences, he is quite brilliant".

Let's try that again.

Those posts are clanging around an empty room right now, as the immediacy of thinking I needed to write down all the events of my life is not so urgent anymore.  In fact it was what I needed, to just check out and enjoy relaxation for a week.  Next year we're planning on two weeks.  That will be a first.

Anywayzzz, work is work, and the summer is now over, and we enjoy the fall, with the routine of school, soccer games, Redskins, cyclocross, and maybe even a home renovation.  Mix in more time to hang with friends and family, and it's a certain recipe for good times.  Just think, we're not in New Orleans right now, nor are we trying to save our own hides in Georgia (not the Peach State, the other place halfway around the world).  Life is good, and we are lucky people.

Maybe I'm feeling this way now because I went to my first Bar Mitzvah ever today.  The emphasis on community, family, tradition, gathering, and all of that decent stuff just about cinches the thoughts that our collective lot in life right now is pretty damn good.  

Every time I go to a momentous family event I am glad that photographers are around to record these times for posterity, but I've found that there is a moment in the festivities that jars me into thinking (and it's a conscious thought) that I need to remember this image, burn it into my mind, and keep it my grey matter hard drive forever.  I've got a compendium of these snapshots in my mind, touchstones that don't relate to one another but compose the web of events in my head that become memories.  Kind of like the composite photo that is made up of hundreds of tiny photos that are pixels of the bigger picture--it's all there.

Vaaaaaacaaaaaaation

We're outta here.

Vacation finally starts tomorrow.  Another touchstone in the annual cycle, this one has a well established routine that invokes the simple pleasures of just doing a whole lot of nothing, a whole lot of eating and drinking, and a whole lot of enjoying those around us.  I read blogs written by people I don't know whose sole connection with me is the bicycle, and I'm thankful for what I've got and what I get to look forward to.  Like riding, writing becomes an outlet of a different sort, one that lets me filter some thoughts through the noggin, especially after a busy week laden with the pre-vacation noise that we need to get through to get to take our week or so off, kind of like the electric fences that some dogs run through, suffering the pain of that jolt of current before they break free.

Some random thoughts...

It's late, and we're leaving at 6AM so that we can have breakfast in Williamsburg VA at 9.

A friend of ours has cancer.  It doesn't look good.

The mom of a friend of ours has cancer.  It doesn't look good.

This guy (don't know him, but I know of him, due to the bikin' and the bloggin') had a heart scare.  Looks like he'll be OK. 

This guy (very faint acquaintance, due to the bikin' and the bloggin') has a great post on the sham that is this year's Olympics.

Spent an awesome weekend with some friends at Lake Holiday (northern tip of VA) last weekend.  Great riding up there.

Spent the week fretting about where our company is going to be in the short and long term, given the bleak house of cards that is our economy.

Spent the last two days managing expectations and realizing just how screwy communications and perceptions can be, even when you think you're getting a message across.  Time to spell things out.  While you're at it, put away the Blackberries.  We're in a meeting, fercryinoutloud.

Get to Frankenbike a friend's frame to create a cross bike in order to introduce her to the wonderful world of Hup Hup. Charm City is only 6 weeks away.

And I get to spend a week riding my bike around the flatlands of the Outer Banks.  Riding more than two days in a row...

The good things and the bad things.  What's not to like?

Vacation reset

Only 8 more days until our annual trip to Southern Shores NC, where various households experience the harmony and discord that marks family vacations.  These yearly cycles provide satisfying memories as well as jarring moments of reality, where emotions sometimes boil over due to an seemingly off-hand remark that is never received in the manner that it is intended.  No fault in the disher or dishee, we just all have our ways of interpreting situations.

At around Day 6 last year, as one of my brothers in law and I were chest bumping and dodging flecks of spittle in an escalating screaming match last summer, my son fretted and wondered why we were "speaking" to each other in such an unkind manner.  K says to him:  "Don't worry, everyone yells at Dad at work, too".  Damned with faint praise yet again.

But she is right, as today was one of those days where everyone is a critic and everything we do is fraught with failure, or at least it seems that way.  Some days are better than others, and that's why we look forward to vacations, where we can lose ourselves in activities that include protecting as much sand from the sun as possible by using the body as a sacrificial shield; creating the ultimate chaise lounge in the damp sand just beyond the reach of the ebbing waves; seeing just how many times nephews and nieces can bury uncles in deep sandy pits; getting tossed in the breaking crests; reading A book (inside joke, as all I read at home is monthly cycling rags); going to Captain Frank's for a FootLong (with chili, onions, mustard, the works); and riding a rental roadie with the Kitty Hawk Cycle Company crew.   This way I get to check out a different ride and not hassle over bringing down mine among the flotsam and jetsam that fills up the van.

These are just a few of the many nothings I'm planning to partake in, in addition to enjoying time with the fam.  After our fight last year, my bro in law and I had an excellent rest of the vacation, as sometimes a reset is necessary.  Vacation reset is right around the corner!!!

A solid 8

Every once in a while I get to experience the shear pleasure of eight hours of sleep, unencumbered by fitful dreams, remnants of daily tension,  or nature's interruptions, where I wake up with no trace of grogginess.  

One of the skills that I learned in architecture school was the ability to grab snippets of sleep and take advantage of them wholeheartedly, so as to avoid the dreaded all-nighters that literally wreak havoc on the body.  After about a half dozen of those I figured out that the body doesn't work well without that recharge opportunity.  I've gotten to really take advantage of those short snatches of slumber, usually around 5-6 hours nightly, sleeping hard.

No real point here, other than my appreciation of those opportunities to lose myself in the arms of morpheus, as my grandfather always used to say.

The Tour

...is now over.  And what a great spectacle it has been.  The image of CSC on the podium, with the Norwegian champ, Danish champ, Luxebourgian champ (Schleck 1), White Jersey (Schleck 2), Yellow Jersey, and the 4 others in regular kits (Stewie, Fabian, Jens, and I don't remember who) was a site to behold, as the TEAM got them there.  Hopefully the other shoe will not fall this year and we can have a clean result.  At least I won't see that dopey Bacardi commercial 4 times an hour anymore.  Mojitos are boring.  The real rum drink is the classic Cuba Libre.

Another tour this morning of the Silver Spring Weekend Warrior (SSWW) scene yielded the following observations, as I made my way from the 'cross workout to the end of the BP ride:

A bunch of guys prancing around the fields at Takoma Park MS and its environs on bikes practicing for the upcoming HupHup season.  I was one of them, and was late due to an infusion of good food and drink at our sprawling manse on Saturday.  So I was gasping for air early and my comrades suffered me gladly, as they are good fellows.  

Runners on the path that circumscribes these fields, getting in their private workouts and doing intervals.   Also gasping, but seeming to enjoy it.

The Sunday morning softball teams setting up for their final games.  I saw a colleague from work who was prepping for a doubleheader.  Softball--what's not to like?

Cyclists of all types on Beach Drive.  Roadies, triathletes, cruisers, recumbents, phreds, poseurs, you name it.  Just out there having a good time.

The Candy Cane City soccer fields are always featuring games with the local teams, pretty much all year long.  Soccer--the beautiful game.  Need I say more.

So this Tour de SSWW made me realize once again just how cool it is to have the opportunity to get out there and swing a leg over a bike or swing a bat or [insert cliche here] and escape the mundane for a few hours.  Hanging out with friends, clearing the head, and just being outside.

Transitional phrase to move the narrative into a description of the previous day's events is currently not available.

So we had a bunch of neighborhood friends over for a meat grilling and beer swilling shindig on Saturday.  A great time was had by all (we figured that about 60 people were enjoying the day) except for Nicholas, who challenged the shack to a duel and lost.  Seems that his attempt to vault onto the platform from the ground (despite a running start) did not meet with the shack's approval and he found himself on the ground with his left arm gruesomely twisted behind him.  Broke his wrist (both bones, but no protrusion through skin).  He and his parents made off to the emergency room like bandits.  Despite this injury and Noah's mom getting nailed in the side of the head with a football, there were no other calamities to report, except for the ruthless pummeling of all food and drink offered.  This was a great time, and we'll have to make  it a regular event once again.

Other than that the previous week went swimmingly, with work getting in the way of all kinds of fun.  One day I'll describe my friend Tchad's encounter with some crown vetch after his leg seized on him so viciously at the end of our Saturday ride that he couldn't get up.

Actually, that's pretty much the story.

"We don't do soy"

The routine in July is to think that there is a lull at work, get hammered by the myriad of deadlines that seem to crop up since everyone needs work done before "vacation", and become a cycling weekend warrior.

The respite, such as it is, is the nightly broadcast of the Toor Day Fraaance on the Man Channel.  I'm not one to complain about the quality of the broadcast, as I recall the anemic offerings of the '80's as John Tesh led us through his musical (GAAAAK!!) interpretations of this exotic event.

I will heartily complain, however, about the ads during this broadcast.  As I am a lemming, I have always been influenced by creative advertising.  By the same token, I am an independently minded lemming who detests insipid advertising, and I tailor my consuming habits based on the bounty or dearth of creativity.  

With this criteria, I will never buy or drink Mike's Hard Lemonade.  

The current offerings from Madison Avenue feature an Effeminate Lisper who is expressing his inner feelings via various interpretations of the product or its packaging.  Always nervously looking over his shoulder, he tentatively tries to spread his wings, always ready to flinch when the Real Working Men (Bullying Bossman and Snickering Yesman) drop in to express the collective size of their manhood by effectively dopeslapping the hapless stooge and saying "We don't do soy".

The irony is definitely there, but misplaced, as they're advertising an alcoholic version of LEMONADE, fercryinoutloud, and trying to look hardcore.  I love lemonade, but nothing is prissier than an overly sweetened cocktail drink.  This coming from an unadulterated fan of Belgian Lambics, candy martinis, shandies, and margaritas.  If this ad were funny, this product may show up on this list.  Fratboy louts picking on snivelling fatboys aren't funny, but they sure can be if the writers didn't take the easy way out with the "edgy" tension.

Hey Mike, next time you want to use Type A alpha dogs running roughshod over spineless wimps to advertise your swilly product, make it worth our while by shilling for something other than an alcoholic version of a Capri Sun juicebox.  Just a thought.

I wonder how Bullying Bossman would have handled the crash in today's stage, in which Gerolsteiner's Sven Kraus, with about 5K to go, hit a traffic sign at the end of the traffic island, broke his bike IN HALF, and bent the sign to boot.   Kraus got up, waited for his team car, got a new bike, and finished the stage.  Give that man a lemonade.

Workaround

Sometimes the pictures don't post properly and can't be moved easily blah blah blah.

Anywho, here's the (almost) final result of the great nonsleepinginhammock weekend.

Trim next week! 

Hammock

All I could think of on Saturday morning, as my legs and lungs faded just past the Travilah convenience store, an hour into a 2.5 hour ride, comrades up the road, was the need to sleep.  My lids were heavy and I really considered stopping at the side of the road and taking a little snooze.  I told one of the boys to roll on ahead at tempo, don't wait for me; I could barely manage Zone 1.  I mapped out the day in front of me:  ladies were occupied in the afternoon, teenager could easily hang out with his buddies.  I saw a golden window of opportunity (for about 1.75 hours) for a nap in the hammock, one of life's true pleasures.

I was tired.

The previous weekend was spent fretting about the work that had to be done while I was at my Grandmother's funeral (and doing it before we left), going out of town for the sad reunion, and jumping back into the fire when we got back.  It's not that the work isn't abundant, rather clients aren't paying because money's tight for everyone, and while we should be comfortable we're going pay period to pay period, and that's no fun for a small business.  It'll work itself out.  It always does...It's just not fun while It's going through its gyrations.

So I rolled in just as the heat was rising, ready to slide into the arms of morpheus on a dangling sling in the yard.  It was still pleasant out, everyone was still around, there was a buzzing energy through the house, and there was an unpainted party shack out back and three cans of unopened paint beckoning me just a bit louder.

I realized that not only did I have 2 willing and able indentured servants at my command, but 2 of their friends too.  I figured that we could paint this thing within the day and prep it for trim next weekend, and I could even get a nap in to boot.

So out came the midtone paper (aka shopping bag) and colored pencils to decide on the color scheme...

Then the swarm of painters (2 girls on yellow, a boy on blue, and another boy on red).  I got to boss everyone around.

Pretty soon we were done.  Not bad for a couple hours of work.  They dripped enough paint on the deck to inspire an end of project Jackson Pollack exercise with the remaining paint.  More on that some other time.

Filial duties required that I help my dad move some bookcases and help my mom untangle the spaghetti of computer cabling while trying to figure out why her sound card wasn't working.  Then I was off to Ashburn to hang with friends from high school that I only see once a year.  I thought I wasn't going to stay long, but before I knew it it was 1:08 AM and I needed to get back home--I had CX practice at 7:30 AM.  Amazing how time flies when you see people you haven't seen in decades.  I literally hadn't seen a few of them for 27 years (1981).

And I did get up at 6:30, pulled out the 'cross bike, and had the best workout (except for an actual CX race) ever with some fine folks from DC Velo, NCVC, and DCMTB.  This is a keeper, and hopefully I will be able to finish in the top 100 in every race I enter this fall.  Joined up with the BP ride later that morning and got some more miles in.  An enormous seafood feast for supper with family and extended family (grilled tilapia, while flaky, is a definite go-to).  I hit the sack hard.

Quite a weekend.  I never did lay on that hammock, though.

Independence Day

A few weeks ago I wrote about my grandmother, who was dying.

She is now free, as of 12:30 this afternoon on July 4.  She took a nap after breakfast, and now rests peacefully.

I told my kids that it is a rarity to know a great grandparent, even moreso to grow taller than she.  They were lucky to know her as well as they did, as were the rest of us.

Mary Pierina Maisto, 1913-2008.

Imperfection

After a week off where I actually surprised myself by not checking in too much at work and focusing on why we vacation in the first place, I thought I had actually figured out this whole "recharge" thing.  Short work week ahead and a shack to paint over the holiday weekend, plus 3 straight days of outdoor riding, hanging with the fam, what's not to like?

How naive.

By 8:30 AM on Monday morning all of the angst that I had so laboriously squeezed out of the system over seven days rushed back in, not unlike a CO2 cartridge filling a replacement tube in its speedily efficient manner.  I'll be putting in some hours this weekend to hit some deadlines.  Work is work, and no one cares how hard it can be, because we're all busy.  At least we're gainfully employed, and in my profession, not being busy is a death knell.

So I "drilled down" (current overused business term du jour--same genus, phylum, and species as "at the end of the day") into my fragile psyche and realized that the daily battles all have to do with accepting imperfection.  Even such mundane issues as whether or not the foundation wall lines up exactly with the face of stud--no matter how carefully we draw these things (by hand or on CAD), figure out the dimensional math (2 & 3D), and convey such info on drawings, they will still be misinterpreted in some fashion along the way, as it gets passed from me to estimator to project manager to superintendent to stake-out surveyor to concrete subcontractor to framing subcontractor to masonry subcontractor...(like a dynamic game of telephone or post office or whatever message mangling game we played as kids) to result in an imperfect condition, like so:

I could be a hardcase who likes to bust balls and order the work to be torn out just because I have that power, or accept the fact that everything these days is overengineered for self-preservation purposes, resulting in work that has to be corrected in a manner that keeps the project going but does not compromise life safety and is ultimately hidden behind finish work.  I choose the latter.  Only real assholes flex their muscles in the unnecessary manner that satisfies small egos; kind of like some of my critics in architecture school who actually drew on peoples presentation drawings during juries to make a point.  Unnecessary and uncool.

Anyway, when deadlines are coming hard and fast, I chant the mantra:  "the perfect is the enemy of the good".  If I strove for perfection, I don't think I would ever finish a drawing. 

"Substantial completion"

For a compulsive non-finisher like myself, this is significant, as we conceived, designed, built, and sheathed this little party shack in six days.  In the parlance of architectural contract administration mumbo jumbo, the building is substantially complete, otherwise known as the point at which the building can be used for its intended purpose, specifically, wiling away the summer days and just plain hanging out.

We finished up on Saturday, thinking that maybe we would paint it before the end of the weekend.  Cooler heads prevailed, as we had pretty much neglected everything else around the house and we enjoyed the Shaq "au naturel" for awhile.  Perhaps the activity for the nation's birthday weekend will be the application of color.

Great ride on Saturday, though I ran out of gas on the false flat out on Esworthy and lost the pack.  No matter, as about 8 of us headed back after Bretton Woods (the rest went on to Poolesville) and I got back into tempo.  Sometimes the mind just plays tricks, especially on that section of road.  Can't seem to dig deep on some days.

Saturday night:  Date night.  QHT in Silver Spring to see the Jelly Roll Mortals and J.P. McDermott and Western Bop over some Belgian brews and hot wings with friends from college...While I never listened much to this style of music I realized that it is the distinct underpinning of the best American band ever, which cloaks its roots with speed and discordant harmonies and achingly good stuff...

Sunday I joined the BP ride late and then went out to Reston to see Ray and James mix it up with the 4's, and Harry hang in for a good while with the Pros and 1's 2's & 3's.

Having not raced since CX in December, it seemed quite fast and I was content to support the boys and be the token soigneur, handing up a cold one (water, not beer) to Ray as he cooled down. At one point in the race it looked like Ray was losing contact with the main field behind a couple of gapped riders--I yelled "Dig deep Ray!" and he blasted around them, reconnected, and then proceeded to attack twice in the waning laps to make things more exciting.  

I was thinking about the effort it takes to do that, and the willpower too, as my mind dances with the argument of sticking it out or sitting up when I'm in that situation.  It reminds me of an interview with some Olympic swimmer some time ago, where she willed herself to work through the pain because "I can rest later".  When I find myself on the rivet, and this discussion in my head begins, I choose NOT to procrastinate.

That's why I'm usually one of the guys getting gapped...

The fifth facade

Yesterday was centered around installing the roof, which, as one of my favorite architects ever calls "the fifth facade".  This man designed a building so singular and iconic that the 2000 Olympics incorporated the building into its logo.  Ironically, due to the inevitable conflict that arises over the construction of such a unique structure, as well as the distance that separates Europe from Australia, Jorn Utzon HAS NEVER BEEN TO THIS BUILDING IN ITS COMPLETED STATE.  I find that staggering.

The only similarity between me and Mr. Utzon is that we are both architects.  It ends there.  He has more talent in his hangnails than I could ever hope for.  Despite this vast gulf of skill, I, with my crew of kids, neighbors, and my very own pops realized the fifth facade of our party shack yesterday and had a great time doing so. 

The initial challenge was deciding that I would build the entire roof diaphragm on the work table and we would lift the entire rigid frame (carefully) in place and secure it to the framing.  I chose this route as the alternative was to be a rafter monkey on a light, rickety frame not meant for live loads other than snow and wind.  In addition, the translucent roofing material will not support human weight, so I chose the safer method of controlling the installation without fighting gravity, a 4:12 roof pitch, or fragile materials.

So here's where I introduce the bicycle analogy into this post:  like a wheel, which is made up of many spindly elements (spokes and rim), once tied together and properly tensioned this unit is an incredibly strong structure.  This roof, once assembled and laterally braced with the roof sheathing became a rigid and light structure that was easily lifted into place by 4 adults and 4 teens/tweens.  Some tricky manouvering and voila, we have shelter.

This has been a cool week.

Ice cream headache

So Day 3 of the Gert Jan Theunisse monument sees more neighborhood involvement in the sheathing and rafter setting.  This thing might actually get done this week.

During our trip to Home Despot (not a misspelling) we stopped at the Panera for some bread and we picked up...frozen lemonade.  So good yet so painful--the large volume straw created an infusion of frosty lemony goodness that walloped the sinuses in that too familiar way...pleasure and pain in one fell swoop.

Translucent roof panels (and translucent road mileage on the biciclette) tomorrow.

Dutch treat

Not much time on the bike lately.  The pattern has been consistent 400 mile months from October through April, only to tail off dramatically between May and September.  An inverse proportion based on commitments that don't center around Eddy or the RX1 or my converted Cadex fixie or the Look hanging in the garage or the Stumpjumper in pieces...too many bikes, not enough time.

Day 2 of vacation, thusly:  A trip to the doctor to get an outer ear infection diagnosis for my son, coupled with a Home Depot excursion to show my daughter how to pick lumber (old hat for the boy, but he's along for the ride, painful ear and all).  Fill up the van, cinch the plywood to the top, and off we go to lay the deck...

Build walls...

Erect them...

And sit on the loft...

Tomorrow, the rest of the walls and maybe even the roof.  A major design decision moment hit me today when, depressed at the thought of schlepping ugly T-111 plywood to sheath this thing, rendering it to look like a garden shed gone awry, I went all Dutch and decided to pull a De Stijl/Mondrian move on this thing since it's supposed to be "playful" anyway.  This also saves my back because 1/4" plywood is a lot lighter than anything 2.5 times thicker.  We're not at that stage yet.

Note to Hairy Eric:  If you are reading this, that's why I wasn't on the Thrasher ride today.  One day I will join you briefly, as I will be duly dropped lest I get off the current weekend warrior cycle.  Only 3 more months 'til CX season...

"Vacation"

Unless I leave town, I truly can't get away from work.  I took the week off as the kids enter their second full week of summer vacation, the first being a luxurious week at the Grandparents' Resort.  Now they're stuck with dad, who is trying to separate the work/pleasure realms in a way that makes this time off worth it.

Not easy for a control freak like me, especially when several projects in the office are in critical stages.

So far, no calls in and I've resisted the urge to call in myself.  Instead, the kids and I have designed a structure to be built in the backyard this week.  Not a standard playhouse or wooden fort--this will feature some architectural embellishments (aka mistakes) that will make it unique since we are, after all, designing it as we go.  Keeping it modular to reduce cuts and waste, it's an exercise in base 12 math, since all of our sheet lumber here in the USA breaks on a 4" increment.  Framing lumber?  Well that's another story... 

As my wife said, done is better than perfect.  If all goes according to plan, we'll be done at the end of the week, one section at a time each day.  

Today is the first floor deck... 

Father and son

A few weeks ago I attended a dinner honoring the career of one of my architecture profs who had just retired.  It was one of those "This Is Your Life" type affairs, with lots of faculty and alumni enjoying a fine Marriot style catered meal in the style of the ubiquitous banquet,the perfunctory powerpoint slide show with nice music, and comments from former students and colleagues from the dais, in the manner of a gentle roast.

This man was quite influential in my education, and I owe lots to him, especially the low key nature that he would approach problems and the deliberate way he taught me to solve them.  The highlight of the evening for me, however, was not the honor we placed on him.  It was actually an observation of the respect that a current colleague of mine received.  As someone I work with daily, it was a treat to see him return to be among friends and mentors from 18 or so years ago--the true appreciation of this guy as a person was evident and remarkable to me.

Unfortunately, this weekend we attended his father's funeral.  While the sadness was abundant, the people who showed up at the modified shiva and funeral demonstrated yet again just how loved this man was and how loved his remaining family is.   The kind words by various relatives that described his father can easily be attributed to my friend.  That said, I feel like I knew him, even though I never met him, because I will see him through his son on a daily basis.  By all accounts he was a good man, as is this guy.  Rest in peace, Dr. W.

Adult fun

It's been two weeks since the Great Carvel's Adventure and frankly, I've been unmotivated to do many things due to an enormous elephant in my office that has been sucking all the available oxygen out of the room.  Besides that, the end of year flurry at school and both baseball seasons coming to an end have also contributed to this lack of reflecting, which is primarily the reason I'm writing now.

Kids are at the in-laws this week, giving K and I ample time to...work.  Of the 4 evenings where we could've had some quality time, we carved out two for dates, the other two for getting stuff done that will make life around the edges of work a little easier.  How romantic.

Reminds me of a time a couple of years ago when we found ourselves, in the middle of the week, during the school year, with about 4 hours to ourselves in the afternoon.  Prime time.  We saw some friends later that evening, and they asked us how we spent such sweet found time, clearly reacting to our respective youthful glows.

A 2 hour hard ride in Rock Creek Park for me and a clothes shopping trip for K never came at a better time... 

Ice cream freeze

We discovered a Carvel's ice cream stand in our neighborhood this weekend.  It's sequestered in the Jerry's sub shop and is a welcome addition to any suburban landscape.  We went there after my son's baseball game on Sunday, and again tonight after the spring band concert at his school.  As the scheduling gods would have it, my daughter's concert was at the same time, different school.  So we parents split the duties and paired off with the respective gendered match to enjoy the dulcet tones of elementary and middle school musicians.

As is often the case, I will find just about any excuse to enjoy a soft serve chocolate cone, so we just HAD to swing by the ice cream joint to pick up the cones.  Just as we got into the car, my daughter called, trolling for a cone for her too.  I hadn't offered to bring any home, as we do have ice cream in the freezer(s), but she called to jump on the Carvel's bandwagon.  

I could've lied and said "we're pulling out of the parking lot" but instead, sucker that I am, I got out to buy my sweet daughter a cone.  Of course, in the 45 seconds between leaving the shop, getting the call, and re-entering the shop, the entire neighborhood of South Four Corners decided to get a cone too.

Actually, they bought banana splits.  And actually, it was a family of 4 (or 6).

So I stood in line, waiting while the single Carvel's lady assembled a banana split, which consists of every sweet condiment in the store, including, or course, peeling and slicing a fresh banana and topping the whole concoction with whipped cream and caramel syrup.  Of course the ice cream was ROCK hard and the whipped cream was fussy, so the entire process for 1 banana split took about 4 minutes.  I timed it based on the elapsed time between phone call and delivery of split.

Now I'm already irritated that I succumbed to the will of the 10 year old, but now I'm in line behind the Banana Split family, who, unbeknownst to me, don't just want one.  When the split is finally completed, mom orders another one.  Four minutes later, presented again with another work of art, she orders another one.  I don't know if she's still ordering more, because I left.

It wasn't the quantity of the deserts; it was the deliberate way that each desert was ordered sequentially that pushed me ever closer to madness.  I weighed the frustration of waiting close to 15 minutes for one ice cream cone against the disappointment of a daughter.  She'll have many opportunities for disappointment-- I may as well continue the trend.

So I came home empty handed, scooped her a bowl from the freezer , and told her this would taste better because the cone I would have brought home would have tasted like anger.  Now while this entire episode only took about 30 minutes out of my life today (including writing about it), it doesn't compare with this guy's experience at a Subway shop downtown...this one is, as Jim Rome so irritatingly says,  "Klassik".

A great race not seen..

It was an impressive ride, from all accounts, and I didn't get to see it.  Instead I watched my son's baseball game, also impressive in that the team did well and he is incrementally improving at a sport that requires tons o' skill and practice to even be mediocre.

Kind of like racing.

The ride I didn't see is Russ Langley's participation in the break that lapped the field at the CSC Invitational.  I wasn't there, so the details can be found here and here and here.  And given the amount of writing that my fellow cyclists are doing, more will be found here.  It's too bad he went down in the last lap, but was able to roll in on one of his teammate's rides to secure the top 12 or so finish.  I saw some photos that a friend took.  I felt like I was there.

Russ is a local pro.  I don't know him, nor he me.  I see him on rides (very briefly) and sometimes at a coffee shop in Chevy Chase.  He seems pretty quiet, definitely intense, and committed to racing well.  It showed today.

From afar, congrats to Russ Langley.