Bermuda Triangle

I don't know what's going on.

Since last week I have not been able to find my helmet, toe warmers, or my croc-like (but not crocs) rubber sandals, you know, the kind you wear with socks.  In the interim I have been reduced to using my old Bell helmet which is now my son's, letting my toes swell as they freeze, and walking around in socks.  The biggest pet peeve of a close friend of mine is walking around in socks and then stepping in a wet spot.  Nice.

The perplexing problem is that I know these three things have somehow been swallowed up and are somewhere in the house, chortling gleefully at me as I walk past, mumbling about my lack of recall.  I will one day find them, though they will inevitably be in the last place I look.

More proof that someone is reading this dreck:  a friend of mine emailed me at work to find out just where he can get an arepa press to enjoy some corn-ey Venezuelan goodness.  If you look here, Oster offers a 6 shooter as opposed to my adequate but clearly not as stylish quad model.

This insanely engaging post is brought to all four of you courtesy of a rest day on the biciclette.  Two hard days ahead and some easy spinning before my cyclocross preseason officially begins at the Tysons Corner Circuit Race.  Only 6 months 'til Charm City.......

Irritating informality

'Twas always an adventure to eat out with my family when I was growing up.  The informality of the "me" generation clashed with the more rigid social rules of my parents' generation, which always led to humorous exchanges with waitrons at the local eating establishments.  My mom, for example, didn't like it when waitrons introduced themselves by their first names like "Hi I'm Filbert and I'll be serving you this evening".  Perhaps a more formalized name structure, such as Mr. Filbert would have satisfied her, as she grew up in a very traditional setting where her father ran a family farm and was heavily influenced by the Spanish-Filipino way of plantation life in the 1920's, '30's, & '40's.  And then there was my 2nd generation Italian dad, who grew up in a steel town east of Pittsburgh, where there was a particular way things were done.  Frequent eruptions at the waitrons are a significant source of revisionist and humorous history at family gatherings.

When I was slinging plates at local eateries I think my parents softened their views towards the American waitron culture, as we all mellow with age anyway.  But now that I'm 20 years removed from that mode of breadwinning I find MYSELF less patient with my former brothers and sisters.  To wit:  I'm at the Rock Bottom Brewery one day, anticipating the enjoyment of their ordinary food and bland swilly ale.  Our waiter approaches the table and actually SITS at one of the empty chairs to take our order.  If I wasn't laughing internally at what my kids would be writing about many years later I would have replicated both of my parents reactions (icy stare from mom, volcanic eruption from dad) to a tee.  Apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

I only say this to set the table for today's encounter with a version of irritating informality.  Given the fact that the economy is in the tank we architects need to find work where we can get it, we are at the beck and call of our (potential) clients.  This is no different than any other professional out there, so this is no precursor to a "poor me" diatribe.  I'm a firm believer in the 40 hour work week, so much so that I discourage people from my office from working off hours, especially weekends.  The need to recharge is so important to productivity that efficiency and quality work suffers when we work too much.  This is not typical of the architecture business, as many of my brethren are self-flagellating martyrs with an inflated sense of self-importance.  Just look at pictures of architects in the professional journals.  None of them smile and they tend to dress in black, like Dieter.  Well not all of us...we're all a piece of the larger puzzle.

What about irritating informality?  Hang with me.  I'm blathering.

A potential client wanted me to present our wares to them on a Sunday afternoon.  This client is a tenant association for an affordable housing co-op near Rock Creek that can only meet on evenings and weekends, as they are prime examples of the occupants of "workforce housing", you know, the people that do all of the jobs that the anti-immigration set doesn't want to do but expects them to be done by magic.  Oops.  They are planning to purchase the building and rehab it, so they are interviewing architects for the unglamorous but (in my opinion) incredibly gratifying process of rejuvenating an old building.

So I go into the office and pick up the presentation boards and some other materials, and as I'm walking into my parking garage, I pass a woman and her friend, who are on a smoke break.  The woman sees me and commands:  "It's Sunday.  Quit working.  Go home."  Not "Hello" or "How's it going" or "Too bad you're working on Sunday" or nothing as none of this is her business.  Now I'm fairly certain that despite the abrupt nature of her comment she didn't mean anything untoward, but the irritating informality of the tone of voice and the way she just kinda thrust herself into my life without any context rubbed me the wrong way.  So I sweetly provided her with a Cliff's Notes version of the context as I walked away:  "tenant association...meet on weekends...presentation...blahblahblah" to which she insincerely said "Well good luck with your presentation"  Thanks I insincerely replied, words hanging in the air of the concrete garage, resonating in an entirely unsatisfying way.  Maybe she was commiserating with me since she was stuck working on a Sunday too.  I don't know...maybe I'm "projecting".

Anywho, the meeting went well, I was able to present in Spanglish with the help of a translator and hopefully we get the job.  So throw this on a pile of good things that make up a sterling weekend:  mastering (well almost) the minor pentatonic scale in E and laying down "Hey Joe" on the guitar; a great ride Saturday morning (except for the frostbitten feet) with many friends from the shop; daughter's soccer game showed me our team will be good this year; a dip in the pool at the Y with the fam; another hour throwing the hardball with my son, whose baseball season starts next week; significant progress on the house drawings; kabobs for dinner; Caps win and Hurricanes lose to setup a major showdown Tuesday night; another great ride Sunday morning (decent 150 mile week) with many friends from the shop; major de-junkifying of the house; a good meeting for work; and the Nats season opener on in the background as I wrap up this here entry.

I'm done.  I thank both of my known and loyal readers for their patience.

Toodles.

Spring break

Kids are on spring break this week.  I'm taking a couple of days off to hang with them--I'm really looking forward to it.

As usual, I chased the N2 group this morning and hooked up with SuperDave, who was headed my way.  We chatted about riding and racing, especially when we were both newbies.  He stuck with it, I took a 15 year break.  Wouldn't have made a difference if I had put in the time.  He's THAT good.   We split off at River when I went to intercept my group, and he and Cheryl and someone else went east.

Talking with someone who's been riding that long made me think of those college years when I started getting into this cycling pastime seriously.  I remembered the following series of events, which unfortunately has a sad dip in the middle.

 After racing a summer at the Westgate series at Tysons on my trusty Peugeot PH10S (or was it a PF10?  I don't remember), I bought a sweet Cilo with Shimano 600 EX from the Bicycle Exchange in Falls Church.  At $538.18 (I do remember writing that check), I felt like I was stretching it, so buying Dura Ace (with the revolutionary new SIS "Index" shifting) seemed to be a luxury I could ill afford.  The guy who sold it to me was one of the mechanics who did it right--made me feel at ease with this enormous purchase, talked to me about racing, and gave me some tips on how to tweak and adjust this gleaming new machine.  His name was Benjamin Chapell, and he was a Cat 3 who trained consistently and did OK racing for (I think) Whole Wheel Velo.

I bought the bike over the winter break, using the money earned from a few weeks slingin' plates at the Red Lobster up the street.  Took it down to W&M for the 2nd sem of my junior year, started some winter training, and looked forward to racing that summer, maybe even with Ben.  When spring break rolled around I brought the bike home and dropped it off at the shop for the obligatory tune-up.  They told me to come back midweek--they were pretty stacked up.

Tuesday rolls around, and I decided to swing by the shop to see if maybe the bike was ready a day early.  Handwritten sign on the door says "Shop closed today".  Strange.  On Wednesday I called to see if my bike was ready, and it was.  So I asked why the shop was closed one day in the middle of the week.  The woman on the other end said "We had to go to the funeral of one of the guys who worked here.  He was training out in Ashburn and got hit by a drunk driver in the middle of the day".  Pit in the stomach.  Who? I asked, knowing the answer.  "Ben Chapell."

I was spooked from riding for a while.  While I posted last week about how irritated I was on a group ride due to sketchy riding, at least most of that is correctable and/or avoidable.  Drunks on the road, cell phone yakkers, texters, that stuff still freaks me out.  Today I read this post about a car on car accident involving a drunk asshat that rendered a family without a loved one and it indirectly reminded me of my spring break in 1986.

I knew Ben long enough, though, to keep on riding and eventually worked as a mechanic for a couple of years.  The last race I did at Westgate was a weekend race sometime in the late summer of 1989 that had been dedicated to Ben, all proceeds going to a fund in his memory.  

So as I rode with Dave today I was reminded of how quickly time has passed, and how the events of the intervening years shape us.  Other than that we had a great ride, and I put in some extra miles since I won't be on the roads tomorrow and instead I'll be eating with lots o' family.

Happy Easter.

Never give up

This is a mantra that I don't always follow, as I think I can write a book on surrendering when things aren't quite going according to plan.  Especially with regard to my palmares racing bikes for "fun"--I think I placed 3rd in a Westgate training race 22 years ago and I won a water bottle prime at a race 2 years ago, and the rest of the gumbo is a bitter mix of DNF's and top 75 pack finishes.

Not so for our spunky Washington Capitals.  After a 5-love drubbing at the hands of the Chicago reps of the Original Six on Wednesday and trailing 3-1 in the third against the Atlanta What Is A Thrasher, Reallys they pulled out a must win with successive scores by the Dynamic Duo of Ovie and Nicklas (I'm on first name/nickname basis here).  What's really cool is that while they have to continue to win to get into the playoffs, the TEAM itself has really gelled and their playing unselfishly.  This is why I love hockey, as when it is played right the teamwork shines through in ways that make the playing look effortless.  Icing on the cake is that Ovie scored numbers 59 & 60 tonight.

Unfortunately at Work I'm on a number of teams (specifically one) that have honed the art of obfuscative backstabbing spiced up with unproductive agenda-pushing ladled upon the unappetizing stew of evasive communication.  What I am describing is a typical construction project in which there are just too many cooks in this here kitchen.  Once the dust clears from the happenings of this week I will describe for my own benefit the conclusions of writing letters and memos all week to keep my company's skin side up and rubber side down.

Since the kids are on spring break this coming week I'm taking part of the week off.  The break will be good, as I'm pretty cooked right now.  Maybe if I applied the same intensity to the bike that I do at work I may win another water bottle prime...someday.

Back in tune

I stuck a battery in the harmonic tuner and finally got my guitar tuned again--I've been playing off key for a couple of days now and like all slight misadjustments in life the off-key stuff starts sounding normal.  Until you correct it, and suddenly it is quite truly music to the ears.

I've got this off again on again relationship with musical instruments.  Mostly off.  I played the piano when I was a kid for about 6 years, but one of my teachers was quite blunt with me when she told me that my parents were wasting their money.  Sounds harsh, I know, but I think she was making a point about my lack of discipline in practicing regularly.  And she was laughing all the way to the bank.

Playing the same tired blues and a few boogie riffs on the keyboard gets old quick when you don't develop the proper skills, so fast forward to about twenty years later and I decided to take some African drumming (specifically Ghana) lessons from my kids' music teacher.  Since my sense of rhythm is oh so acute I was a real success there.  It was actually amazingly complex in its simplicity--at one point the percussion was actually melodic. 

But that was short-lived.  At about the same time my wife and kids gave me a sweet Alvarez steel string acoustic guitar for Christmas, which became quite a beautiful dust collector (actually the "gig case" - such as it is - did the honors of providing the proper resting spots for the household dander) until I picked up a couple of those Easy Guitar or Whatever books at the local Borders and Noble.  I never knew that learning to play an instrument could be so unfulfilling.  That's not true, actually, as a book I picked up at Chuck Levin's, the local music mecca, began to open my eyes to the Progressive Rhythm method.  Insert joke here.

I self taught myself (repetitive redundancy there) on and off for several months until I stumbled upon this site.  This guy Justin has changed the way I play and practice, and while I still sound like a rank amateur, I have nowhere to go but up.  Kind of like bike racing.

So now I put in a solid 15 minutes a day (more if I can) and work on chords, chord changes, and scales, as well as some simple songs.  It's like training--I find it to be more productive if I do smaller bits more often than trying to weekend warrior my way through.  If I find the time I'll pay for some real lessons, but a small donation to Justin in London is the way to go for me right now.

So back to tuning the guitar--I will be tuning the other aspects of life, as my habits of late have gotten me into a rut of low productivity on all fronts, and that's starting to feel normal, which is not good.  It leads to chaos of sorts.  When it all starts to spiral out of control it takes an inordinate amount of time to fix it, so I may as well start fixing it now.  Like getting more sleep...good night.

What I meant was...

I've been enjoying this blogging thing the last few months--as I've written before it makes for a challenging way to adjust writing style to an unknown audience. I've also figured out that writing by hand is LITERALLY a pain as I think arthritis will be setting in during the intervening years. We've grown so used to tap tappin that it's just faster now.

What's been most interesting is this channeling of thoughts that just occurs. I could write a dozen posts a day, but why? I'm always composing, always thinking of ways to craft the words to convey what's on my mind. There are so many good writers out there--it's a pleasure to see the results of their work and sometimes it hits home.

Prior to blogging I used to experiment with various listeserves that I'm on--the Bicycle Place, DataCAD (our drafting software of choice, since we don't use the Microsoft/Nike/Trek of CAD software known as AutoCAD), the local neighborhood, etc. I found that I had to tailor the writing in a particular way so as not to offend (so I thought) or look like a total ass (my impression of one). I found that to be constricting.

So as an example I offer a post that I put forth today on our listserve after a great group ride that was not typical in that we didn't ride this morning due to the weather. As a result it was smaller and generally more skilled, as the regulars showed up , and for the most part are pretty solid riders. Not all of them race, but many could, though some of the skills are lacking, and some of the logical safety decisions are also sorely lacking.

Allow me this moment of self-indulgence:

That was a great ride today--impromptu, fast, fun, a great workout. I echo everything Phil posted, and continue to look forward to riding with everyone regularly. I could've used a shove at the top of the Ross Road Hill as I saw the group ride away...

What I meant was: This was a great ride and I popped when I thought I could hang, so now I'm irritated.

What I'm about to say may piss some people off, but please know it's not personal. I'm just concerned that some bad riding habits by some of us will eventually lead to a bad situation. I'll leave that to your imagination, as I've imagined countless scenarios in my head over the past few years as a result of the "almosts" that seem to happen on every group ride.

What I meant was: Even though I think I'm an optimist, I prepare myself for the eventuality that the worst will happen, and the tough nut here is that it could very well be avoidable. At the same time, though there are situations which we have no control, or it's NOT our fault, but the end result could be dire.

Stuff happens in the paceline that is unavoidable - you know, skittish riding, brakes at the wrong time, half-wheeling when not necessary...we've all done it, and it's part of riding. Smooth riding is the essence of efficient paceline work whch benefits the entire group. Sketchy riding gets better with experience, and that isn't my major concern.

What I meant was: If you ride a paceline, do it right, then I won't complain when I'm grumpy.

Here's what's been buggin' me lately: Jumping between lines just because there's a gap. A huge gap, OK, but a little one, let the person being gapped try to close it. And if you're getting gapped, let the line through and just tailgun at the back.

What I meant was: Get a clue. Worst of all, don't ask me if it would be OK to do this. This just isn't cool.

Another major don't: gunning through the front, which disrupts the flow and creates gaps that everyone has to work to close. This isn't a race. There's no glory in blazing off the front...of a training ride paceline.

What I meant was: What are you thinkin' Lincoln? What competent cyclists do this on a regular basis? Keep doing that and someone will meet you in a corner.

And here's the real issue: Everything we do reflects upon the jersey we wear (regardless of team/club etc). Quit running red lights, quit doing U turns in front of traffic, quit crossing the yellow line, be aware of traffic so that we single up when there are cars behind us, just lets get our collective heads out of you know where because most of the people in the 2 ton 4 wheelers either don't want to share the road with us or don't know how to share it with us, so let's help them out, shall we?

What I meant was: I don't think anyone on this ride wants to call your family to let them know that your lunacy just lost them a loved one.

For the most part I think we're among the most self-aware group that emphasizes safety out there--just yesterday toward the end of the N2 we shamed a dude into putting his helmet back on because he only had a slow 2 miles before he got back to his car. I guess he wanted to look PRO.

What I meant was: What a poseur. We showed him.

Looking forward to many years riding with my friends.

Have a great week, and ride safe.

John(ny)

What I meant was: Looking forward to many years riding with my friends. Have a great week, and ride safe.

I'm not into writing those thoughts in that manner on a medium that is broadcast scattershot style. At least this blog has to be accessed...unless you've got an RSS feed setup...

Arepas

In preparing my son for his National History Day competition today (results are at the end of the previous post), he asked me to make him arepas for breakfast. These are Venezuelan cornmeal cakes, traditionally fried and served with black beans, cheese, and other fillings. We discovered these when my dad was posted in Venezuela in the 1990's and bought an arepa press so that we don't have to fry them. This is his favorite breakfast, and they're pretty easy to make, although I'm always absent at breakfast time on weekends as I ride the Saturday N2 ride and the Sunday Bicycle Place ride.




It's not everyday that you go to any sort of County competition, so we had a good Latino breakfast and I joined the N2 ride late, only to have pancakes at my friend Kemal's house afterwards...

Some days bookend breakfasts are preferable. The ride was just gravy. Here's hoping for a dry morning tomorrow...

The red cloak of guardianship

I felt like a cheerleader today. High fives all around.

Soccer season started today for my daughter's soccer team. As we come out of our collective "winter" slumber, the lethargic commencement of the Takoma Park youth soccer league overcomes its bloated inertia and begins the 2 month spring season, only to meld into late spring/early summer as many of the same kids hit the baseball diamonds of TPSS Babe Ruth Baseball.

No one consulted my daughter's schedule. What nerve.

She had a birthday party to attend, see. Nothing stands in the way of one of her best friend's 10th birthday celebration. As the coach of this team, the famous and vaunted Blue Bombers (sky blue, actually), I dutifully met my charges at the field, and despite their rustiness they were able to gracefully lose 1 nil due to a flukey goal by the opposing squad early in the first half.

Guarding the goal, as viewed by ten year olds, is not a glamorous position. As their skills develop, however, a good stopper is as valuable as gold. Rather than forcing kids to play a position they don't want, I usually let them pick their positions based on natural talent and go with the flow. We discovered that one of our strikers was quick as a cat, and he has enjoyed spending half the game in goal.

So as to maintain variety, as goaltending can be boring, I rotate 2 keepers a game. Because today's game was sparsely attended (it WAS the first game), I forced my most winded player to play goalie in the second half, since we had no subs. Not only is Ike one of the faster kids, he happens to be an incredible rhetorician who, in his irritating manner, needs to be told what to do lest he become the next dictator of Pinecrest Elementary School.

Anyway, he began constructing elaborate arguments against guarding the pipes, even claiming that he wouldn't play. I had to resort to the standard hyberbolic devices to convince, nay REQUIRE that he play the position for the good of the team. As a good kid with conscience, he relented when I presented him with the Red Cloak of Guardianship, which was the red t-shirt that my goalies wear to differentiate themselves from their teammates as is customary in the Beautiful Game. I think that finally convinced him.

He played a stellar game, and even though he denied it at the end, I can tell that he secretly enjoyed it. I foresee continuous negotiations with him as I have the past 4 seasons. I also foresee him negotiating (often successfully) as he makes his way through life. The team played well, and they were tired. High fives all around.

So after a successful (though not in the win/loss column) soccer game, I went to College Park to cheer my teammates in the other Beautiful Game race through a technical course at the University of Maryland's annual President's Cup Race. I raced here two years ago and was way out of my league, and even with my best training to date I don't think I would have done much better today. It was a good day for the Bicycle Place as my friend Ray won his race. I've been rooting for him to do well--he's been training hard all winter and it's paying off. I posted to our listserve thusly:

Ray held off almost the entire Rte1 Velo Cat 4 team (those that were left) to win the President's Cup Cat 4 race today. In a sea of red, he rode smartly and eked out the sprint win to start out the season on a high note. James was there too but didn't have the legs today, but as we have seen before, there will be many days when that will not be the case.

Miguel and I were there to see it. Congrats all around.

John(ny)

The congratulation emails to him are flowing.

I hung with Miguel and saw my friend Steve as he was prepping for his race. I met Mr. GamJams in the flesh and we had a nice time chatting. It was a mellow scene for a crit, despite a few aggros angrily stalking around complaining about how poorly their teams were riding. Chillax, dudes. It's amateur racing. High fives all around.

Got home, and saw that my son and his friend were back from the Montgomery County National History Day Competition, in which their project competed against 21 other projects from other schools in the County (they were selected with a few others from their own school) to move on to the State competition. They both had medals. Holy Cow. We're going to Baltimore! If they win the state competition they go to Nationals! And the National History Day National Finals happen to be in College Park this year.

HIGH FIVES ALL AROUND.

Un jour sans

The wind was wicked today, and it was cold.  Couldn't feel my toes (even with double socks) and my pinkies were non existent as well.

As has been my habit of late, I missed the start of the BP ride yet again.  Tchad and I rolled up Macarthur and caught the appropriate group at Clara Barton/Macarthur as we turned toward MountainGate.  The nice thing about this ride is that it has evolved into natural selections based on ability/conditioning.

Given the fact that I had expended little effort on my way to the meeting point (other than steady tempo) I had no problem feeling like a mountaingoat up Mountaingate, feeding my thirsty ego with visions of powerful climbing for the rest of the day as I was among the first to crest the hill.  Then I woke up, realizing that I couldn't hold wheels as we rolled through the neighborhoods and turned onto the usual fast Oaklyn rollers.  Pop went the weasel and I rolled back to the shop at a conversational pace with Conor and Scott, excellent companions as usual.  As we rode through the E/W Beach intersection with the remnants of the NCVC ride we came upon a car fire on Karim's street.  His neighborhood is just going to hell.

No extra 10 in the park for me.  I was happy to call it a day as a headwind was hitting us full on in our slog up the hill to the shop.

As usual, though, it was not literally "a day without".  It never is, really.  The ride may not have been excellent, but it was solid training and the company is always first rate.  6 shots of espresso at the shop, a bagel at the deli, and the reconnecting on a weekly basis with my friends makes any jour sans on the bike less so.

Thinking that there was a Laser Tag outing in our afternoon, I headed home and found some extra time as we rescheduled the shoot-'em-up session for another time when all the participants were healthy.  Cleaned up the yard to prepare for spring, a bit of baseball with the boy, soccer with the girl, burgers on the grill for dinner and all is right with the world.  Most excellent bonus of the night:  mangos and sticky rice for desert.  Heaven.

The real jour sans (actually 2 in row) was an untimely one for our Washington Caps, as they dropped two must-win matinee games this weekend in the waning minutes of both matches due to costly penalties and critical mistakes.  Gotta play the full 60 minutes...And how'bout them Terps?  Tag a jour sans on them too.  NIT bid anyone?

 

6 goals = 4 pounds of free wings

I see a trend here.

Rather than writing about the sport I partake in and love, I've been focusing on the more mainstream variety.  As an aside, I had a killer ride on Sunday with the BP group--rode hard and felt it the rest of the day (and still feelin' it today).  A day off of the bike never felt so good.

Tonight, due to a contest that my daughter's school won, we, along with 150 or so of our friends, got to see the Caps play the Bruins, once again for free, extending my streak of gratis games this year to about a half dozen.

Within 28 seconds of face-off, the Caps scored.  By the time the 1st period ended it was 6 nil, with Ovie recording a hat trick, though not of the natural variety.  We were in free wings territory and the game wasn't even 1/3 over.  By the time the slaughter was complete the Caps came away with a 10-2 victory, a rarity in the NHL.

I think I need to bring my daughter to these Caps games from this point forward.  Every time she comes they score at least 6.  At this rate the Caps will get into the playoffs and Austin Grill will run out of chickens to feed the hordes.

Another highlight is that this is the first pro hockey game my wife has watched in about 19 years, prior to committing to put up with me for the rest of her life.  This was a good one to watch, as she fell asleep at the last one.  

All in all, a grand night out with the fam.  Sure beats the typical Monday night, when the scintillating entertainment revolves around the great debate as we decide which one of us takes out the trash.