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"