19 years ago...

we had a big party after a Saturday church service. Lots of friends and family were there to share a grand time. Then we went for a short weekend trip out of town so that we would be home again for Christmas, as all of our families were still around and we didn't want to miss the fun. We had our whole lives ahead of us.

Good times continue to be had by all. We have the rest of our lives ahead of us, and we're happy to be able to share that with the two freeloaders that live with us...

Inane football on Monday night

This is why I don't have a career in professional football, or any sort of football, for that matter:

Two seconds left in the half, Redskins-Giants on Monday night. It's an ass-kicking, plain and simple. Redskins have a chance to get on the board with a chip shot field goal. Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy. Three points is better than nothing.

So as they line up, in the middle of the snap, the holder (who is the punter) stands up and the ENTIRE line shifts to the far left side of the field (all except the TE, who assumes the responsibilities of snapping the ball). WOW!!! I'm such a sucka for gadget plays, I'm thinking that this will work and miraculously the 'Skins will regain the mo that they have so comically lost all game. It seems so obvious. Overload the left side, overwhelm the G-men, and suddenly we're on the board with 6 points. I'm all amped up, thinking that this will complete the trio of trick plays my boys in red have presented to us, the gullible fans, this season.

Only problem is that the very first gadget play, in the first game of the season, came against tonight's opponent, the New York Football Giants. So it's not as if they weren't expecting SOMETHING.

Back to the play. Commandant Coughlin decides to call a time-out, so as to make a minor adjustment. I would assume that he figured that his opponent would kick the FG, and we're off to the locker room.

But no. Redskins pull the same trick out of the bag, only this time the Giants line leaves a few guys back during the shift. Like 4 of them. Meanwhile, I'm thinking WOW!!! This thing could work! as the ball is snapped, the linemen, untouched, overwhelm the punter turned QB, who throws a desperation lame duck toward the end zone, only to have it intercepted and almost run back for a TD. That would have been a 10 point swing, a comedic touch.

Isn't the definition of insanity to do things the same way and expect a different result?

Timeless weekend

Weekends are usually reserved for running errands, attending mandatory events related to family (sports, social, or otherwise), and (hopefully) recharging after a typical suburban middle class drone 40 hour work week.

Unless it snows 20 inches.

Then the cars stay put, we sit around and spend time with each other, catch up on so many things that we're typically "too busy" to do, and have a lazy good old time. Time goes by the wayside; the days are much brighter due to the reflecting sun on the snow, and I quite possibly gained a few lbs., given the amount of food I consumed. Gotta keep the calories up to fuel the shoveling. I would insert the perfunctory photo of the snow covered landscape here, but we've all been bombarded by the endless accounts on the local news, so there's no need. I've never seen such happy meteorologists.

For its uniqueness, this was a great weekend.

Good words from the Hammer

Perhaps one of the highlights of my professional life happened earlier this week, when my former studio critic/professor, known fearfully as the Hammer, as in Sledgehammer, paid me a simple compliment about the work we're doing on a joint project.

Architecture school was rife with instances of cutting criticism of work that one labors over for a seemingly long time and then pins it up on a wall for judgment. Even the name of the process, the design "jury", conjures images of exposing oneself to frank comments with little regard for feelings or acknowledgement of hard work. Everyone knows that the process is difficult, and no one cares about the "suffering", since it really isn't. What counted was the final product, and more often than not it was pretty crappy, since we were all students.

So we developed a thick skin, and those who didn't either didn't finish architecture school or went on to become insufferable prima donnas. Lots of THOSE in our field, to be sure. The scant praise that many of us received, especially from the Hammer, grounded us well and ultimately served us in a good way. I like to remind others that our work is just Tab "K" in a development binder, a single piece of a multi-piece puzzle that is the development of a building within an urban fabric that has to be paid for somehow and approved politically and bureaucratically.

So a simple "you're doing a great job" from an 84 year old acclaimed modernist, on a project we're collaborating on, was a great way to begin one of the last weeks of a tough year.

The tangled web we weave

December brings many an evening of glad-handing and back-slapping with colleagues, competitors, clients, contractors, CAD jockeys, civil engineers (soft "c" there) and all other types of people beginning with the letter "c". The holiday parties abound, and there's some good munchies to be had at these shindigs.

So tonight I went to a 20th anniversary open house of a firm that we collaborated with on a major project last year. It was a beneficial relationship, as we were beholden to the design architect and did not have to worry about paying other engineering consultants, as we WERE a consultant as well. Unfortunately the project went by way of the economy earlier this year, and when its reiteration surfaced, most of us were left out in the cold as a result of the new partnerships forged and requisite financial re-arrangements.

The following run-on sentence describes just one of the tangled webs we weave, thusly:

Last year we joined forces with an architecture firm that needed manpower to complete a large senior housing and multifamily housing apartment project with a public agency that had to demonstrate to the State that they had financing to make this thing happen so they commissioned us to complete the construction documents in such a way that it was like putting the cart before the horse (which it was) and after a long fall/winter of producing documents the rug was pulled out from under us as the economy went south and the public agency needed to find another development partner to make the deal work (which they did) although it did not include the original design team, as a matter of fact the team chosen was a client that I actually had an active project with and they chose one of our competitors to redesign the project leaving me with that feeling of a knife in buried to the hilt in between my shoulder blades that generated the question "WHY?" which will never be answered but I don't care anymore as life is too short and I have moved on and in the meantime the architect who we collaborated with is now working closely with a consultant who once worked closely with my business partner on other projects and is now going in a different direction and I don't know if there is any subtext to that (there probably is--isn't there always?) and in the meantime I rushed off to my son's band concert where I saw a construction manager who locks horns with my business partner on a fairly regular basis but is such a good guy that I try to keep work separate from socializing, though that's often unavoidable, so the upshot of all of this is that I get to see all the players at these parties and we all make nice, despite some awkward moments and suppressions of things we think but don't say.

I'm good at making nice. It's gotten me far.

Capital Cross 2009

This will be short.

I first got hooked on CX watching this race, 5 or 6 years ago. The next season I put together a 'cross rig and did Charm City and this one, and cyclocross is now the thing I do.

Unless I'm not that into it.

This past Sunday being the last race of the season (exceptin' fer Cross My Heart on Super Bowl Sunday), but that's technically "next year", I dutifully attended this one knowing that my legions of fans would be there, and who am I to disappoint? As I went to registration to get my number, I saw 2 people go down hard in the icy parking lot, riding no faster than I was walking. I sidled up to the friendly (but cold) volunteer, handed over my license, and said, with a smile, "Just put me down for DNF. It'll save everyone some time." So she told me not to sign my release and asked her fellow volunteers just how to register a known result for a registrant who somehow could foresee this result. "Just a joke" I said. She didn't laugh, but then again she was stuck registering a bunch of certifiable loons who thought that "racing" in these "conditions" would be "fun".

The course was actually much more rideable than the parking lot, and after kitting up and pinning up I pre-rode through the muck, learned which lines to pick through corners, and familiarized myself with a course I've raced at least 3 times in the last few years, although under entirely different conditions.

It didn't do much good, as in the middle of the first lap I found myself off of the beaten track on a fast, icy section and went down, not so hard that it hurt but with such little control that I found myself oversteering every turn afterwards and being tentative in places I usually let rip. After almost going down again on a benign spot near the start/finish I just packed it in. Officially DNF, first race didn't finish this year. My mind was not willing, and in all honesty neither was the body. Here's a little taste of the fun:

Special thanks to Bill, who has been filming this fine stuff all season. My crash was almost in the same exact spot as that shown in the lower left corner at about 4:43 of the video, by the guy in blue, though I was already quite a bit behind Bill at this point. Don't quite know what I was thinking.

And of course, thanks to my friends who show up to watch us slog on through. And of course, my boys who I see on the odd Sundays in the fall--Kemal, Neil, Jeff, Paul, Jim, Steve, and everyone else. It's always a great time, even when it's not.

Next year is just around the corner...

Speaking Spanish to an Italian...

I had one of those experiences this week conversing with an engineer about emergency generators, you know, the discussion about something you just know a little bit about with someone who knows every detail about the subject. You sort of understand, but you don't really, so you go for the big picture, but the engineer doesn't GET the big picture, as the details are what are important to them. So we end up talking at cross purposes sometimes, and simple conversations can turn difficult.

In the late spring I joined a group of musicians to jam with various stringed instruments. As I am a virtuoso with all of three chords, I usually disappear into the background pretty easily and just try to strum along, knowing that my hopeless technical deficiencies will be easily covered by the group and my somewhat healthy sense of rhythm. The only problem was that this group was much more of the folk music variety, and people were showing up with dobroes and lap steel guitars and zithers and one two-stringed thing that I had never seen nor heard before. The only other guitar in the room was a friendly dude who could finger and flat pick like nobody's business, and he talked to me about tuning down and other things I just don't really know. We weren't even through half a song when I packed it in. So some days you hear a language which sounds somewhat familiar but you just don't really understand what's being said.

I know this has nothing to do with this, but this was really freaky a coupla nights ago--while our boy Alex was getting suspended by the NHL for an inopportune knee on knee hit, two Panther teammates had an accidental altercation...

Black Friday ride

There were only 16 people on our ride this morning, a manageable number that enables some good social interaction early, and given our collective post-gluttonous condition, we all agreed on an easy pace. The absence of ego-induced muscle flexing made for a relaxing ride, and the paceline was the smoothest it has been in many months. Then again, I haven't been on this ride much this year, so what do I know? Suffice it to say that the smaller number (there are usually 5x as many riders on this popular ride, and it usually happens on Sundays) enabled a smooth rotation all the way down MacArthur to the top of Old Angler's.

The classic 2 column rotating paceline is a simple process, though one that is often disjointed and sometimes dangerous, especially with large numbers on board. Broken down into more discrete groups, we can benefit from the efficiencies of this practice, and miles tick along with less effort. This is not new, and much is written and conveyed about how to ride a paceline properly, but the competitive nature of group rides often transforms these models of windbreaking into mini battles for position, which benefits no one. Today, however, was different. Nice job, boys and girls.

Thanks Abe.

Back in 1875, this building was erected on F Street in northwest DC. The LeDroit Building was a prominent office address, well known for its high ceilings, large windows, and stately presence.

Based on this picture, this area of downtown DC was relatively vibrant, in the '60's and '70's, based on the styles in this photo. Soon after it became seedy, and hanging around that area anytime after 6PM was not a good idea.

In the mid '90's, when I was humping any sidejob I could to earn some extra cash, I did some sidework for an old school crazy architect who had space in the LeDroit Building. The short walk from the Gallery Place Metro station to his studio was always risky, especially at 10 or 11 PM when I would head home. The space was as vintage as his methodology--he didn't own a computer, he drew everything pencil on vellum, beautiful stuff. The craft of drawing was as important as the instructions his drawings provided, and I learned a ton in the short time I worked with him. I am certain that his cranky style bred his isolation and he paid me as much for helping him produce about 3% of his drawings as for just listening to his rants. My favorite quote from him originated from a call he received from an ex-colleague, who wanted to hire him for a short but complex contract job up in Pittsburgh. "But what about all of your hotshot young kids who could do the job on CAD?" he asked. The response: "Do it on CAD? There's not enough TIME to do this job on the computer." I will digress for a moment, as I was discussing with my staff at work today that the craft of drawing, conveying, and understanding the graphic narrative of making an instruction set for buildings is buried under layers of technical noise brought on by CAD, an incredible tool that, when used poorly, reduces the act of visual communication to relentless data input and management.

Back to the LeDroit building. It was renovated in the late '90's, and it is now the Spy Museum. While it's still a good idea to be wary of one's surroundings, the threat of imminent physical harm in these parts has certainly lessened in the past decade. It would not have enjoyed its current renaissance had it not been for the vision of a man who dumped millions of dollars of his own money into not one but two arenas in the DC area, the Capital Centre and the Verizon Center. Chinatown and its environs are a much better place for the city now thanks to the generosity of Abe Pollin, who was also instrumental in bringing the NBA and the NHL to DC. Much will be written about his passing in the local papers tomorrow morning, and I just wanted to remember him briefly for his largesse, as he did much to make the city a better place. Rest in peace, Mr. Pollin.

Following directions

To simplify it to its most basic components, I get paid to make instructions. Not unlike the graphic notations that come in the flat boxes of IKEA furniture or the organizational components that we buy at Target, I produce documents that enable people to make spaces in which to live and work (or both).

Sometimes these instructions are so nebulous, vague, or lacking in the proper narrative that the process of putting together a "kit of parts" becomes a joyless chore. Why didn't they do this or it would be easier if or buttheads don't know what they're doing are the tamer things that we utter and grumble as the process of assembling lurches forth.

On several levels of increased magnitude, the plans and specs for a building are complex instructions that require vigilant coordination of disparate elements. If we do our job properly, the owner and contractor are only calling us useless hacks some of the time. When things go south, it's no fun, like so many of life's conflicts. Mix in varying levels of people involved in development, construction, design, management, authorities having jurisdiction, and the end users, and we have a veritable chaotic stew. It's actually pretty miraculous that buildings get built, they tend to be safe, and they can be pleasing.

Aside from creating these instructions, we're always solving problems, like little puzzles, in this quest to provide solutions. The current crisis at the office on one of my projects is a disturbing lack of water pressure on a condo project, which is more complex than it sounds. But like so many things we deal with, the complexity is due to the layers of noise added to the process by those who don't always follow instructions too well. It may well be that parts of the instructions are deficient. Whatever. The important thing is that the problem be solved, which ultimately may come down to turning a few valves or clearing out a few obstructions...

More to come when this thing is resolved, because I sense that the energy spent trying to get to a solution will far outweigh the energy not spent in ensuring that it wouldn't be a problem in the first place.

Nick vs Nik

Just learned how to embed videos in a blog.

Whoop-dee-doo.

Gotta be careful, as posting too many vids can be as interesting as talking in great detail about dreams, or discussing fantasy football, or describing how epic D & D character roll-ups are, or showing baby pictures, or or or.

I'll stop here.

Off to the Caps v. Wild game. It's not often that you see two Nic(k)las Backstroms play each other, so you take those opportunities when they come.

vs

Me and the Mayor

OK so we've seen that Sr. Fenty, the mayor of the good city of Washington, is in the news for various P.R. gaffes. In his zeal to "get things done" and "live a normal life" he has succeeded in ruffling feathers thusly:

1. He shunted some public monies slated to develop parks and playgrounds throughout the city via the DC Housing Authority to contractors with whom he had some long term personal relationships. This end run allowed him to avoid the pesky oversight (aka "approval") by the DC Council, resulting in more anger amongst the politicos, as they were still miffed about his odd refusal to share Nationals and Bullets tickets. Why anyone would be angry about not getting to see mediocre sports products...oh never mind. Notice how they like to call his friends "frat brothers"? Ya know, a coupla words and suddenly there's cronyism.

2. Training on his bike with his mates from DC Velo and other local clubs in the middle of the day has raised the eyebrows of the humorless press, who ominously intone about running red lights, slowing down mid-day traffic, utilizing valuable police resources, and taking long lunches on the saddle. This is fodder for local newscasts and LooseLips in the City Paper, so we're in for a juicy few weeks of mayor and cyclist bashing. Yay. My only request for these "journalists" is to GET THEIR FACTS STRAIGHT about cycling, the law, and minding one's own business before they prattle on about how weirdos in spandex are interfering with their right to "use the roads that we pay for with taxpayer dollars".

So here's where it gets interesting, because 3 weeks ago I may have tipped the first domino in the whole sordid "mayor who rides a bike at lunchtime and funnels work to his friends" controversy, also popularly known as "MWRBLFWTHF gate". It's a mouthful, I know, but we'll get used to it, as the local press will surely use this moniker freely as they get to the bottom of things. Rolls right off the tongue. So here goes.

At the end of the process of converting a sow's ear into a silk purse, as they say, I often attend ribbon cutting ceremonies for rehab projects that our firm completes. I've mentioned before that the gratifying aspect of my work is seeing how we can literally change lives by improving the living conditions of the working poor (and working not-so-poor, and non-working poor, etc). The culmination of design and construction efforts is a show often attended by the mayor or whatever muckety muck happens to be running the jurisdiction of our projects.

Three weeks ago, in the Fairlawn neighborhood of southeast DC, we waited for the mayor to show up at the ceremony. The usual bunting and balloons festooned the newly landscaped front lawn of the building, a tent with food, drink, and TV cameras waiting, and small throngs of people rounded out the scene. About an hour after the scheduled time, the mayor pulls up in his SmartCar and wades into the "crowd", shaking hands and looking past each person, looking to the next gladhand. As he looked my way and shook my hand, I greeted him with a reminder that we had met at a groundbreaking ceremony this past April at yet another project. My hook at that time was a remark "Hey I ride with some of your friends". He stopped, looked at me, and we engaged in some conversation about the riding scene and some of our mutual acquaintances.

This time there was a flicker of recognition, as the bike was our common bond. So I pressed him further and asked him to bring the family out to DCCX that upcoming weekend. he politely declined, citing a busy schedule, and that he prefers riding on the road, etc. Maybe next year. Great talking to you, time to move on. So he stepped up to the podium, gave his remarks, toured a unit, and began to make his exit.

(Unfortunately for the mayor, this is what he missed)

On his way out, he needed to make the obligatory stop in front of the cameras, so as he (seemingly reluctantly) made his way to the news crews, he passed by me again. But he stopped, shook my hand again, and engaged in some more bike banter, asking my name, and talking cyclocross. As we chatted, I felt this odd sensation of quiet descending around us. Couldn't put my finger on it, but it was odd. We finished our short chat again, and he began talking to the talking heads. I left the site and headed back to work.

So later that evening I saw that his site visit was the lead story on Channel 5, not because the press wanted to focus on his interest in housing, but because the DC Housing Authority/Parks and Recreation scandal was brewing. Seems that while we were talking, it got quiet because, I don't know, maybe the newsies were trying to figure out who I was, and did I have anything to do with this "breaking news".

Look closely in the background and there's a renovated slum. It's much better than it used to be, really. Happier people live there for sure, and the intercoms actually work.

I give myself too much credit. What really happened is that they heard us talking about riding bikes and they decided to go jump on another "scandal". I know that this station hates the mayor, but c'mon. This piece is about as amateur as they come.

The list of suck

Last week was pretty rough at work, as the economy continues to drag us down. Gotta institute furloughs again, despite a brief respite.

"Managing expectations", a well overused term, was in force last week. It's amazing how one's attitude can be affected by the spin that is placed on the information you share with a client, coworker, contractor, or partner.

So while I was being harangued by a client before the weekend about details that were important to him (those that I had honestly not even perceived to be important), I had a mini epiphany, of sorts. I decided that when I meet with him later this week I will bring a list of things that give owners heartburn and angst (read: change orders that result in cost overruns). This is a list that I have compiled over the years that highlights my lowlights. By itself, in black and white, it is a list of suck, a compendium of abject failures that trumpet the wanton spending of other people's money because the architect didn't foresee every unforeseen circumstance. By itself, it is a vehicle for despair, as it represents glaring deficiencies in seemingly simple operations, i.e. leaving out one line in a drawing set that literally cost a client $30,000.

But that's what professional liability insurance is for.

That said, I can hold this 3 page (or thereabouts), black and white list of suck against the massive volume of work that we did get right, several thousand units of affordable housing, some of which were nasty slums, all over the metro area and into PA, WV, and NC. This 3 pager up against stacks and stacks of photos showing revitalized buildings and new construction looks pretty meager and unimportant. So I'll happily add that missing 3-way hallway light switch to the list, knowing that this inconvenience is a small price to pay for living in a clean, modern, and safe unit.

It's all about perspective. After all, that list of suck is now a checklist to make sure I don't go down that road again.

Next blog

Every once in awhile while I'm noodlin' around I'll hit the Next Blog button at the top of the page and drop into someone else's world, if only for a few seconds, just to get a taste of what's out there.

Flipping through the pages at not quite Coverflow speed on iTunes, just enough to see the general subject at hand, a photo, or the language it's written in.

Sometimes this linear meandering ends abruptly, as the Next Blog button disappears.

Other times it moves along briskly, and you realize one cannot scratch the surface of the surface of the 10,000 new weblogs that are generated DAILY. Not that you would want to.

One more thing. Not to end on a bummer note, but the mother of a friend of a friend is losing her battle with cancer this week. I don't know the friend or his mother, but I'm familiar with their story, and my friend is going to be with them on this sad weekend. So my thoughts are with them.

Connections

Since November of last year I've reconnected with a bunch of old friends via The FacceBoooooook (that's Italian for Facebook), and boy it's been fun. Really. Both K and I have been lucky to have had the experience in life of growing up in multiple places (that was the hook that got me and K talking when I first met her) since our dads both worked for the US Govt (military and Foreign Service). So besides my cousins who are all over the world now, I've got friends from 2 elementary schools, 2 middle schools, 2 high schools, college, grad school (the failed attempt), the bike shops, architecture school (the successful attempt), the career, my riding buddies, my neighborhood friends, and the friends that we have come to know by what our kids do (and where they are schooled) who are all, in some way, back in touch via FB. Pretty amazing, and the memories have been flowing.

The old fashioned (that is, e-mail) way of communicating, however, yielded an interesting exchange this last week. My packrat freshman year in college hallmates started sending out scans of pictures, missives, screeds, and other such gimcrackery to a select few of us, just to stir up the old recollections and for a few yuks. Two weeks ago, totally unrelated, one of my hallmates when I was an R.A. in college started commenting anonymously on my blog, making reference to some people and stories that made me realize it wasn't spam. The guessing game began, and it was fun for a while, but I figured that since these comments happened on the same weekend as Homecoming, there may be a connection. A quick conversation with my sister in law, who was also AT homecoming, yielded the answer, and just for fun I posted one of the pics that my friends had sent me last month.

Turns out that some guy who raced at DCCX with me (though I didn't see him, since he passed me once in the first lap and lapped me somewhere near the end, though I must have seen him twice, from behind) recognized the pic as the BROTHER OF SOMEONE HE WENT TO HIGH SCHOOL WITH. Some quick email correspondence confirmed this, and I'm still shaking my head at the coincidental events that yielded me:

1. A reconnection with a couple of college friends that went beyond the "friending" process on FB.

2. A new acquaintance who I will now see every coupla weeks in the fall at CX races.

3. One more person who reads this blog, for a total of 3 readers!

When I was a kid I watched this BBC show called Connections. Not that this is nearly that complex, but still...

Which John?

This is so inside so as to be un-understandable to virtually everyone but this guy:

I don't have a goofy pic of the OTHER John, so this will have to do. Heard you (which John? or both Johns?) ran into my bro in law and sister in law at Homecoming and caught up. Hope you had a great time--my 20th was a memorable blast.

By the way, the above pic comes courtesy of the Shamrock Mafia, all of whom are busy scanning incriminating and embarassing information to disseminate via the interwebs...

DCCX 2009

My second year doing this race--a real carnival atmosphere, though the frites weren't nearly as good. The honey crisp apples were ridonkulous. Fourth race of the year, and I'm just treading water.

That was a hard race, and I just couldn't lay down any power where I needed to. Made for a slow slog. Paul passed me twice (once in the first lap, and then once when he lapped me), and Neil gave me some good words as he blew my doors off while also lapping me. Even the remounts weren't working today, but all the other technical stuff was no problem, other than the utter slowness...there was that one little piece of banked turn near the staging area, just before the asphalt, where you just let the bike rip around it and you feel the centripetal force STICKING the wheels into the turn--just getting to do that 5 times a year is worth the effort.

All indicators point to a distinct pattern in the old CX resume here--14 races in 5 years, many top 125 finishes, a coupla DNF's. That would be "trending downward". But who cares, since the highlight of the day was invoking the brilliant dialogue in "Dude Where's My Car" when Kemal asked me what number he was and I did the same...Dude. Sweet! Dude. Sweet! WHAT'S MY NUMBER?

After that it was nose to the grindstone, the smile from amusing ourselves with silly lines from silly movies turning into a frown of "why the hell do I do this anyway" turning back to a smile when everyone is there at the end with cookies and cowbells. It's a good addiction, and glad to have some cool people to share it with.

Tacchino is next!

Revenge flicks

I've always been fascinated by the vengeance narrative in the movies. I guess it's a deep-seated emotion that is shared by many, probably formed way back when by experiences with who knows who. One thing that K and I don't share is a love of cinema - earlier in our marriage, every once in awhile I would go to the movies with some friends or by myself, knowing that her time was much better spent with books, as she is a voracious reader. There's a lot more control with books, she reasons, as you can skip uncomfortable parts or just put them down altogether.

A few years ago I saw Breakdown --it was one of those flicks that had improbable action scenes interwoven with extreme tension and the yearning for justice to be meted to the antagonists, with extreme prejudice. Very satisfying, in a primal way. Since then and before then there have been great revenge flicks that far exceed that one in quality, but for some reason that one really stood out, as some of the hillbillies who ran amok reminded me of some of the not so nice folk who populate the road on 4 wheels while I'm on 2.

I just saw the preview for this one. I think we all have the desire to, sometime in life, pull the strings of fate like this guy does.

Friday night fun

Ahh, to be a ruthless capitalist. There aren't many times in life when you get to really put the screws to your own kith and kin, and enjoy it to boot. By the same token, there are few opportunities to nail your own dad hard, make him squirm and feel the pain that only the helplessness of financial ruin can bring about. To the victor belongs the spoils, lessons all of us learn the easy way or the hard way.

Of course I'm talking about Monopoly. While K lay in bed under the grips of the virus that struck me down earlier this week, the kids and I resurrected the ritual game, one we haven't played in awhile. The Rangers-Pens game is on in the background featuring the pugilistic ex-enforcer of our Washington Caps wearing the colors of the Broadway Blueshirts, providing a pleasant backdrop for the main event. As always the game starts out slow, but soon the deals start rolling and we develop our properties and then the money is changing hands and suddenly someone has to mortgage everything to pay rent on Kentucky Ave for 600 clams, and then the game is over, feelings are hurt, and laughter ensues. Of course we all get over it quickly, since the next game's victor is usually this one's big loser.

Every version of this game has house rules. Besides the standard "Free Parking" jackpot that is a de facto adopted rule throughout all cultures, our unique take is that if your token so much as TOUCHES the red part of the Jail (in other words, if you literally cross the line into jail from "Just Visiting"), then you get to spend the next turn in the Big House. Veeeeery literal.

If anything is accomplished, I think I've taught the kids that being nice in Monopoly is just no fun. The guilty pleasure is knowing that raining phony monetary blows on their heads really doesn't amount to anything other than passing some time on a Friday night with the people you love, even though they'll do anything to give you the shaft if the dice rolls their way.

Sick daze

About 4 years ago I was coaching my daughter's soccer team, and by virtue of the league she belongs to, those of us who coach often referee the game after ours. It was a cold, wet, October morning. Happened to be a Sunday, so actually it was early afternoon - no games on Sunday mornings, due to church. Since I don't go anymore, that Sunday ritual has been replaced with the group ride, which is a communal and spiritual event unto itself.

Based on the way I felt that day, I probably didn't ride. I was really weak, haggard, and suffering from a bad cold. I wasn't that spirited during our game, and my dad thankfully took the kids to his house so I could ref (if aimlessly walking around a muddy field with a whistle falls under that category) the game and then I dragged my butt home. By that point I was really wiped out, worse than I had felt in a long time, and I half watched the Redskins trounce the 49ers, which they were bound to do, as SF fielded a sorry team that year (compared to the Detroit squad that was to be an easy win this year...oops). I guess I called my parents and told them to keep the kids for as log as possible, as I was in and out of consciousness all afternoon. By the time everyone convened at home, I was a sorry lump of goo and truly sick.

I didn't go to work all week--by the time I finally figured that I needed to go to a doctor (for a second time), half the work week was gone and the diagnosis was finally made, which was pneumonia. Having never had this malaise, I didn't realize the extent to which the body just tells the mind that "you can do whatever you want, but we ain't going anywhere". The meds and antibiotics started beating it back immediately, and by Monday I was rarin' to go, and went to work.

At about 9:45 Monday morning I said to everyone: See ya later, I'm going home. And I did, where I alternated sleeping, sitting on the couch, reading the paper, and doing Sudoku puzzles for the next 4 days, with some increasing increments of work daily. It blew me away that the body just said "I'm done for awhile. I want, nay, NEED some rest." I guess I had been burning the candle at both ends blah blah blah, so it was sorely needed.

By the time I was back at work full time I had lost 15 pounds, and looked a bit drawn, but I was definitely rested. Four years later, I'm sitting here after 2 forced days off, as I have this virus that has travelled from my head on Sunday to my chest on Monday to my intestines on Tuesday, so by now it's pretty much gone. I mostly rested, with some work remotely from home, but once again the body tells the idiot what needs to be done in order to keep moving forward.

It's funny because 2 weeks ago, right before the CX season opener in Baltimore, I felt a twinge in my back. I haven't been riding as much as I usually do this year, but my volume has increased in the last couple months, so I thought it was strange that the muscles were feeling a bit strained in the lower back. As I moved a bowl--not a toilet bowl, or a large ceremonial urn, or even a big clay pot--from the counter to the cabinet, this effort to put away a clean cereal bowl resulted in a PULLED MUSCLE in my lower back. I gimped around the entire day, slept stiffly, and then raced the next day, thinking I would regret it later, but as it turned out it was not nearly as debilitating as I had originally thought. The back pain lingered through the week, extended by running and riding some more and racing again this past weekend, but only enough to remind me that I'm getting more creaky.

If only I would listen more.

Can't sleep

Sleeping is an activity that I can say I have much God-given talent. So much so that I would be a well-paid professional at such an endeavor, if only we were paid for doing nothing. It's usually no problem to lay on my snow white pillow for my big fat head and wrap myself in the arms of morpheus. A little "Big Time" reference to the Peter Gabriel set.

Until now. It's 2:34 AM and instead of tossing and turning I'm just browsing and typing.

Tomorrow (or today, as the case may be) will be a lethargic one.

Fall is here

Labor Day weekend has come and gone, the kids are in school, and we're settling into the routine of the fall. A few changes here and there. Another cycle of seasons, the year will pass again, and we will carry on.

A few things of note:

We crashed the family reunion with the Pittsburgh cousins on Labor Day Sunday with our Caps gear on, much to their collective chagrin. After the emotional hugs and kisses that accompany reuniting with several generations, we had to give and take as is the norm in American sports culture regarding our allegiances to these groups of millionaires that seem to take our minds off the mundane trappings of life. Hockey season is less than 3 weeks away!!!

Kids are out of the house by 7:30 AM, which means we can get to work early or on time or both. No more bus stop action. Much more independence for everybody, and for teens and 'tweens, that's a GOOD THING.

There are glimmers of potential projects coming back to life in the construction industry and housing market, which means that we can focus on design, production, and normalcy at work, instead of worrying about where (or who) the next cut is going to befall. We're not out of the woods yet, but we're seeing light at the edges of the forest.

I'm about to put some Tektro 720's on my CX rig. I'm tired of the tentative braking power I'm getting with my current Tektro set. Looking forward to no more shuddering and no more squealing. Not that this will make too much difference at Charm City next weekend. The cyclocross season is upon us!

Polished off some Guinnesses (Guinni?) with our friends up the street, catching up on all the goings on around the block (and environs) while the boys jammed downstairs and the girls did their own thing. The band is sounding tight. We all agreed that this has been a crappy year, with the unusual toll that cancer is taking on people we know and love. Which means that these evenings sitting around and catching up with the people we love need to happen more, not less.

Found a sweet balance point during my last interval today on my ride. I was doing 2 sets of 3 min on and 2 min off, and in that last 3 minute rep I found the point at which I was hurting but not blowing up...I need to listen to the body more instead of looking at the meter.

Ten minutes a day on the guitar is tons better than 20 or so minutes once every couple of weeks. It's amazing how the muscle memory gains traction with repetition instead of wishing it so. I told my friend Bill that I've got the E shaped barre chord down, so the barre-ed F is actually easy for me now when just 3 weeks ago it represented a tortured mangle of fingers. Next challenge is the A shaped barre for the B chord, which is starting to become less uncomfortable. Bill, who is quite an accomplished musician told me that barre-ing a B chord separates the men from the boys. Manhood, I am at your doorstep.

And a few other things that will reveal themselves to me in the days ahead, as they always do. It's been a decent start to the fall--much better than the weird days of this past summer.

Derek and Eric

The group ride thing has not been a high priority lately, as my perceived lack of conditioning quickly turns such rides into more solo affairs. So instead of being on time for the traditional Saturday morning N2, I roll out at a more leisurely pace and figure I'll see who I see on the roads and maintain some sort of reasonable tempo. I'm a pretty social person, so this streak of introvertedness (introversion? introvertishness?) is somewhat strange.

Saturday turned out to be a great day, and a solid ride. One my way I met up with my friend Derek, who I haven't seen in person in a long time. I see him at least a couple of time a week on TV, though, and we became friends as I stuck with him when he had "a day without" and he returned the favor when I had a flat one time. We became familiar as one does in these group rides, learning snippets of the lives of the people around us. We caught up some, and I figure I'll see him more now that I'm back on the bike fairly regularly.

Toward the end of the ride I started chatting with Eric, a guy out on his own loop. He was pretty strong, and we talked about taking advantage of the time out on the road. He called these 2 hours on the bike "his peace". I peeled off and headed home, thinking about these old and new acquaintances, realizing that the two wheels beneath all of us were the common threads of 3 different lives and lifestyles, but that which tied us together for a few minutes on a Saturday.

Bounty

I am lucky to be married to the granddaughter of a real farmer.

One of the rituals of summer has been a trip up to pick berries (black and rasp) at a farm in Biglerville PA. The harvest of nature's candy is then canned into jams at my in-laws place in Carlisle. On the way back, stops at an orchard and farmers market yield silly amounts of peaches, plums, corn, and apples. Add that on top of our very own summer vegetable harvest, and the countertop looks like this (the double sink is full of peaches and apples):

I do nothing to contribute here, other than eat. If the end of days is nigh, we will have plenty of jam and fruity snacks, and veggies to see us through.

Back to the grind

The annual family vacation to the Outer Banks of North Carolina is now in my rear view mirror. Good recharge time, got a lot of sleeping accomplished. I think I resolved lots of things, but many more questions were raised in the process. I guess life's done if you are no longer asking and answering questions. My backlog means I've got lots of living to do.

Three women

This is a major downer of a post, so go away. You've been warned.

I've alluded to the fact that I've been going through a rough patch lately, mainly having to do with narcissistic thoughts and selfish tendencies that don't amount to much more than irritating background noise and a clouded vision of where I am and where I've been.

It is so miniscule compared to the events of this week, in which real sadness, raw and expected, took place on three separate levels, among the thousands of other losses that take place daily. Cancer claimed the lives of 3 women who are connected to me in disparate ways. The ex-president of the Philippines, the wife of a blogger I don't even know, and my friend's mom.

I think I met Cory Aquino once, when I was younger, as my parents were friends with that family and spent some time with them during their exile in the U.S. Couldn't really get to know them when we lived in the Philippines because Ninoy was in jail. Kind of hard to have a Sunday BBQ when the husband is incarcerated for "treasonous crimes". When he came back to the Philippines he was immediately assassinated, and 3 years later his wife became president. Because of her efforts an entire nation rose up against a tyrannical little man and provided hope for democracy movements in other countries. "People Power" is a household term that is due to her persistence.

Susan in this guy's wife and mother to 4, from all accounts, good kids. His blog was the first I ever read and got me started on this online journalizing. Her fight against this wasting disease provided a platform for her husband to raise awareness and money - over $500,000 so far. Over 2,000 comments in the posting of his wife's passing attest to the care that this awareness has garnered from the electronic community. Far better tributes to this family can be found here and here, among other places for sure.

Mrs. A is my neighbor and friend's mom, who just passed this week. She's the only one of the three that I really know, and not that well. But I do know her through her daughter, who is one of our dearest friends, whose love for her own family spreads to ours daily, as our kids are fast friends with theirs.

Three different women, all loved by casts of thousands, all taken by this awful disease. Eight years ago three other women I know fought and beat cancer, and I am thankful for the fight that my mom, my aunt, and my sister in law undertook.

I hope next week will be better.

A sound decision

So I was with a client yesterday at the DDOT kiosk at DCRA in downtown DC helping her fill out some permit applications, chatting about work. She mentioned to me that her staff is dwindling, as people are finding different paths to their lives and moving on. I casually mentioned "I've made a personal decision that will greatly relieve some accumulated stress in the upcoming months." She shot me this look of guarded apprehension, not knowing what would come next. Leaving my job? Getting separated? Skipping off to the Canadian Rockies? I could tell her wheels were turning because she works for a Boston based non profit that is known for high turnover, is completely intense, and is coming off a divorce.

"I won't be coaching my daughter's soccer team in the fall or spring." She looked at me with just a little bit of derision, probably figuring that this is a minor blip compared to work, relationships, and life; so minor that it doesn't warrant much consideration. Don't blame her one bit--it really doesn't seem like much.

Until you do it, and ladle it on top of work, relationships, and life. Having coached kids soccer for over 4 years, it's really not difficult at all. What's hard is managing the time, between games and mid-week practices and communicating with all the parents, including those that don't have the greatest command of English (glad I know Spanish), or somehow insist on following the schedule of another team and calling me repeatedly wondering why the team isn't at the field.

So the fall suddenly feels a bit more open. We'll still go to the games, cheer them on, enjoy the other families and the moments too. It's a bit of found time that will keep on reappearing every week.

Back on the bike

My new ritual (3 years running now) is to rent a bike at Kitty Hawk Cycle Company so I can get some miles in when I'm not frolicking at the beach with everyone. I guess I'm supporting the local economy, since I choose not to bring my own bike down, which, while extremely possible, is a pain in the ass.

I called Mike on Friday to ask him to reserve a bike for me, to which he replied he couldn't have one for me until Sunday, since his cycle works Sunday to Saturday, and we get there on Friday. So I'll miss the Saturday group ride...big deal. Until he says "But I'll lend you mine, so you can ride on Saturday". He rides a 53, I'm typically a 54, so for a day I'm golden. Now THAT'S how to guarantee repeat business.

To riff on the word repeat, it's now time to repeat riding daily so that I can get some respectable miles in before Charm City (seven weeks away) and the ensuing 'cross season. It's finally clicking, even though I'm still slow and have no snap, I'm ready to train seriously again. I guess I needed a 9 month layoff to resolve some other things jangling around, and this will start fitting together again.

Saturday was a great ride in the park with Kelly and Trevor, after which we were joined by Lee, Carol, and George. I was way late for the N2 and thought I'd pick it up on the return leg, but I'm glad I missed it as this edition featured 4 riders down, with three to the hospital. No major injuries, but definitely a bummer for those affected. Riding with Lee is a bonus, since I haven't seen him on the road in a long time, and look forward to some more time riding with him.

Sunday was one of those clarifying, intensely mellow affairs which featured a good soaking pretty much from the start. Warm summer rains are great to ride in, since senses are heightened more acutely than normal. Rooster tails and road grit in the eyes, sweat mixed with rain, a little more space between each other. And funny, too, when you have to tell the guy in front of you to not use so much detergent next time he washes his kit--the suds coming out of this guy's shorts made his hindquarters look rabid.

Later in the afternoon we rode to Wheaton Park with a group of girl scouts, a short little trip that only took out one little brother, as he couldn't quite negotiate a sharp turn at the bottom of the hill on the trail. Got up quick, though, and I reassured him that crashing on wet pavement is a helluvalot better than dry. He'll probably feel it in his bones tonight, but at least he won't be sticking to the sheets.

45 years...and counting

One day in July of 1964 a man got on a plane in Argentina and made a long trip north, to the west coast of the U S of A. He then boarded another plane and skipped across the Pacific, via Hawaii and Guam, to arrive in Manila, the Philippine Islands. Tracking northward from the southern hemisphere and then westward across a vast ocean was a long trip in those days...long, not so comfortable, noisy, bumpy, as jets were only in commercial air service for 6 years by this time. In the two trips I've made to the Philippines in the past 10 years from the east coast I've always counted on 30 hours, real bed to real bed. It's a tiring trip even now, and considering that this man travelled the two legs of a triangle to get there, it must have been even more taxing then.

Arriving in Manila wasn't the end of the journey, however. He still had to negotiate a flight to one of the Visayan Islands by going to the domestic terminal in the sweltering heat, the unruly crowds, the strange smells and cacophonous noise. The stewardess on the plane passed around a basket which had a hand lettered sign requesting that all firearms be deposited for the duration of the flight--you'll get your gun back when you land. The last leg of the trip was coming to an end.

Several days of parties welcomed this stranger to a strange land, a loving family willing to take him in, dozens of siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, and relatives of the woman he was to marry. They met in college here at Georgetown U, fell in love, and decided to spend the rest of time together. The wedding was beautiful, and from all accounts a lavish party. I only see it from the black and white filter of the wedding album that my sisters and I would look at when we were younger.

But while virtually every wedding that I know of is populated by relatively equal numbers of family from both sides of the aisle, this man was literally the only person from his family at his wedding. It was financially not possible for anyone in his family from Braddock Pa. make this trip, and while finances were a major limitation, I'm certain that the culture shock and journey into the unknown was as much of a deterrent. Travel just wasn't very facile those days, and certainly not for such a long distance to such an exotic place. His best man was one of my uncles, and in case he got cold feet legend has is that one of the relatives known for his proclivity to be less than faithful to his wife had a car and plane on standby for an escape. I think this was exaggerated family lore, and due to sound decision making on dad's part I am able to recount all of this.

This is a staggering concept, to travel such long distances, to commit so fully to someone that you trust that you willingly leave the umbrella of safety and comfort that your own family offers. To become a member of a new family halfway across the world required an enormous leap of faith and a journey far more precipitous in what was then unknown.

Thanks Mom and Dad for making that leap, and HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

Ouch

I've never been a good descender. My panic speed is low; I hit 49.8 MPH coming down into Charlottesville from Crozet 21 years ago, almost to the day. That's the fastest I've ever travelled on 2 wheels, and I couldn't quite get it up over 50 as the bike started feeling odd, and I backed off.

It was a great summer of training, riding, racing--I was done with the charade of graduate school, in which I learned that I'm much more of a history buff than a historian. I also realized that year that if I wanted to teach in the public school system I would have to spend another year or so learning stuff that I thought I already knew. These were necessary lessons that diverted me from a life of academia and enabled me to satisfy the urge to own a bike shop out of my system. A couple more years of that and I realized that it was just retail, and I didn't want to work on weekends, or fix other people's bikes, or sell.

So instead I became an architect, which means that I (sometimes) work on weekends, sell professional services, and grind along like everyone else. I'm paid to draw and solve problems, sometimes getting to design some pretty cool stuff.

So back to descending. The skill required, the lack of fear, the ability to trust centripetal forces and coax your center of gravity into the right position, to clamp your knees onto the top tube to quiet the shimmy at 45 MPH+, to quell the gnawing thoughts that just one stone can turn your knifelike profile into an uncontrollable wobbly mass of skin on pavement, all of these qualities I don't quite have nailed down. I do most of them well, but not well enough to make up time lost on a climb, which is guaranteed, since it's even harder to lug two bucks worth of body mass around on a bike these days. My mind is weak, and I can't convince the rest of me to take those chances anymore.

Which is why watching Jens Voight's crash in today's tour stage so chilling. Probably the hardest man in the sport today, he was helpless when body and bike conspired to collapse under him while thundering down the Petit Saint Bernard. I've never seen anyone SKID ON THEIR FACE at 55+ MPH. I hope to never see that again.

He's a tough dude. He'll be back. Not in this race, but soon.

Movie night

It's been a while, but we did the movie night thing, preceded with beers and eats at the local pub. Finding a slice of time during the summer evenings to just hang out with some friends.

We usually meet in Silver Spring, but The Hurt Locker is on limited release, so we saw it in Bethesda. Worked out for me, as I stayed late at work to finish a proposal and joined the boys before the late show.

Walking to the theater from the pub we saw a big raccoon dumpster diving in one of the street garbage cans, right next to people eating dinner al fresco. I tried to get a picture of the little beast, but he was too quick for me. I should have gotten pictures of the horrified diners who watched Rocky slink back into the storm sewer.

Intense movie, that Hurt Locker. Awesome, actually.

Skim coat

One more layer of mud is all I need before getting to paint this thing. The bathroom that just won't end actually has a light at the end of its tunnel. Nothing like the pressure of a shindig at our place this Saturday eve to kick me into subcontractor mode. It's not like our half-finished family room isn't hillbilly enough--at least the bathroom will have all of its pieces and parts painted and trimmed...for the most part.

Kind of like the situation at work lately. Lots of things half done, not quite finished, and since there is little work on the horizon it seems that finishing projects translates into looking down the steep precipice of who knows what. But we gotta finish to send out invoices, so the machine trudges along.

Sad news from one of my friends in architecture school. One of our profs succumbed to brain cancer after battling the cancer that had started in his lungs. This guy was quite cerebral, entertaining, imposing, and quirky, qualities that I always admired. He taught theory and was a great critic, always intertwining Italian modernism and Renaissance/Baroque architecture, among other things, when commenting on the dreck that we presented to him as we stumbled along, learning in lurches. I'll always appreciate his discussion of the "moment" on a facade, that instant when the composition finds its balance, is inevitable, and just right. But even more memorable is the mundane moment at the Circuit City, when the salesman was showing him just how vibrant this TV was, he interrupted him and said "I don't care what it looks like when it's on. I only care what it looks like when it's off."

RIP, Tom Schumacher.

Getting dropped

It's been a woeful year for me on the bike, if all I'm looking at is numbers. Otherwise it's been OK, as the few that I have logged in this year have all been memorable, in their own ways. By now I usually have a couple of thousand miles in my legs (based on 100 mile weeks over 6 months, give or take a few low mileage or no mileage weeks). The weekly club rides are never a problem when my base is laid.

I MAYBE have 350 miles in this year, if I'm charitable. It's no wonder that I'm being dropped like a bad habit on rides that normally are easy. In recent years (and especially when I tried to race), getting dropped was usually a trigger of increasing self-doubt and teeth gnashing which begat all kinds of lame conversation with whoever would listen to the self-loathing. As I hate to hear that as much as the next person, I try to clam up when the discussion of in-season form comes up during the small talk. It's all hollow.

Getting dropped often this year, however, has been kind of liberating. I'm not going to be involved in the animated competition that takes place during the rides because I simply can't hang right now. This is a brutal sport, in which one needs to train consistently hard just to suck. Riding alone gives me ample opportunity to resolve things bangin' around my head, of which there has been a lot of activity lately.

A couple memorable moments from my few rides this year, and lessons learned.

1. Don't eat 4 chorizo breakfast burritos before riding from Herndon to Silver Spring via Poolesville. The demands of the GI tract are much louder and more irrational than most human urges, and certainly harder to control voluntarily. I started that ride with arm warmers; I no longer have those in my wardrobe.

2. When embarking on the annual century with the intention of riding only half of it, I plan on paying attention to where I am so that I don't end up riding 20 miles shy of the 100. While I didn't bonk, I cramped in muscles that were buried in other muscles, numerous times. Stupid is as stupid does.

3. Realize that getting dropped in places where I used to lose contact when I started riding seriously again 5 years ago is because I'm at about the same form now that I was then.

Duh.

MORE FUN/BLACK SUN

One of the most worn cassettes that I played in the '82 Corolla over and over was my 90 minute Maxell with the third and fourth albums by X on each side. More Fun In the New World was more slickly produced and therefore more commercially successful, but the one that sticks with me, speaks to me, marks a shift in the way I looked at things and never gets old was Under The Big Black Sun.




I was a freshman in college in 1984 and my hallmate was practicing his bass on "The Have Nots", the last song on the album. Something about the dischordant harmonies was oddly attractive, and soon addictive. I could turn this passage into an homage to John, Exene, Billy, and DJ but suffice it to say that there's enough of that out there. While their first two albums were even more raw and energetic, there was something about Black Sun that allows me to discover something new every time I hear it. From these 4 albums X put together a set at the 9:30 Club last month that just may be the last time they all play together as a band. I'm glad I got to see them, after many failed attempts.

This is especially helpful when I'm in one of those morose funks that I find myself in every once in a while, about "lost opportunities" and "what could have been," despite the fact that I have everything I want in front of me. Just writing also helps me process these green thoughts, and two solid days of riding this weekend should dispense of the rest of the accumulated flotsam and jetsam of the feeble mind.

That ability to dissipate the negative energy has been missing for much of this year, so that's gotta change now. And 'cross season is just 2 months away.

Pandora's box

Look, don't look. A simple choice can alter one's day significantly.

Sometimes it's better to let sleeping dogs lie.

This is purposely cryptic to remind me of a lesson I learned today. I've found that looking back over this journal has done what I originally intended it to do, which is to stave off memory loss that is part and parcel with the accretion of years that seem to glide past with ever increasing frequency.

So one day I'll look back, read this entry and remember what it's like to lose perspective for about half a day.

Idiots

There is a bike lane on Woodmont Avenue in Bethesda, the portion that is one way with a gentle curve and a nice consistent 3-5% grade in the direction of travel. Before the bike lane was painted, it was a common sight to see cars swooping down into the lower Bethesda business district (also known as Snootytown or Caucasia) at speeds higher than warranted. Our office is perched above these lanes, perfectly positioned to watch the mayhem unfold. Other than a few fender benders, we've seen nothing worse.

That will change soon, especially if idiots use the bike lanes and roadway in ways that I am seeing with saddening regularity.

Typically people roll down this bonus lane in the direction that the arrows are pointing, something one learns early in life. Instead I see, on a daily basis, certain people "salmon" up the lanes opposing the established traffic route, which are determined by

a. the established vehicular traffic pattern on a one way street

b. the painted markings which do not require literacy skills to understand.

Clowns are putting their own lives in danger, and even worse, the lives of cyclists rolling down the lanes in keeping with the direction intended.

But what I saw today (though not the first time) were two cyclists salmoning up the bike lane, and where it ended (or began, if moving in the proper direction of travel), chose to continue riding against traffic IN THE VEHICULAR LANE WHILE THEY COULD HAVE USED THE SIDEWALK FOR A SHORT STRETCH (oh that's right--not cool to ride on sidewalk--and actually lot legal in some places, but certainly more legal than riding against traffic...). Stultifyingly and astoundingly stupid, as while their actions have a direct relationship to their proclivity to maim or kill themselves, by their actions they add another brick in the wall of hatred between vehicles and bikes, making it harder for the rest of us.

Not to say that I never do stupid stuff on the road, I'd like to think that I have about half or even one ounce of awareness. Not a lot, but something...

Staycation

It was such a great week that I can only frame it with the proper reference points to keep it all in order...as in what I ate all week.

It has become a ritual that after the kids are done with school I take a week off to stay at home and just hang out. Kind of like going to the beach, although we have no outdoor shower.

Last year during my week off we sketched a shack for the back yard and built it, roofed it, and painted it. It has served us well this year by being a place where we could store some stuff, do what kids do, and have the odd guest break his arm while shimmying the "balcony".

This year we had no such grand plans, as I scheduled my LEED exam for the end of the week, almost at the last possible moment before they those crafty folks at the US Green Building Council rolled out the next (more expensive, more difficult, and more jumpthroughhoopish) version yet.

Instead we decided to go to the pool as much as possible, or play with friends (kids, that is) as much as possible. I studied while they all frolicked about. It worked out well, since this was the type of test that required repetitive drilling of factoids that are easily referenced in books or on the interwebs.

Monday at the pool: the popcorn was salty and the fruit Mentos were very fruity. Shakes at Potbelly's before the movie were divine.

Tuesday & Wednesday were much of the same. Doin' a whole lot of nothing, though I had to work a coupla hours each day...the only low points of the entire week.

Thursday: The cultural event of the week featured a trip downtown to see the Marine Symphony Orchestra at the Monument. But first a phony baloney "Belgian" meal at Gordon Biersch which was punctuated by fire alarms set off by the hellions at the booth next to us. Dad got a serious talking to by the frustrated wife and ate his salad with his brim pulled way down low while she stalked off with one of the toddlers. Note to this restaurant: Steak frites are not supposed to come with a spicy sauce...

Friday: Our kids and their kids play Wii at their house while we go to a real Belgian joint. Karen had real steak frites, we all shared an order of real moulle-frites, and I had a green peppercorn sea bass dish garnished with a fried prawn that I am still thinking about--the fried prawn, especially. This crustacean treat was so lovingly crispy that it crumbled, nay, melted in my mouth. The company was fab as well, and it sure is nice to let the inmates run the asylum every once in awhile so that both sets of parents could enjoy a fine night out.

Saturday the rest of the family vacated out of town to join the in-laws and I joined the club century ride to Sugarloaf, only expecting to complete a forty percentury. But by the time we reached Sugarloaf Mountain I realized that I had hit that mileage mark and in a continuance of poor decision-making I rolled up and over the top of the hill, knowing I would pay dearly on my return trip home. Good thing there were provisions at the bottom of the climb--gels, bagels, bars, and tons of water allowed me to limp home for a cool 82 mile ride with some memorable moments. Awesome people on this ride, too.

The original plan was to go to a work related BBQ, then a graduation party for a neighbor's daughter, and then my annual get together with the high school in the Philippines crowd. No BBQ due to the extended ride, but the rest of the evening and push through into the wee hours could be described thusly:

Flank steak slices

Curried chicken slices

Shrimp in lime juice

Salmon with a ridiculous glaze

Crispy fresh veggies

Sumptuous fruits

Beer

And that was at 5:30 PM.

Then I got to the party. It was on like Donkey Kong:

BBQ prawns

Steamed seafood, corn and potatoes

Jello shots

Sea salt brownies

More beer

On Sunday we saw the O's-Nats game in B-more. Boogs BBQ featured a horseradish sandwich with roast beef, and I was, for about the 11th time in 4 days, in heaven.

Other highlights: my sister and her fam (with their new pooch) came down to visit, and I passed the exam, so all is well.

It was a grout Father's Day

Six months ago I tore apart my downstairs bathroom to create a more useable space with a shower that wouldn't leak, a sink that was bigger than a teacup, and a toilet that didn't require one's knees to be hovering around one's ears when administering the number two (or one and two, if you happen to be a female of the opposite persuasion).

The sink and johnny have been operational for a few months now, and I just got around to finishing the tile work this weekend in the shower. Repetitive manual labor puts my mind into rewind where I plumb the depths for memories of previous years based on the cues of current actions. This is an especially therapeutic activity, especially while I'm on a long ride by myself.

So as I was spending Father's Day morning grouting the tile (instead of riding) I began recalling the grout grafitti in the bathrooms at the UMD Arch School studios. Tiny pencil lettering in the architectural style, between tiles at about eye height if you're facing the wall, which you'd better be doing if you're at the urinals. Pretty benign stuff, like:

"Three strikes and your grout"

"The Grout Gatsby"

"When in doubt, leave it grout"

"Writing on grout is not alout"

"Little Mary was short and stout; she didn't grow up, she grout"

Seeing these on a daily basis for several semesters seals them into the memory vault, to be sure. Much better than the racist and misogynistic crap that I see in the Port-o-lets at construction sites, but even some of those authors are creative, though misguided.

Best construction site San-i-john grafitti I've seen in recent years:

"Sink too low. Soap too hard."

Released

Every spring the tyranny of kids' sports monopolizes my time in ways that always seem more severe than last year, or last season. Once the final game is over and we go our separate ways, I miss the structure that the seasons gave to the late spring, even after grousing about lost time and and and. This year it was soccer and baseball, overlapping. It doesn't help that I coach both teams, because my mantra is as long as my daughter wants to play, I will be there to coach, cuz that's how I've always envisioned this life.

Except that this year I came to the realization that I can't do overlapping seasons. Spring soccer doesn't cut it anymore, and next year it will be soccer in the fall, baseball in the spring.

So baseball finally ended tonight, at Blair HS's softball field, under the lights. Playing on a groomed diamond, permanent bases and pitching rubber, and smooth outfield grass, evenly cut. If one were to ask me in the middle of the third inning how things were going, I would have stated that the season was an unmitigated disaster, with only 1 win and a group of talentless misanthropes who didn't care about developing skills or being a team. Wow that would've been harsh, no?

But in the error-laden world of Major 60 baseball, in which 10 & 11 year olds play almost to the same rule standards as kids several years older, things do change. Ask me the same question one inning later, in the middle of a 6 run rally to cut the opposing team's lead to 4 runs, and I'd say that this team is on the rise and what a way to end the year, with kids that found ways to eke out that last effort to make the last game fun. Amazing kids who suddenly were interested in the game because they saw that their efforts were finally paying off, drawing walks when they needed to, stealing bases, and getting key hits. Manufacturing runs, closing the gap, and having a blast. If only they could be consistent, but that will come in time. Like the way my son's team plays, in which I was just a spectator, as they were coached by much more able people.

So now I can focus on other things, as I've always thought that my summer vacation starts when school and sports for the kids end. Maybe I'll ride more, finish business around the house, play the guitar more, relax more, write more. Summertime in the city.

Last Friday I was released from yet one other time monopolizer. The Stanley Cup was hoisted by the Pens, and now I'm not watching hockey 3 nights a week. That's a lot of found time too.

My next board

Two weeks ago tomorrow I attended the retirement of two of my professors at the UMD School of Architecture. It was a great event, filled with an entire cross section of the different eras of students that these two excellent human beings got to teach, over the past 30 years, and I owe much of my personal success to their prowess. I made sure I told them that, in the moments that I was able to steal to speak with them personally, as they were in great demand by the multitudes of former students who no doubt had similar sentiments.

The characteristic that always struck me about these men, in addition to their being extremely honest and blunt, was the security they had in their own personas. There were no airs, no sociopathic tendencies of self-centered egomania, no insecurities as to how they were perceived by others. They were true to themselves, and urged all of us to do the same.

It was a series of speakers in the late afternoon and a dinner in the main studio, with drinks at the traditional studio bar beforehand. The cool aspect of the studio space at UMD is that it is a double height space in the center, with two levels of studio and classroom space at the perimeter. The corridor serving the classrooms served as exhibit space for work presented as well as a viewing space into the studios below, a dynamic space to be sure. Legend has it that when the school was designed the double height space, which is not efficient use of campus building resources, was to be a "lab" for full height wall sections and the building of construction detail mock-ups. Other than the full size bar for Friday post studio happy hours and the annual monstrosity of construction of "sets" for the thematic Beaux Arts Ball, it really was a large gathering space for the community that we were in.

As it turned out, the pieces of various communities were there two weeks ago to celebrate the careers of these two remarkable men, and the school had urged us to show them what we had done in our careers. We were asked to feature some of our work in a format that they asked us to use, for continuity of display, and the night before the party I created my 24" x 24" board of some of the work I've done in the past 16 years of practicing architecture. Doesn't do justice to try to compress that amount of work in a small board, but it was a cool exercise and got me to think about what my next board will look like in 15 years. The exercise itself was a great way to turn a page and reset my attitude a bit. Thanks Ralph and Karl for everything.

Speaking of resetting, I almost reset my hand through a wall tonight, after spending 4 hours fixing our washing machine. We made the mistake of sticking a $10 Ikea rug in the wash this week, not knowing that when the rubber backing of such Swedish tapestry encounters water it transmogrifies into approximately 2,100,456 rubber particles of the exact size to wreak havoc on the filtration and pumping systems of front load washing machines. I know this now because after spending a buck fifty on an appliance repair dude today we were presented with the same sopping mess of the remaining particulation that he was not able to extract on his site visit. He warned us that this may happen. So I call him on a Friday evening, and he walked me through the repair, not knowing for sure if I would just throw my hands up in the air and call him back to finish the repair himself.

It was really a case of disconnecting some hoses, cleaning out debris, and reconnecting. It was the reconnecting that almost did me in. Spring clamps are quite simple, unless you're trying to connect hoses/piping that require one to be triple jointed and sporting an extra hand. After much gnashing of teeth and expletives, I did what any mature male would do.

I laid on the floor and wept. Not really, but I was frustrated. I did lay on the floor, though.

It finally all came together and laundry is now humming. Fixing laundry machines won't be on my next board, but at least I finished something this week.

Massimilliano

The Giro d'Italia is on its final week, and what a race it's shaping up to be. Even though I'm not riding much lately, the bike is still a part of me. It's the whole reason I started this blog, as a matter of fact.

My family often makes reference to how many bikes I own, so here's the official story:

When I was a teenager I rode around my village in the Philippines on my Schwinn Caliente (with the revolutionary, at the time, Front Freewheel system), dreaming of cycling glory as an Olympic sprinter. Lest anyone think I was actually in a "village" in the wild, it was a gated community wedged between horrible slums, a sprawling outdoor mall shopping complex and expressways with wicked traffic, the likes I have never seen since leaving the islands. Metro Manila is legendary for its congestion, sprawl, and pollution, and it's no longer a pleasant city (but it sure was fun as a teenager).

When I got back stateside, I bought a Peugeot PH10S with a Maillard "Helicomatic" freewheel, an impressive machine for a 17 year old. I thought I was the dude, what with my esoteric French machine, and considered myself quite the cyclist. Little did I know that there were kids like Greg Lemond and Andy Hampsten on the other side of the country who really were something, and I was nothing. As I got to understand racing, I put on a set of 32 hole Sun hoops with some Avocet baldies and I felt like it was a whole new bike. Pretty soon I was "spinning" and before I knew it I became a full fledged elitist bike snob.

Enter the era of my workhorse ride, my Cilo 600 Aelle. I bought it from a local shop, and shared the tragic memory of the dude who sold me the bike here. It was a great bike, and I logged many miles on it for about 5 years, until I bought a Serotta Nova SL in lieu of an engagement ring for my wife to be. Let's just say she didn't really appreciate that but she stuck with me, a feat of strength that awes me to this day. My Serotta was sweet, but, as my wife so aptly put it, was the "glamour girl" as opposed to the "girl next door" Cilo. And if anyone knows me, girl next door is much more my style. Even hanging a different manufacturer for every component, while gimmicky, didn't really make it as nice a ride as the Cilo. I raced on it for a couple of years and hung it up after I started architecture school. Somewhere in there I joined the mountain bike rage and bought a bright yellow Specialized RockHopper.

While I worked at College Park Bicycles during arch school, I built enough wheels one summer to earn a ride of my choice, and I chose a Specialized StumpJumper FS, a beautiful hardtail that now sits in pieces in my crawlspace, as I had to cannibalize it to build my first cyclocross bike. But I'm jumping ahead. Before I chopped up this MTB, I quit riding altogether for about 13 years.

I got fat.

After designing a house addition for my friend, I entered the carbon fiber realm and was back on a Giant Cadex, then bought a Look KG461, after which I burned more cash on my Eddy Merckx CHM (dream bike since I started reading Winning Magazine), and built an Outback 'cross bike with cannibalized bits until settling on a cheap sweet Raleigh RX1 (not glam) 'cross bike that does the trick. The preceding sentence includes a life change of 30+ lbs weight loss, a far better overall attitude, and loyal patronage of a local business since 2003. Supporting the local shop is what I like to do. The Cadex has become my fixie (built a wheel with a cool ENO eccentric hub to convert the vert dropout into a usable fixed gear machine), which I don't ride nearly enough.

Throughout this entire thread I found that I needed to disabuse myself of the notion that I was any good, as my racing career features no podiums and a scant 3rd place in a training race, among equal amounts of pack finishes and DNF's. So you'll never see my name on any top whatever lists, other than the lower half of BikeReg results listings.

There is a silver lining, though. I discovered that my namesake races for some lower level pro Italian squad and actually gets results. Sometimes he even shows up in CyclingNews, and is quoted, even. In some cases, his team actually depends on his skills. And his name is Massimilliano, to boot. With alliteration like that, what's not to like? And this guy's a true paisan, not some third generation paper tiger like me. I have been tracking this man's results, as it will give me the faint impression that my name can be synonymous with a cycling career, even though the resemblance is non-existent, except for the fact that he has limbs and a head, just like me.

He's not in the Giro d'Italia, this year, though. Even after a concerted effort to "let him ride" before last year's Giro. Pity.