Laughingstock

The events of the past few days proves to me that my 'Skins are fast becoming the league joke, once again as they were perceived before Danny hired St. Joe.  Yeah, I know it's his team, and he can do whatever he wishes, and and and.  But this particular owner has a way of myopically shunning the Big Picture in ways that continue to amaze me.  More cogent and thoughtful analysis exists on more respectable outlets, specifically real journalist vehicles like the Post and Sports Illustrated, etc.  I'm just a ranting fan.

To that end, as we peeled off the N2 ride due to respective family obligations, Kathy K and I were riding and chatting on River Road, when I interrupted her and screamed "MAKE UP YOUR MIND, DANNY BOY!" as we passed the Snyder manse.  By the end of the day, Williams and Saunders were gone, so clearly I am influential.  Maybe I need to be receiving some nice caish muney from the Boy Wonder for my insistent advising.

Time to join the BP ride.  It's way late, but I'm toodling today and I'll catch them somewhere along the route...

"Legs feed the wolf"

On the subject of what to watch while spinning base/recovery/rest week miles on the trainer, the only Disney movie that I'll admit to enjoying happens to be "Miracle".  This is the story of the 1980 USA hockey team blah blah blah we all know the drill.

This is a GREAT flick for the trainer.  Meticulously shot and well cast, acted, everything.  Can't say enough good things about it.  Even my distaste for xenophobic patriotism takes a backseat on this one, as sport trumps all else here.

Best line is Coach Brooks saying "Legs feed the wolf" while his boys are doing suicides--I can only imagine how that feels, having never played hockey, though it is my favorite sport.  There's my new mantra.  Right now the wolf has a small stomach, but its appetite grows daily.  That's appetite, not my stomach...oh never mind.  Just see the movie if you haven't already.

The footlocker

As I pulled the van out of the driveway this morning, it was clear that something wasn't right.  The idle was rough, the engined shut down, the brakes were stiff, and the check engine light was on.  Time to go to the shop with this...

Since I didn't have wheels to get home with, the fam came into Bethesda and we had a decent dinner at the Cafe Deluxe, a popular joint for the family set.  As soon as we got home, my son asked me if we had a footlocker.  He's doing a history project involving the personal effects of a WWII airman, I think.

Not only do I have one footlocker, I actually have two.  They are time capsules of sorts, as I used them to store stuff during the summers in college and then they became these vessels of deep dark storage for things that I never want to throw away, even though I probably should.  I figured the smaller of the two would suffice, and I knew it was in the attic.  After banishing the cats into one of the bedrooms so that they wouldn't patrol the attic and force me to wait for them take their cat time to come down, I retrieved the box o' memories.

And this is some of what I found:

A Turkish market caricature - great drawing in pen and ink by a Turkish cartoonist.

My 115 # wrestling warm-up jacket from the International School Manila.

My Zero-stat gun and record cleaner, to keep the vinyl groovin'.

A nice piece of pottery thrown by a very close friend of mine.

About a dozen Iron City Beer commemorative beer cans (I used to be an avid collector).

Superman meets Sgt. Rock comic book.

Superman vs Muhammad Ali comic book.

Spiderman comic book titled "The Day Gwen Stacey Died".  Chills up and down the spine.

My high school home and away baseball jerseys.

My weekend softball league jersey for the team that featured only young guns and two adults who happened to be black (It reads "Youth and Blood" under the number).

A plaque that commemorates Pittsburgh as "The City of Champions" since they won the World Series and the SuperBowl in '79.

A shoebox full of letters.  At least I didn't chuck that bit of personal history.

Various diplomas and certificates.  Boring.

A training diary from my respectable 1987 season and completely putrid 1988 season.

A STACK OF WINNING BICYCLE RACING ILLUSTRATED MAGS.  I especially saved the one with Marianne Berglund on the cover.  The rest of them focused on Lemond, Hampsten, Delgado, and Roche, as well as the trials and tribulations of 7-11.  Definitely cool reading looking back on it, since we had no idea that some teen upstart was waiting in the wings to completely change the sport in the ensuing decade.

That strenuous trip into the attic was about all I could take after 3+ weeks of training.  A day off to start the rest week and maybe I can even muster up the strength to dig through the other footlocker...

Home alone

One thing about being home alone is the incredible opportunity to to absolutely nothing.  The other extreme is to try to do everything.  I have chosen a degree closer to the former.

The rest of the fam is out of town celebrating my mo in law's birthday, and I had alot of work to do so I decided to play catch up.  On my bike, that is.  Great ride today with Scott in the park, nice tempo pace, it was cold.  We saw what we think was the Artemis team ride climbing the hill toward the Nature Center as we were descending, and they were looking pretty unified.  Given that tomorrow's high will be 25, I figured a longer ride and a relaxing afternoon works best and I can go into the office tomorrow morning since only the truly demented will venture out early.

Maybe if I get everything done (work, errands, etc) I'll ride tomorrow, but we'll see how the weather holds and of course the indoor option will present itself at the end of the day.  With that I will have ridden 25 days with only one day off the bike, something I don't think I've done since I was racing in the late '80's.  Not that every day has been a gut buster, but with plenty of easy/recovery days mixed in to the past 3+ weeks, I've been turning the pedals pretty regularly, and the consistency has been quite beneficial, and not just on the bike.  If I can only transmit this consistency to the blog thing...

Life's good these days, and after tomorrow a scheduled rest week will be most welcome.

Bye bye 'Boys

In the last 6 appearances in the playoffs, the team I detest the most has failed to win any of those matches.  Even the heretofore woeful Redskins have a better playoff record than that.  It was with great pleasure that I watched the Cowboys self destruct against the rival Giants.  Now the road to the SuperBowl goes through Green Bay and New England, the probable participants in the Big Game.

Prior to the football fest, the shop ride was a solid 50 miler with good intensity throughout.  Once again the people on that ride make it the most enjoyable (and largest) group ride in the area.  We were rolling pretty well all morning.  I'm feeling it now, and will sleep well tonight.

Ballin'

Instead of the standard Saturday routine, which is the N2 ride at 7:30 AM with a dozen or more (sometimes 2 dozen) fine folks who like to ride their bikes fast for 40 or 60 miles and get back in time to have a Saturday, I ventured to Leesburg with 4 other dads and our sons for 5 hours of paintball action.  The ten of us had a splatteringly good time.

I knew I was out of my element when, as I pulled into the venue in the suburban mobile known as the minivan, I had to park amongst the 4x4's and Tundras and Explorers and Scions and all other vehicles that are not emblematic of my style of driving.  While the people were decidedly different, the atmosphere was remarkably similar to that of a road, crit, or 'cross race, in which we all pull into some remote parking lot, register for an event, pay a fee which we justify as the cost of engaging in recreation, prep for the event by brandishing specialized equipment for the specific tasks at hand, eye each other warily, preen about in our "costumes", regard the officials with suspicion, make cutting and joking comments with our competitors, and then throw ourselves pell-mell into a physical activity in which we engage many muscles (some seldom utilized) into an admixture of anaerobic glucose metabolism that does not subside for hours afterward, experience euphoria of small victories and disappointment of small setbacks, and talk about it afterwards, embellishing each telling with the hyperbole that makes the stories memorable.

We played eight games with a break for lunch.  We wore red armbands to differentiate ourselves from the white team.  There were about 60 people on a side, so we had 50 teammates we did not know, but got acquainted with as the day wore on.  Innocuous stuff like:

"Thanks for laying down the cover when I needed to get to the spool from that rock knob"

"Was that you who got nailed in the face ten seconds in?"

"Nice move on the bunker--there were 6 guys trying to nail ya"

"Paint check!"  "You're good, dude"

"Stay on your back, it's easier to see and you don't expose your ass"

My most memorable moment was trying to stave off a nest of 6 marauders while they advanced on our flag.  I was isolated but I picked one off before they finally sent one guy up to nail me at 5 feet.  The barrage of shots on my location was intense, and I came out looking like a Jackson Pollock painting.

When I got home I felt like I had been on a 4 hour ride.  That's some good cross-training.  I think I'll be doing it again soon...

Sidewalk details

WARNING:  Long and boring, unless you are interested in sidewalks.

Sidewalks are no place to ride bikes.  It's actually against the law (I think) to do so.

Speaking of which, next time you're walking downtown in front of a large-ish building built since the '70's or thereabouts, imagine the following: in the months prior to the beginning of construction, one of the many meetings in the city between the design team and the bureaucrats focused on the sidewalk in front of the building.  Such a mundane strip of concrete, nary a thought as one traverses it.

Eighteen of us convened today in a 2 hour meeting to discuss the interface between building (private) and street (public), a meeting which crystallized in my head the rampant territorialism between agencies and within agencies, and the inherent conflicts between owners and their design consultants as we muddled through a "Preliminary Design Review Meeting" of the streetscape in front of a 130 unit mixed use commercial/residential project on the upper portion of Georgia Avenue in D.C.  The details are dry and boring to all except the 18 of us who staked our claims in various ways.

The more interesting aspects of such boring get togethers are the moments of visceral tension that occur when people act human and drop their business masks.  We got off to a smashing start when the coordinator of the meeting frostily stated that he couldn't hear a question "because of the cellphone" that someone was using AT THE CONFERENCE TABLE, only to be followed by a statement that this was going to be a complete waste of time because the preparatory materials were not adequate, but, since we're all together now let's just have this meeting.  Great start.

Two hours later, despite our consultants' "lack of materials", we came away from this with a load of new design problems to resolve and the prospect of a looming battle between the Department of Transportation and the mother of all monopolies, PEPCO.  DOT:  "Where did PEPCO want to put the electrical vault?  In the roadway?  Hello, it's OUR roadway."  Direct quote from the meeting coordinator dude, who couldn't be snarkier if he tried.  Despite the attitude, I've gotta recognize that he did a good job re-directing the meeting and handling the dozen or so agencies that had to dip into this mess, like street trees, lighting, parking meters, curb material, sidewalk paving patterns, etc.  Things we see everyday but don't even think about.

Since this meeting was unplanned (last minute request that I be there, and am I glad I was there), it blew my afternoon apart.  Upon arriving home I changed out the kitchen light fixture and sat on the bike for about an hour, satisfied that I could finish SOMETHING and spin the tension away...

No N2 for me tomorrow, maybe a late ride.  I'm shootin' paint balls at my son, his friends, and a bunch of other dads.  YEEHAW!!