Soak Up The Sun

It was a burnt-sienna sun simmering across a cornflower sky today. I know those colors because Steve Bingle sat next to me in the fourth grade and had the 64-color box of Crayola crayons with the built-in sharpener. That's too many choices for a ten-year-old.

I was on the dusty and gray crushed stone surface of the wooded Lehigh Valley Trail heading west towards Mendon on my cyclocross bike when I saw them. From a quarter of a mile out it looked like a bike accident. Two bikes were off the side of the trail. One person lay on their back on a bench, surely with at least one broken femur, another was pacing across the trail no doubt suffering from a massive concussion. After a few seconds the situation was downgraded; it looked like maybe someone had a flat, they fought over the best way to fix it and were now in a cooling off phase.

As I neared I could see her long silver hair dangling over the edge of the wooden bench. A zephyr was teasing it. She was on her back with her knees raised bringing her ankles close to her back side. Her hands were clasped on her stomach. As I slowed I saw a relaxed smile and closed eyes on her 60 year old lined face. A straw hat sat on her chest.

I passed the two cruiser bikes with wide tires as they leaned on their kickstands. Not a piece of carbon on them. I'm guessing they were circa 1965. They had shiny metal fenders, chain guards, hers had a wicker basket and his had a metal thumb-operated bell. Both were, in a tribute to Steve Bingle's crayon largesse: a sun-bleached and age-faded periwinkle.

A small stream of spring runoff from the adjacent hill was bubbling across the path. The old man stopped his pacing momentarily and folded his hands across the small of his back and was studying something intently (as opposed to studying something without intent). Apropos of the former railroad line we were sharing he was donning a blue and white-striped railroad cap.

Not wanting to splash him or ruin his chances of spying on the Lock Ness Monster or some newly discovered species of slug I slowed more.

"On your right sir," I said hoping not to startle him.

He slowly looked up, smiling and had the same wrinkles his riding companion had. They had the scope and scale of having been earned together over the years.

"Oh, thank you," he said.

"I didn't want to splash you sir."

"Go slow or you'll get a rooster tail," he warned with an easy chuckle as I rode off.

It wasn't the first stream crossing of the day and I had plenty of mud on me and I was sporting a magnificent rooster.

Next time I see them I'm going to stop and visit a spell.

Ode to the Air King

In a glitch my latest entry went to Kitima's sight. Check it out here: http://www.kitboochronicles.blogspot.com/

Existential Crisis

The Swat of Death enveloped me at work. I wasn't in any danger (that I knew of) driving down Monroe Av. near Meigs St. The Rentway store seemed as benevolent as ever with its array of big screen TVs in the window and the 7-11 was downright inviting; beckoning me to enter, buy a lottery ticket and enjoy a diet Dew while perusing the latest issue of Monster Trucks Monthly. It was just a flash of mortality. A nanosecond of "oh shit, here he comes." They aren't frequent but several times a year I feel it. I never had these flashes at 17. If these flashes can be interpreted I will be felled by some head trauma from behind. In any event, Death seems to me to possess a tremendously large hand ala the "We're No. 1" foam hands. Death's is not made of foam though. His is iron.

Dreamland has me meeting my maker on a mountain bike. This would be an excellent way to go. I'm to plunge off a trail, out of control and rolling backwards, into a powerful, green-tinged river and will not surface, remaining clipped in until I'm swept over a massive waterfall. I'm not sure if a hardtail of dual suspension would be better for this. Tubeless would help avoid the dreaded pinch flats associated with landing at the bottom of rivers.

These visions are luckily rare. They dart across my psyche hither and yon, to and fro and remind me of trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to dial into the Dr. Demento Show or the King Biscuit Flour Hour on my red and silver transistor radio (it had a button for Tone...both high and low) when I was knee-high to a grasshopper.

Now this is America and I'm obviously supposed to take up with some young woman on the side or purchase the car to end all mid-life crises, the Chevrolet Corvette but I love my Kitima and Subaru models just fine thank you.

What is a 41-year-old to do? Buy another bike of course. I'm not one to huck myself off any ledges greater than three feet so a nice XC should do. Something to race and train for Xterra's with would be its main chore. I went to Geneva Bike Shop to talk about the dual suspension beauty you see below made by Gary Fisher. Mark Hartman is one of the gurus at the shop and it was obvious after, oh, 13.7 seconds, that he's forgotten more about mountain bikes, racing and riding than I'll ever know. He graciously explained things to Kitima and I. She also knows a thing or two dozen more about MTBing than I and before you knew it they were off and running talking about roll-off hubs and fork-this and crank-that. Hopefully my eyes didn't appear too glassed-over. All I could add to their conversation was, "I love bikes! They have two wheels!" Kitima patted me on the head. She's very proud of the progress I've made. "Yes, yes they do Kevin," she said in a tone that was at once impressed and on the other hand indicated I should be quiet and let the adults speak uninterrupted.

Sooooooooo, it looks like I'll be pulling the trigger on my 'Vette soon (Kitima too!)...'Vette might have to be the bike's name..."Death Bike" as a moniker doesn't exactly make me want to ride it.

Scooby's Trail Adventure

This is Scooby our nine year old yellow lab. I've had him since he was the size of a toaster. He is a phenomenal trail dog. When he was a bit younger he could keep up with me for two to three hours while I was on a mountain bike. Other than getting sprayed by a skunk on Stid Hill several years ago our outings have been uneventful...well, there was that one time when he came charging out of some bushes in Tryon Park, slammed into my front wheel on my mountain bike and sent us flying. He made the wheel look like a taco and we walked on out.

A couple of days ago I took the ol' flea bag out for a trail run in Victor. Ten minutes in I hear a yelp behind me but didn't pay it any mind until I stopped for a break au naturale. It looked like a thorn tore the end of his ear wide open. He was bleeding like a stuck pig and as his ear flopped from his neck to his head he sprayed blood everywhere. He looked like a yellow lab with a cardinal's head.

I took him home and luckily Kitima had just returned from work. After trying to stanch the blood flow with pressure, unsuccessfully, she busted out her bag of tricks. I held him down as she quickly put in three stitches. I'm still impressed at how fast and confident she did this. Scooby didn't even flinch.

Below are a couple of pictures of the stitches...didn't think to snap a photo of when he was Scooby the dog of Horror.

In no time at all he was up and running and raring to go.

Below the good doctor takes the stitches out.

"When are we going for a trail run? Huh? Can we go? Now? How about now? I don't have the copay. Woof!"

Kitima and I dragged our buts out the door today in the 16 degree cold and Scooby was in his element. Below he is chasing tossed snowballs atop a snowbank. They must taste amazing.

Scooby and I below.

Doctor and patient all happy again!

The Problem With Pittsford

Recently a woman was shot in Pittsford. Yes, that Pittsford. I can't recall a shooting there since that homicide some years ago when that elderly woman was gunned down during a robbery. Those are the only ones I remember since moving here in 1989.

I should've seen it coming though. The strange omens have been there. Like the premise of a bad Sci-Fi Channel movie or the plot of a mediocre Steven King novel, Pittsford must be built upon an Indian burial ground.

The first sign was when I got done swimming at the Nazareth Pool and walked into the men's locker room and was approached by a man as I was removing my jammers.

"Hey, do you want to see something strange?"

"Umm, you've got to realize that an ass-whoopin' often follows that line in a locker room."

He laughed, "No, not like that, look here."

He held up a pair of circa 1970 threadbare swim trunks torn completely from stem to stern. The only thing that would retain any of the wearer's dignity was a thin and see-through mesh.

"I caught it on the lane line and it ripped it wide open. Damn thing attacked me. Had to get up and leave before they called security on me."

Stage one complete: Inanimate objects attack. Break to commercial for Sham-Wow.

Later that week I was driving home through Pittsford when I saw a mailman running down a driveway looking over his shoulder. I was waiting for a ferocious, drooling Pit Bull traveling at Mach I speed but what appeared flapping and running down the driveway in black-feathered barbarism was two enormous turkeys. Yeah, that's right, turkeys. And not like the jive-turkeys of the 70's...honest to goodness Meleagris Gallopavo; Wild Turkey...not the drinking variety either. I had a moment of wondering if I was seeing this or if I should check myself into the psychiatric center when I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw a woman laughing so hard as to compromise her continence. The Tom caught the mailman and began nipping at his elbow. The mailman put on a burst of speed and opened up a slight gap. He was half-concerned and half-amused. The light turned green and I was denied seeing the outcome.

Break to commercial for Cash For Gold

I combed the newspaper headlines for days waiting for: Turkey Massacre or Postman Makes Tetrazzini of Attackers.

They might have to add to the postal service oath: Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor dark of night nor Wild Freakin' Maniacal Turkeys shall stay these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

So you see the signs were there all the time if you know what to look for. I'm going swimming in Webster for a few days until the craziness in Pittsford settles down.

Canary in a Coal Mine

The trail was muffled from the night's snow-globesque snow. The trees were coated with a thin layer of what looked like icing...it reminded me of those Iced Animal Crackers or cookies. I'm never sure which is which. An involved, scientific and hilarious analysis can be found here: http://www.fhsu.edu/biology/Eberle/AnimalCookies.html





I took the trail out past Victor Hills Golf Club. There was about two inches of fluff but the crust underneath made steering interesting. You didn't so much steer as lean your body the way you wanted to go.





A red fox stopped several hundred yards in front of me. He was in profile but turned his head at my approach. He allowed me until 50 yards until he trotted off down an embankment scarred by the tracks of four-wheelers. "When I was your age kid, they only had three wheels and didn't have this fancy electric start. You actually had to pull a cord. Threw my back out during the big frost of '85. Damned thing froze up! You kids got it easy I tells ya!"





In the area of Rte. 444 and Dryer Rd. I saw an old caboose. I don't suppose they are making any new cabooses and this wood-sheathed car probably hasn't caboosed in some time. It was red and suffered some graffiti but it looked friendly and even though a sign cautioned about not trespassing and even cited the proper New York State Penal Law code (140.05) it is only a violation (less than a misdemeanor) and the next time I'm near there I'm going to take a picture and maybe get closer than I should. I suppose that citing the proper law code will keep people away.





"Hey Gladys look at that wonderful caboose!"

"Well, thanks, I have been working out--"


"NO! Up there on the tracks! Let's go!"


"Oh dear, we shouldn't, look at that sign. They cited the proper law code."


"You are right. They mean business, huh? Oh well, hey look a round leaf."





My back is my over-training canary in a coal mine and today I woke up and good ol' tweety, well, let's just hope he rests in peace. I was hoping the ride would loosen up the tightness in my lower back and alleviate some of the pain but afterwards I was walking around like Fred Sanford, pictured below:

I had, after consulting various online, offline and inline self-proclaimed experts, determined that I should have a recovery week that was precisely 2/3 of my last training week in hours. This was arbitrary and I'm reminded of the quote in Candide (sorry for another quote from that piece...I'm moving on to a Hemingway and am continuing with a Stephen King so hopefully this will be the last one), "I had no need of a guide to learn ignorance."

In the future I'll just go by feel or listen to Kitima who said, "That seems like a lot for a recovery week." She was right and my lower back confirmed it...I stumble off to the shower and bid you all adieu for a bit.

Voltaire on Iron-douches and mega-training weeks

So I'm reading Voltaire's Candide. It sounds heavier than it is. If you have an afternoon and are feeling philosophical with a tinge of cynicism I say have at it.

One line struck me as being descriptive of certain Iron-distance competitors and their spectators: "Have they always been liars, cheats, traitors, brigands, weak, flighty, cowardly, envious, gluttonous, drunken, grasping, and vicious, bloody, backbiting, debauched, fanatical, hypocritical, and silly?"

Perhaps I'm still stinging from the umbrella jabs in the eyes at Ironman Lake Placid with nary an "excuse me".

The main thrust of Candide, revealed at the end, and please excuse this spoiler if you were just about to pick up your copy that the college bookstore wouldn't take back because of the excessive yellow highlighting, is that we need something to keep ourselves occupied physically in order to keep our minds off of the miserable human condition. We need to tend our gardens, so to speak, in Voltairease, so our brains don't wander and lock onto difficult and heavy philosophizing, causing cerebral implosion. Have you ever seen a bimbo or himbo watch Jeopardy?

Now I'm not quite as acerbic as Voltaire (I'm only 41 so give me some more life to live) to give an either "distracting inquietude" or a "lethargic disgust" choice on life but I do tend to my garden to lighten the load on the ol' thinkin' cap. My garden happens to be triathlon.

I find that a 20-hour training week does wonders for forgetting about mortality and possible after-lives. Will I come back in the next life as a dung beetle? During halves and full iron-distance races I'm reduced to just worrying about ingesting food and going as fast as I can to reach some sort of shelter. Sounds like Voltaire was on to something. I'm having an existential crisis right now so I'm going to jump on the trainer and do some intervals at FTP--that oughta cure me.