misc

Not too much to report on from the Valley of the Sun. The temperature has gradually risen since my arrival, though unfortunately the wind has as well. I have yet to figure out the wind in this place, as it seems to blow from a different direction every day... every hour. I'll take 80 degrees and windy any day. Not too hard to tolerate.

Said and done, I have another five or six days of riding before returning home to Boise. The duration seems perfect; if I were staying longer I wonder if my focus would be the same. So far I've been very committed and diligent with riding and resting, and have yet to feel like I'm biting off more than I should in terms of mileage. The most epic ride to date was the Kitt Peak loop on Wednesday.

Kitt Peak lies 42 miles to the West, along Ajo road (AKA Highway 86, I believe). After a gradual decent out of Tucson, then a gradual ascent to the foot of the mountain range, you're at the base of the 12 mile and 3100 foot climb to Kitt Peak. There is a national observatory atop the peak, complete with five or six gigantic telescopes. The ride up the mountain was manageable, averaging about 8%, but nevertheless it was half way through a 108-mile ride. It was the most awesome out-and-back ride I've done in years. How often is the turnaround point in the shadows of massive telescopes? I got back to the house tired, but not wiped, and actually slept well that night.

That was the most epic, but every ride leaves me smiling. I'm so excited about the upcoming season, almost too excited. I'm really struggling internally with just how much to invest, emotionally, in the 2006 race season. Damn I'd like to do well, no getting around that. The pieces are in place, as in previous years, I just have to keep perspective. Easy enough, right?

In other news, I seriously miss Lauren. No getting around that, either. Funny how men and women differ in communicating feelings. I seem to interpret number of calls per day as love, she seems to interpret mushy soft-voice dialogue as love. Either way this trip has been challenging for both of us. When I return, we have three days to visit before she flies off for a work conference in Chicago. Between our lean time together and the start of the new semester, it will be a challenging month. That is all.

Why, what did you do for New Years?

The day started pretty well, though I wasn’t as spunky on my ride as I had hoped. I left the house around 7:30 and swung by Starbucks for a pre-ride decaf (sounds weird, but the act of drinking a hot beverage still offers a stimulant placebo). I headed south along Mission Boulevard, a low-traffic road with decent pavement that winds its way along the western side of Tucson, through the San Xavier Indian Reservation.

Saw some crazy things alongside the road. Aside from the lovely variety of cacti and desert plants, the random debris littering the shoulders blew me away. There wasn’t much trash, but the eclectic items I spotted included a crispy sun-starched sombrero (no kidding), a partially devoured wheel of cheese, and the charred remnants of an antique baby stroller. Only the decorative wheels remained of the stroller, bordered with gummy hoops of melted rubber. All the items were equally disturbing.

I’ve only done Mission Blvd. once, and it was two years ago with a group of 80 riders. Today was much slower, making me feel fatigued and question if I should be out there at all. After 30 miles of a 14 mph pace I flipped around… turns out I was climbing uphill into a headwind, and to my reassurance I averaged 28 miles per hour all the way back to town! During this time of year my body shifts to full-on endurance mode, which means I can ride forever but it takes a LONG time to get warmed up. I called it a day, went home, ate a pot of cheesy couscous and watched Caddy Shack for the second time this trip. I’m trying to hone my Bill Murray impersonation. Chicks dig it, so you know I got that goin’ for me.

So later I’m driving along, venturing northward in the Volvo en route to a Wild Oats Market on ritzy Oracle Avenue, and I hear this loud, LOUD, pop. Almost sounded like a backfire, or a small child wedged beneath the front grill (just kidding, that would be muffled and much more prolonged). I glance backward in the mirror; nothing suspicious. I turn down the radio and listen to the engine; nothing suspicious. I glance at the instrument panel and see a Swedish Christmas tree of colors: every light blazing in cautionary glory. Oil light, wiper fluid light, and even that crazy lambda “son” light I’ve yet to figure out.

I made it back to Erik’s and shut it off, popped the hood and didn’t see anything wrong. All the fluid levels were fine and the car started back up with no worries. Later this evening I was cruising around snapping some pictures of the setting Tucson sun. I pulled into a Chevron to refuel. The car never started again. I pushed it out of the way and discovered a fan belt ripped in two and wedged in the fan blades. Sweet. So now I am a forty-minute walk from home, on the WRONG side of the tracks (literally) with a broken-down car on New Year’s Eve.

Me: Hey, will it be a problem if I leave my car here until I can get it towed? Should be tonight, perhaps tomorrow.

Mr Gas Station Derelict: Um, ya got anything valuable in there?

Me: Nope, I’m taking it with me and there’s no stereo or anything.

MGSD: Don’t matter, this is a reeel bad parta town. They’ll break in anyway.

Me: Awesome, I’ll be back.

Walked back to Erik’s and managed to find a tow truck company running on New Year’s Eve. Pedaled my bike back down there, watched them load the car up, and got directions to the auto shop where it will be stored until January 2^nd. OK. Happy New Years. Pedaled my bike home and watched Top Gun (Val Kilmer is such a dork). Went to bed at 11:12pm. Weird dreams. Hooray for old cars.

This just in.

Managed to squeeze out a 4.0 this past semester. Had to brag, since I was seriously skeptical of the MBA class. Dig it.

Tux, 3 and (not) counting

hello hello. Everything worked out wonderfully. I managed to track down D. Robinson on Wednesday afternoon, and he gave me close-enough directions to Erik's house. Turns out that Erik lives right by the university... ironically I was three blocks from his house whilst typing my last entry! Big D is residing there for a few days until some friends return from Christmas vacation, but honestly there seems to be enough space for all of us. Erik started a new relationship three weeks ago, so right now he's in that "hey why sleep at home when I can spend every hour of every day with my new girl?" mode.

We all started out for a ride yesterday morning; Erik, David, two of Erik's teammies and yours truly. I had different plans, however, and opted to stay in the valley instead of climbing Mt. Lemmon with the group. Mt. Lemmon sits just northeast of Tucson, and the newly-paved road climbs 24 miles before topping out around 8500 feet! I dig the climb, but wanted to give my legs another few days of flat riding before straining fibers and tendons in an uphill slug. My day turned out epic enough anyway, since I ended up being 'pimped' by the wind for five hours. I sometimes like to convince myself that God is trying to make me stronger by turning the wind against me... it takes just as much faith as believing the devil is trying to kill me, but is much less pessimistic. The official ride time was 4 hours 58 minutes; a bit longer than I wanted to be out, but my body handled it OK.

More than OK, my body wanted more. I got up at 6:00 this morning (waking pulse 40 bpm) and was pedaling by seven. I cut it 'short' at three hours ride time. If I get a good nap in I might head back out this afternoon, but if the nap isn't superb I'll take it as a sign to rest more. Two years ago, the last time I was here, I remember writing about the crazy Tucson-Time-Dilation. If you don't ride at least four hours, you feel like a sissy. 75-degree weather, a handful of new routes, and a day completely centered around riding.... what excuse is there to ride less than 240 minutes? It's hard to keep the training load in perspective.

Lack of wi-fi at the house gives me an excuse to hit the Fourth Avenue hippie district, again within walking distance of Erik's pad. I'm sitting on a rickety bar stool de'coupaged with Marvel comics, staring out a huge window at the passer-bys in the winter sunshine. I swear Bob Marley just walked by, followed by Anthony Kedis of the Red-Hot-Chili-Peppers and... Dennis Hopper. It's a fun area with about five coffee shops and a Co-Op natural grocer. I'll probably be back down here tomorrow night, too, since PLUSH is hosting some sweet bands in celebration of New Year's Eve. He doesn't think I know, but David's birthday is tomorrow, and Erik and I are scheming something crazy in celebration.

Battery's beeping, good time to cut it off. More to come.

Tux Day One

Blasted in last night, ended up crashing in a hotel just three miles west of Tucson. So much for splitting it up. I always get that way during long drives: sure, sitting in a car for 13 hours sucks, but the idea of stopping at hour eight and having to resume the torture in the morning is, well, torture.

What a mind blower so far. Tucson is the same as it was two years ago, of course, but I am in a completely different place personally. I am sitting at an outdoor table on University Drive, about two blocks from the U of A convention center. I came here first to snag some coffee from a hip little shop I visited before, but to my surprise it’s been torn down with a Starbuck’s erected in its place. Works out for me, viva la corporation, but it’s sad to see the little guys go under.

Thus, I will kill some time until it, ahem, “warms up” and I can head out for my first ride. It’s 7:45am and 53 degrees right now, not too shabby. Elko was glacial yesterday morning when I waved goodbye, but thankfully the conditions cleared about thirty miles into my journey and I had smooth sailing. My Tucson host was not expecting me until today, so I’ll just poke around town until the afternoon when we can rendezvous. During my vagabond months in the VW bus, I learned that time-killing should be finessed and not depended on… I do fine playing tourist for a day, but car-living makes me feel degenerate.

If you have never experienced Tucson, I suggest you escape for a winter weekend one year. Good culture, good weather, and beautiful views. I won’t endorse the summer season, but around New Year’s I prefer no other place in the U.S.

Lots to come. The next 16 days should allow me to ramble on and on and on about all of my activities. Lucky you, I also got a digi-cam (finally) and will figure out how to post pics on PROLIX. First pointless blogs, now pointless pictures too? Have mercy.

Bring It

Bring it on, that is. I'?m up ridiculously early, prepping for the approaching vacation time. Yessir, prepping and trying to wrap up work projects, bills, house duties, and everything else that could potentially unravel in my three-week absence.

It'?s been a great month. First off, let'?s talk about hockey. Kevin'?s birthday was last Friday, and he just happens to have a friend who dates a girl who works for Albertson'?s Corp who... Well, we ended up scoring some hockey tickets and celebrating from suite 307: a swanky mid-rink patio overlooking the Idaho Steelheads arena. Talk about a cool evening. Kevin, his fiance Sarah, Lauren and I swooped into Opa for a pre-game Hot Choco beverage then shuffled over to the arena; soon to be escorted to the suite by aforementioned Trevor.

Lauren had never been to a hockey game before. Heck, listen to me, I'?ve only been to one; though I'?ve watched a few games on TV. During the first brawl I watched her reactions more than I watched the fisticuffs: "?What the hell!? They just let them fight!? Why doesn'?t someone break it up!? What kind of a sport is this!?"? In addition to the big-boy ballet on ice, we also enjoyed listening to Trevor'?s endless supply of personal near-death experiences. At age 23 he'?s been stabbed twice (once by a brother), severed three fingers in a table saw (had all three re-attached but now lacks all feeling... which spawned another story of blistering his fingers on a hot burner completely unawares while his girlfriend screamed in horror), and a day spent snowboarding with a shattered shoulder and ribs (all trying to maintain a cool-guy I'?m-not-hurt attitude for his snowboarding date). Wow. Add to that the inter-familial brawl in the suite next to us and you'?ve got an exciting night on the town.

We all went down to Estrella last night; a new tapas bar downtown created by the owners of the Milky Way. Not too shabby, but not geared toward the penny-pinching grad student. Plus, I had high expectations for authentic Spanish tapas, which were of course unfulfilled. I had a phenomenal martini mixed with Apricot Liquor, Cava, and fresh-squeezed OJ, but for $8.00 a pop I was limited to one. Ouch, an $8 drink in Boise? I could see that in Seattle, Chicago, etc., but Boise?

The plan: Lauren and I head out in two hours for the cabin. We went to the Co-op (chicken coop, that place was beyond busy yesterday) and plumped a good chunk of cash for some fancy cheese. Get this: we'?ve decided to eat cheap and easy meals, but to wine and dine with aperitifs and beverages in-between. Time to crack open that Spanish Champagne we got from Dykstra for our two-year anniversary, thinly slice the stinky cheese, and pretend we do it all the time. The weather'?s been dumping moisture (the frozen dandruff kind) into the mountains so we'?ll log some epic hikes and refuel on cheese alone. I'?ll let you know how my body holds up after such a diet.

OK, back to it. This is an exciting time for sure; cabin, Christmas, Arizona warmth, then the final chapter of grad school. OK.

viva

The academic world is grossly out-of-step with the Christian calendar. Don't they know, the professors that is, that we're required to prepare well in advance of December 25th for the Christmas holiday? I just finished my finals today, which means I started frantically scribbling Christmas cards this evening.

Life is rolling along like a wet sponge; I'm getting too wound up about future employment. Too often I lie awake at night, waiting for sleep to descend; chasing thoughts about resumes, cover letters, interviews, networking, locations... Come on, I'm still six months from graduating, and probably nine months from relocation. The underlying anxiety permeates everything I touch, including my relationship with Lauren, and I am way too cranky way too often. Too, too, how many times is TOO many to use TOO?

Lauren and I head to the cabin next week for a three-day pre-Christmas vacation, a welcome respite before I journey to Elko and then south to Tucson for a couple weeks. The three days in the mountains will be the only full-on rest during this break, and I'm looking forward to sleeping late, eating well, and logging some epic snow-laden hikes. The last trip Lauren and I followed some elk tracks a few miles up a trail. In my non-Sacagawean knowledge I assumed we were a mere five minutes behind them, though the tracks were likely laid hours before our arrival. This time the snowscape should offer new opportunities to fake mountainman insight... are there bears in Idaho?

I am excited about Tucson, and the couch is reserved awaiting my arrival. A friend of mine calls the sport of cycling "a tall man in a midget circus", meaning it is the most outlying of sports in the public eye. The benefit to such a niche sport is that friendship ties run deep and thick; how else would I have a couch to occupy seven hundred miles away? During my training time I'll also be shooting cover letters to potential employers. Between pedaling my bike and peddling myself I will stay occupied. I'm also planning a day-trip into Mexico, which will be my first trip since I was in diapers (three years ago... just kidding, it's been a couple decades). My dad once bragged to me that he drug me across the border with him just to distract the border police; I like to embellish the story by imagining the dope actually hidden in my Huggies. Huggies? Smugglies?

The only things I'm bringing back are some fake Oakley sunglasses and a few gallons of local-brewed Tequila (which I've heard makes exceptional engine degreaser). I'm not pretty enough to warrant abduction, but I'll be certain to alert my caretakers before I cross the border so don't worry. I am planning to stick to English as much as possible, mostly to conduct my own experiment into how many people try to rip-off the dumb American tourist who can't speak Spanish. Should be fun.

And yes, I am really eager to spend Christmas with my family in Elko. My mom knows the correct colors, smells, and music to spiral my thoughts back 20-years to the fondest childhood memories I possess. Gifts mean nothing. The intangible family vibe hits you like an anvil in the chest the first time the Christmas tree lights flicker.

Hooray for the unexpected!

Hewwo weaders.

Still battling the cold, still waking up each morning to find that the little viruses have up and relocated to another region of my body.

It's Thursday, the week is almost over again. I was scheduled to head to Mountain Home today with my work compatriots, but opted to sit at home (yet again) and eat soup and cry into my keyboard. Oh, awesome news here: I took my car down to an auto shop to get the brakes checked (as prompted by the high-viz BRAKE light on my dash)... turns out that the brake master cylinder is destroyed and I'll have to buy a new one. Retail: $320. Labor: $75. Good thing I'm loaded with cash or this would be a tough one to remedy... oh, wait.

Little tight on cash flow, and here I am skipping work due to illness. Ya hoo! All my standard cold remedies continue to fail, but I'll keep at it today. Garlic soup, garlic tea, garlic and ginger puree, one of them is bound to work (by the way, Lauren LOVES being around me when I'm sick). Maybe today I can figure out a way to work from home, or to job hunt, or something; I just have a hard time being absolutely lethargic and falling victim to bad day-time TV programming. Gravity's Rainbow, the book I'm involved in right now, only offers 30-minute windows of entertainment because it's so freaking hard to keep up with. Special thanks to Tom Crawford for introducing me to Thomas Pynchon's works of literature.... his books are a mental workout, and in my sickness they offer no solace.

Goodbye. My garlic is calling.

Le Bois? Nope

So let me put this in perspective: Boise has a squirrel infestation problem. In my backyard alone, there are six squirrels vying for residence in three trees. Instead of watching the morning news, Lauren and I have taken interest in observing Gladiator-like competitions, in which the squirrels hurl each other from atop full-grown oak and fir trees. Nothing complements good coffee like squirrel wrestling.

But I digress, the point is that these little buggers have no natural predator in Boise (aside from the aqua-tred-clad rims of Toyota 4-Runners). I'm not against the procreation of squirrels, mind you... but seeing three rodents simultaneously inverted in a single tree... dangling by their rear feet on the ends of the thinnest branches (like upside-down fur-clad Christmas ornaments)... one begins to wonder when the population flux will decrease. Boise is called the City of Trees, but if there are two squirrels per tree in Boise, perhaps it should be called the City of Squirrels. I don't know the French name for that... something like Le Squirre'?

Other news: the weather is terrible. I got all duded-up yesterday and went for a 2-hour bike ride in the rain. Yay! As I've stated before, however, the line between Tough-Guy and Sick-Guy is ever-so-thin, and unfortunately I crossed it yesterday. I had a great ride, but was soaked for too long and awoke with a sore throat this a.m. Paired with the time change, the weather at this time of the year in Boise (sorry, in Squirrelville) really tests one's resilience to depression: dark, gloomy skies and limited hours of sunlight. I suppose that everyone in the U.S. experiences this, but feeling exclusive lets me justify my rants and whining.

Such is life. I'm off to Vibrations, then to my MBA class, the hopefully to a solid night's sleep back at the pad. Thank goodness for the Grocery Outlet: 48 cough drops for $1.25. I'm working through 'em.

Ping Pong

I used to wonder if I was manic-depressant, or sometimes just manic-manic... sometimes depressant-depressant. Now I have to wonder if I simply lacked a stable, constant source of the right music.

Does music dictate the mood, or does your mood decide the music? I think you can force feed your emotions. Go ahead, wake up on the wrong side of the bed, but start your morning with the right blend of goofy-ass indie rock, or poppy-random techno, and your synapses have no option but to start sparking in a lighter shade of electric blue. Try it: pre-load something into your stereo (MP3, CD, I don't care)... then break the rules by blasting yourself senseless right when you get up.

My mother is reading this right now, assuredly picturing Bob in a panic at 4:45am while she skitters about the living room, electric-sliding to Paul Oakenfold's latest electronic remix of Elvis Presley's "Rubberneckin".... OK, so maybe you have to change your plans if you live with someone else. But hey maybe you can force-feed their emotions, too (DISCLAIMER: I can not take responsibility for adverse reactions).

The point? There is none. I suppose I wanted to finally write a post that didn't scour and examine the depth of my soul. I mean, come on, if I continue the trend of my writing topics I'd have to rename my blog to something more like: Melancholy-R-Us, Fear and Loathing in Boise, A Life More Somber, or more simply... Waaaahhhh!!!

So have a good day. If you're already on the wrong path, I suggest rocking out to The Decemberists' song Sporting Life, or Swayzek's song Ping Pong. Dig it.

The Infamous Jimmy-D

Two years ago, naw, let’s start further back. 1998, June, there you go. My mother and father were finalizing a divorce. My father was already living in a fifth-wheel in the back yard and my mom was on vacation in Alaska with her parents. Papers signed, my dad slipped further off the deep end (he was already submerged). My mom, conversely, rallied herself to survive the lonely sanity-threatening single apartment she decided to call home. I was stuck in the middle, if there were such a place, and chose to live with my friend Brian on Oak Street.

I saw my dad a lot that first summer, though it was on his terms and his time frame. The visits got more sporadic, less frequent, and less valuable. Upon the completion of my first year at BSU we averaged one visit every three months, a thorn particularly painful in my maturing-man’s side. I was anxious to share new perspectives and dreams fermenting in my young-adult skull.

It used to blow me away when, after three months sans-communication with my father, he would don the attitude that no time had passed. He acted as if my life was on pause and he held the remote control, and reinforced the premise by dominating our few conversations with boasts and proclamations of wealth, women… the moons of artificial happiness on his horizon. I was in college studying engineering, living a good distance from home, racing bikes, breaking hearts and having mine broken. He never asked.

I took that personally. James was so wrapped up in his endeavors that mine meant nothing to him. Straightforward enough, right? Things cracked and I put my foot down. We went two years without seeing one another. He called me once in June of 2004 from the pay phone in Ely County Jail, to ask if I could computerize some sketches he was working on. Sure, ass. Sure.

OK, modern day. Calvin’s spent a few grand in therapy and medication to deduce his complete effect on my life. I decided it was time to see him again. I wanted to see how he would handle things after such an interval apart. In addition, he knew of my troubles with an eating disorder, and I was curious if he’d even acknowledge the subject. I won’t lie; I wanted to see his status: from 1998 to 2000 he aged 15 years (Jame’s Father Time goes by the name Mr. Methamphetamine). At that rate, he should appear 83 by now, give or take five years. If he is to die, I’d like to have some forewarning from his appearance.

I walked into La Fiesta Mexican restaurant, my sister and girlfriend in tow, and immediately spotted him at the bar with a mid-twenties girlfriend. He saw us enter, wiped a fresh sip of blended margarita from his lips, and slid off the barstool towards us. He had been drinking, but wasn’t drunk. Most notably he wasn’t tweaking (tough-guy street talk for meth abuse). Now that I think about it, can you actually get drunk after 40 years of alcoholism? Although I didn’t notice at the time, he neither embraced me nor shook my hand; instead he avoided eye contact with any of us and boasted on his “being early for once”. Nice work.

The dinner went smoothly, the dialogue skimming safely along the glassy surface of a deep, dark pool of issues. His apparent sobriety (from meth) meant there’d be less talk of the police, his bar brawls, or anyone trying to repress his self-proclaimed rock star lifestyle. Just like old times, he didn’t acknowledge missing a beat of my life; I had to forcefully interject to talk about myself, interrupting the otherwise incessant stream of boasts and declarations. Similar to visits in the past, I became quite melancholy; though this time my reasons were different.

During the two-hours of dialogue (monologue?), I felt no animosity at his egocentric disposition, I felt pity. Pity. Pitying my father is the saddest emotion I’ve ever suffered toward him. This man sitting beside me was trying in earnest to avoid reality, fearing that a lull in the conversation would allow one of us to mention a painful detail of our lives.

I realized this, and noted the incredible breadth of topics that he was avoiding. Beyond life’s troubling issues, it hurts my father to hear about our wonderful experiences, too. Heather and Lauren and I remained quiet for the majority of the dinner, much to his relief. To hear of our lives, our passions, would remind him of how much he was missing. He was scared, I could tell, and I pitied him enough to grant him serenity.

That’s amazingly sad. The night concluded on a high note when Lauren and I accompanied him back to the hotel to say goodbye. He called me over to the bed and began flipping through binders detailing numerous architectural-type drawings he’d completed during the jail time. Despite years of chemical abuse, his latent intellectual potential protruded in crisp three-dimensional lines from the sketches. He kept dominating the conversation, hugged me goodbye, and then watched briefly as Lauren and I paced down the hallway out of his sight. Pity.

Idle

Sci-fi feelings, philosophical mind-set.. I've recently spent so many hours here at work, staring at this glowing panel with its comforting digital hum, that out of habit I returned on my day off to waste time. Life is good. I managed to squeeze a nap in roughly two hours ago, and judging from my mental state I could swear I am still sleeping. In fact, maybe I am dreaming about blogging; I guess we'll see when I check it later.

Oh yes, so life is good. Busy, but good. Turns out that I'm poised to graduate next May, which is a mind-blower. Calvin Allan, M.E. Spooky. In the meantime I have to pass this grueling MBA class in which I am enrolled. I never dreamt my GPA would be shredded by a business class... of 100 total points possible in the course, I missed seven on my first paper. What are the odds of missing less than four points in the remaining six weeks of class? Odds... I'm good at statistics, but apparently lousy at business topics. No more four-point for Calvin. Oh, wait, does it matter?

Work is riveting, absolutely riveting (wicked-extreme sarcasm). Last Tuesday I spent 3.5 hours in Mountain Home learning the ins and outs of a toe truck / wrecker winch system. Why? To accurately draft a User's Manual, of course. If you have never written technical documents let me give you a synopsis: take every urge to write creatively and throw it out the window. Clear, Concise, and C... I forget the final C. Crap. You get the point. You want to use the smallest variation of nouns, verbs, adjectives, etc., to get the job done. Any superfluous language is frowned upon. Hooray!

Outside of the U and work, Lauren and I are doing awesome. We snuck down to Elko last weekend for a few days to visit my family. The g-parents were in town so I got some great time in with everyone. I have been meaning to write about my experiences, namely my dinner spent with the infamous James D. Allan, but time waits for no one and already a week has passed. Those thoughts need to be transcribed and perhaps this week will allow me some more personal time.

Lauren and I celebrated two years' dating last Monday, October 10. The time has gone so quickly, indicative of true exuberance in someone's company. We catch ourselves referring to last Fall's activities, soon correcting one another that it was two Fall's ago... the blurring of the years is an acceptable side effect of a fulfilling relationship. I dig it.

Sadness

An acquaintance and fellow racer of mine, Alan Butler, was killed in a traffic incident late last night. He widows a wife and eight-month old baby.

Such a weird, weird world. Cruel at times, to say the least. A week ago a friend, Scott White, took a header during a bike ride and nearly paralyzed himself from the neck down. He's OK, though in a halo for the next two months. The incident destroyed any notion I had of "karma", as Scott is hands-down the most genuine and generous person I know.

Now this happens, reinforcing the fallacy of karma. I spoke with Alan on Monday, here in this very hotel lounge in Las Vegas, Nevada. We were both cramming some continental breakfast before heading to the "circus". I later saw him in his new role as a sales representative for Reynolds Composites, smiling and fielding questions from the gaggles of retailers at Interbike. We chatted, I introduced him to a friend I was with, and we agreed to call one another later that day. I sent him an email that evening regarding a frame he wanted to sell me.

I did not see him this morning for breakfast, and when I passed by the Reynold's Composites booth again - no Alan. I smiled at his fellow workmates and assumed he was out to lunch. This afternoon a mutual friend told me that he was hit by a car while trying to cross The Strip. Apparently Alan and a friend were walking back to the hotel, Alan stepped off the curb to cross and his friend Mark stepped off in pursuit. Mark, however, glanced to the side in time to see a car that wasn't going to stop. Mark hopped back, tried to grab Alan's shirt, but in a surreal horror-flick moment he missed and his fingers closed around the hot desert air. Allan was swiped away and likely dead before he hit the ground.

Mark had driven down late last night to spend the evening with Alan and some others. Mark was a dear friend of Alan's, and my strongest prayers go out to he and Alan's family. I don't really understand this all, sometimes.

Vegas Paradise

Greetings from Interbike 2005, Las Vegas, Nevada. 949 exhibitors and roughly 10,000 spectators, all passionate about the cycling, health, and transportation industries.

I'm caught in a freaking nightmare. What I anticipated to be a trip to paradise turned sour on Day two... here I am on Day Four loathing my travelmate and appalled at the industry. Trade shows are nothing but a cluster of jabber-mouthed salesmen: buy this try this eat this see this ride this. My room mate is the most insolent of all, and the dynamic is worsened by our monetary bind to one another.

A month ago he mentioned Interbike, and I responded I would love to go. Hell, I'm nine credits away from my master's degree in mechanical engineering, and an international bike show is like Disneyland for an educated cycling enthusiast. I'd been helping this gent with some software tutorials, amongst other things, and he wanted to express his appreciation by bringing me along. Before I knew it he was claiming me as an employee of his, dragging my name into the muck by butchering my credentials and insulting my character.

I do not know. What I have just written, it does not and can not convey my frustration. This show is an ideal environment for me to scope possible future employers, but I'm being introduced and foreshadowed by an immature car salesman with no tact, business sense, or consideration for others. I have met a few individuals here from which employment may blossom, but overall I am wrapping up this trip negative and tired.

Wah. heck of an update, considering I have not written in so long.

Weekend Evening

It's Saturday night. Just hanging out at home, logging a bit of personal time and loving the sub-90-degree evening weather. Lauren and I returned to Boise this afternoon after a quick jaunt down to Salt Lake City to attend a wedding.

Danny Ortega and I met each other around age eight, perhaps nine, as a result of our fathers working on the same shift at a gold mine in Elko. I won't go into the history of our friendship, but somehow we have managed to let eight years slip by without visiting one another... without evening corresponding. Enough time for me to go to college, to Spain, to Elko to California to Boise to Seattle to Boise again for school. Sadly I do not know his path, aside from pursuing his dream of throwing clay and casting a golden relationship with Heidi, whom he married yesterday.

On the drive down, Lauren asked me about my relationship with Danny, which I defined as "one of those soul connections that never fades, regardless of time or miles apart". He and I formed a bond through hours of trampoline and video game time, and I felt robbed when his family returned to Salt Lake City for personal health reasons during our junior high years. That fairytale definition of the impenetrable friendship seldom exists, and as I spoke to Lauren I found myself worrying whether or not the connection did survive; what if too much time had passed and we both had changed too much?

I could not believe my apprehension as we walked down the dirt drive, toward the humble tucked-away home in Midvale, Utah. I realized I would likely see him from afar, perhaps catch his eye, but remain unrecognized through his filtered haze of wedding jitters/stress/sleep deprivation. I did not expect to see him come strolling out the front door to mingle amongst the surrounding family, smiling and habitually readjusting his glasses in the same style he always did. I wormed my way through the family, stuck out my hand and waited for his eyes to register my presence. There was no handshake; instead a mutually initiated strong embrace between two men; two men who last interacted as two boys in an entirely different phase of life.

The wedding proceeded in a surreal, magical blur. Danny and Heidi spent an entire year fashioning beautiful metal structures, string lights and lamps, amassing unique chandeliers and lights and throwing personalized bowls for the guests to take home in remembrance of the ceremony. I did manage to speak with Danny for a brief spell before we returned to the hotel, and the conversation was light and did not touch on the hollow regret of not keeping in better contact. He was so happy, so happy. I have not felt that vicarious happiness for any friend before.

Lauren and I returned at 5:00pm, having jetted home to attend sister Drew's going-away-to-college party at The Reef downtown. I opted out at the last minute, feeling a strange sense of something unresolved or neglected. I suppose this was it, the need to digest the experience and resolve a strange melancholic mood. These moments instill such perspective... you begin to wonder why you pursue certain avenues and catch a brief glimpse of the threads running through the years; threads of contentment and satisfaction and that strong, nauseatingly powerful sensation in your gut reminding you that the relationships, the love given and received is what substantiates our existence.

The sun has finally set and the summertime noises warrant investigation. I'm headed out for a walk. Thanks for listening. -Calvino

(tin)Foiled!

The quest for free wireless internet becomes more unattainable daily. Coffee shops and book stores across the nation are joining the financial revolution to charge innocent wi-fi addicts like myself to establish connections.

I’m at Barnes and Noble, having just bid adieu to Lauren and preparing to dig in to a research project I was recently assigned. I am not in summer school, but the NPD Lab that employs me put me in contact with the PEET Shoe Dryer Marketing guru; seems he wants some credible research done to better push their product at the masses. The situation is as follows:

1) Humans have feet, feet get hot, heat promotes sweating and moisture production.

2) Fungus created this planet (according to Darwin), fungi prefer to procreate in warm and moist environments, fungi also prefer the dark.

3) We all wear shoes, shoes get sweaty and moist, we become ONE with bacteria and fungi.

4) Peet’s Shoe Dryers prevent fungus/bacteria/mold growth in today’s modern tennis shoes by rendering the living conditions intolerable for such organisms, by forcing hot, dry air through the shoes’ interior and thereby making the world a better place (Sha la la la).

Common sense, but Mr. Marketeer at Peet’s wants a University to publish a paper saying that all humans need dry shoes. Suddenly Calvin gets no more engineering projects and gets to play scribe for three months (three*3*three). Now, if you’ll permit an interjection of personal opinion, such research belongs in the hands of another department. How about the Biology department? The Chemistry department, or the Kinesiology department? Hell, I think an art major is more qualified than a mechanical engineer.

But, such is life and I should revel in the opportunity to broaden my base of knowledge and earn some cash in the process. Perhaps I will make it on Jeopardy someday and kick ass. “Yes Alex Jr. (Alex will be long gone), I’ll take Tinea Pedis of the Dermatophytoses Class for 2,000.” Yes, fortune and fame.

What else is going on? Calvin must be happy and content if such satire so readily spews from his fingers, yes? Well, mostly yes. A lot has come to pass since my last string of blogs some months ago; and although I will look back and appreciate the situation, I am experiencing a substantial let-down in the cycling-side of my endeavors. The season is a bust, officially “one for the training journal” and not much else. I’ll be filling you in on how that came about, and its implications in my life, in the following blogs. I need to write about to decipher and deal with my feelings, and I might as well keep you informed along the way.

OK, off to study some fungus. Email me if you’d like a final copy of my paper once I complete it… Jokes.

Mine

Lying in bed last night, atop a queen mattress in actuality but a single mattress in my brain. I’ve spent so many years perched on both edges of a single-width bed: back at home in Elko, in the dorms, down in California; that now I have the opportunity to reach out but I’m governed by remnant mental boundaries. All works out, however, since Lauren was gladly absorbing my unused portion of mattress…

The definition of true love does not lie in communication, humility, or any of the other standard replies. No, true love is defined by selfless release of all feelings and property. I let Lauren use my new Fred Meyer contoured space-foam pillow last night. There you have it, true love. (sarcasm, of course)

I’m sitting atop a yoga ball, screaming my thoughts to the screen (I will henceforth call it screaning) on this lovely Boise morning. Yesterday, during breakfast, cooking eggs in a frying pan, salting and peppering the solidifying puddles, I thought of James D. Allan. A welder by trade, his hands were calloused beyond repair and more heat resistant than any Kevlar oven mitt. Periodically during my childhood, he’d whip up one of the few dishes he made and made well: fried eggs.

So of course, after not thinking of him for weeks, months, his image pops in and obstructs the view of my surrounding apartment. Much like those cramps you get in an oblique rib muscle or a shot of pain from a high-neck/parietal muscle: sharp tingles from an entity you didn’t know existed or choose not to acknowledge.

I started thinking of my situation, my environment. I thought of him visiting me in my own apartment, making eggs in my pan with my salt and pepper. It was not a thought that saddened me, but actually pointed out another severe difference between him and me. It was rewarding, reassuring, to think of my situation. In twenty minutes I was headed to my job; my engineering job where I use my brain to design products, not my automatic medulla to accomplish a menial trade occupation. It is unfortunate yet gratifying that he does not own a house, a real job, nothing.

Is it wrong to exalt in another’s demise? Is that what I am doing? No, I’m simply giving myself credit for piloting my own life; navigating a path uninhibited or affected by his genetic or spatial influence. I’ve struggled with the feeling of genetic predisposition: the fear that I carry his hurtful, dysfunctional traits whether or not I am conscious of doing so. Well, that fear is being smothered by escalating confidence and accomplishment.

I am proud of my situation. Proud of my job. Proud of my eggs and egg pan and salt and pepper. I am mine.

rest

Such a beautiful day in Boise. The sun shining so brightly, almost too brightly for me to see what I’m typing on the screen. Bright enough to distract me from writing by glancing through the words, through the blinking cursor at the silly contemplative reflection staring at me from the screen. I did not realize I looked this way whilst typing… sort of a scrunched, squinting and perplexed version of my normal self.

The summer weather is overwhelming. All the googlies are out: googly humans and googly animals worshipping the sun at full volume. I’m down at Dawson Taylor’s coffee house, downtown, DTDT, DT2. Sort of on my lunch break, though I’ve no intention of returning to work today. The job is flexible, almost too flexible on days such as today when there’s no impending deadline and the weather is phenomenal.

The bike path in Boise is alive in the summer warmth, too. Russian olive trees are in full bloom right now, their scent so pungently intoxicating it’ll knock you off your bike. If you could see smells it’d look like a thick levitating syrup, carrying the color of amber molasses and amplifying the sunshine in sparkly beads. Russian olives seem to remind me of Silverpeak, Nevada, a place I’ve not visited since moving away in 1987. I don’t readily recall memories before age ten, but that smell unlocks a distant world of childhood bliss that I’ve packed away.

A whole lot of time to rest this week, thank goodness. The tally was running well over 500 miles per week of riding… including a few high caliber races in the mix. John called it the “Big Push� before nationals: that last facet of training required to overload my body before resting and allowing the fitness to ferment. The training overloaded my brain, as well, and during the last week my mind's been rendered useless. I made mistakes during races I haven’t made since 2000, from under-dressing to silly tactical errors. Time to rest. I’ve had some wicked naps the past few days.

I am now in my own apartment. I returned from the race in Hood River this past Sunday evening, packed up on Monday and moved. Greg’s was amazing, a near-perfect situation, only surpassed by the opportunity to live on my own. The new place, a quaint little studio behind Ron’s house, is my first taste of independent living. For those who know my history, I’ve lived alone ONE time, though I don’t count a semester living solo in the dorms as independence. This apartment is big enough- not too big, close enough to downtown- not too close, and owned by a friend with whom I’m anxious grow in friendship.

So yes, I’m a rookie in regards to independent living, and the first night in my apartment passed in want of utensils, cleaning supplies, soap, etc. ShopKo solved those deficiencies the following day, though you know it broke my heart to participate in such main-stream consumerism. Hey, some things just shouldn’t be bought at thrift stores: sponges, shower gel, and can openers. Imagine trying to eat soup after using a can opener that someone used on pet food. Or worse yet, used on SPAM or canned mackerel. Yikes.

Lauren and I are doing well, each settling in to our respective routines. The difficulty still lies in matching schedules and spending time together, but so far we’re holding our own and the relationship grows from week to week. Scary how well you think you know someone… only to find yourself a month down the road thinking, “wow, I know you so much better than a month ago�, only to find yourself a month down the road thinking the same thing. Only to…. Yeah, you get it. Every month feels that way, and as we’re rounding a year and eight months together I’m excited to think of what’s next.

I’ll have to post some pictures of my new place; you’ll be both consoled and amused at my Spartan environment. The only decoration one needs is a Adolph Gottlieb print and poster of Justin Timberlake… guess which one I’m joking about? Who needs decoration with wireless internet and 70 channels of cable television?

Back to it. I should be gripping my day off like a last lung of oxygen, but instead I’m staring at my reflection, seeing the beads of sweat forming and wishing I could go pedal in this heat. More to come, I hope. The updates over the past few weeks have been sparse due to training and the aforementioned brain stagnation. Perhaps the rest will rekindle my words. Thanks.

summertime

Here we are, summertime finally rolled around and the routine looks beautiful (so far). Of course, someone forgot to inform Mother Nature that it's time for sun and fun, not deluge and darkness... this is the wettest May in over fifty years. It reminds me a lot of Seattle, with some vicious rain storms each morning and humid, muggy temps in the evening.

My family came up to visit this past weekend, initially intending to watch me race the local Eagle Hills race course. John and I had different plans, however, and last Monday I began my "six-weeks-from-nationals-time-to-get-tough" routine. The routine included logging 31 hours on the bike in seven days, but did not include the two-hour slug-fest at Eagle Hills.

I felt bad, in some ways, for not racing; as I knew Bob had planned months in advance to catch me in action and cheer me on. However, they (my mom and Bob and perhaps some other family members) plan to attend the prized Elite National Championships next month in Park City, so I believe they appreciate my training objectives. So yes, 31 hours last week, a necessary and sufficient condition for me to achieve the professional physique and mindset required to seal that podium girl's kiss come mid-June. The Park City course is over 130-miles in length, so now is the time to lay down some serious mileage in anticipation.

This weekend I head south for the aforementioned Tour de Utah , to begin shaping that ingot of mileage into well-honed fitness. Two days after returning from Utah I head to Hood River Oregon for another event... I'll come out of that pretty cooked but a few rest days away from some GOOD legs. Not racing this past weekend allowed much quality time with my mother, Bob, and Madison (Bob's daughter); something normally inhibited by race "curfews" and limitations. I got my annual dosage of the mall and surrounding establishments, and was treated to the finest of Boise's dining options.

The routine is good, life is good. I'm sitting at my 'work desk', rendered incapable of work this morning due to a server failure. Otherwise the new job is great and it's so rewarding to use my engineering degree to earn money. The pay is nice and the schedule flexible. Lauren's new job is going pretty well, too, though she is really struggling to see the positive points in her new environment. She experienced the typical first week at a job: all filler an no killer, a lot of protocol and no opportunity to actually start working. We are hoping this week provides more challenge and reward.

Not too much else, just the routine. Ride, work, sleep, ride, Lauren, sleep, repeat. Perfect. The weather is nice this morning... the College of Engineering dean is coming in for a photo shoot here in our lab in about ten minutes, but after that I might slip out and embrace the sunshine. I suggest you do the same.

Bedlam

The worst part about being sick, I believe, is watching your environment crumble down around you: lacking the effort to effectively pick up after yourself, yet continuing to consume and create byproducts of your diseased state.

There's my bag, still fermenting with sweat and rain-drenched clothing from three days of racing; and there's my shoes, dishes, bike parts strewn all over, inanimately stalled in confusion as to why I've yet to unpack and refresh my situation.

The cold hit me hard shortly after completing the final stage on Sunday. Yet again, I was out the back of the peloton once the going got tough, but decided to diesel onward for another 2.5 hours to finish. Tough guy turned to sick guy, driven home by the soggy final seven miles pedalled in the rain. At the finish line I expected to see my bag full of dry, warm clothes, but to my dismay had to wait another hour for it to arrive in my friend's car. My immune system, which in retrospect had likely battled with a virus for the past few days, finally seceded and flayed itself open in surrender. I got sick, way sick, and although the symptoms are changing the overall status is not.

And yet it's consoling, having something tangible to blame my terrible legs on. Yes, I believe the weekend's misfortune is mostly due to last week's stress load, but I needed something physical and tangible to clutch on to. Who knows, the point is that now I'm sick and I'm getting the rest I need. Deserve?

One take-home final left, then the summer truly begins. I found out I got that job through the university (http://coen.boisestate.edu/research/RPlab.asp) so by next week I'll be in a new, slower yet more satisfying, routine. I'll be nerding out at a computer, designing things using SolidWorks and actually earning money for my engineering brain. Schweet. Twenty to thirty hours of work per week, twenty of riding, and the rest for relaxing and enjoying relationships, weather, etc.

OK, off to nap, or eat soup, or... what else when you're sick? I'm sure I'll end up back at this screen, voicing cough-syrup induced delirium for my expansive audience of bloggees. Aren't you lucky?