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?

Columbia, Plat-OH

On the road. On my ass, sitting in a crowded gymnasium and nerding out being the only leg-shaver staring at a computer screen. Today was hell, probably the worst day of my life in the race world.

I do not know what went wrong. How much was physical, ie poor rest and poor nutrition? How much was mental? I tell you what, I have a lot to blame it on. Let’s blame it on school, let’s blame it on mowing lawns the day before my race. Let’s blame it on inadequate sleep and jerky professors and flakey team mates. How about this, from my sister last night before I left:

“So Dad has a cell phone. He told me ‘hey I am really trying to make some changes and be more reachable. I’d really like Calvin to know my number. I won’t call him but if you could give it to him just in case he wants to call, well, please give it to him’. So yeah, J, Dad wanted me to give it to you. Do you want to write this down?�

Silly thoughts swarm one’s synapses while peddling solo into a 25mph head wind, FORTY minutes behind the leading pack and at least Twenty-Five minutes behind the laughing pack.

Just typed up some independent research garbage. It will be the last report to turn in this semester, due on Tuesday. Then… then, then what? Bikes? I rode so shitty today and blew so hard that I fear putting all my eggs, hell, even one egg in that basket.

Wah. Must go walk. More later, you can count on it.

24 HOURS LATER

We are in Fossil now. Put in a decent TT this morning and was holding my own in the road race. Suddenly… “Lady Fortuna, Inconstant Goddess�, my freaking seat post busted midway down, and I shot out the back of the peloton like a mach 3 dookie. I managed to ride about seven miles, including a three mile descent, whilst standing, before finally flagging down the Cat 3 mechanical support car to explain my problem.

We threw on a woman’s saddle and post and I started dieseling in attempt to reclaim some ground. News flash: my saddle was set about three inches too low, and within two miles of pedaling my legs were pulling the strangest of muscle groups in to assist with pedaling. I stopped at the first feed zone, raised my saddle, and then resumed my independent journey.

So yeah, day number two of two plus hours solo. Though I must admit I felt considerably better this go around. I’ve procured another post to ride on tomorrow. Perhaps I can finish with a pack? What the hell is going on?

Sima and Shane offered me shelter this evening, some I’m sitting in the comfort of their rented motor home instead of battling the stench and news of three hundred other cyclists in the gymnasium.

Must go. More later.

SMP: standard meltdown procedure

Finally got a minute to scribble some words...

Although I have been through this numerous times before, nine times to be exact, it is still hard to effectively step up to the challenges of finals week.

But it's coming along. I just delivered a (decent) oral presentation in my Biomechanics class over "Full Squats versus Partial Squats: Electromyographic muscle analysis versus knee joint stress." Hoopty doopty, sounds more techy than it is (was, I'm done!). Email me if you'd like to see the powerpoint presentation... any takers?

The accompanying report (15 pages in length) is done, too, though not due till next Wednesday. No worries remain... except the dozen items left on my "to do" list before I head to a race at 5:00am tomorrow morning. It's raining outside, which actually wipes a few things off my list and alleviates some stress.

Greg left for Singapore yesterday to find us a wife. Er, wait, he went over to do some programming for his employer, Power Engineers. Sir Calvin stepped up and offered (really?) to take care of his landscaping/mowing business for a couple weeks. Well, it is crunch time and the thought of heading out to mow for four hours this evening just might melt me. Hooka Hooka Hooka (the sounds of my rain chant... keep it coming).

Headed to my final advanced Dynamics class in 23 minutes. The final exam is a take-home, which I've actually learned to fear. You see, the prof is savvy enough to realize our time and ability limitations during in-class exams; consequently they are much, much easier than those we get to pack home and work on. I will be taking my exam to central Oregon with me over the weekend... can't wait to attempt Lagrange Analysis of double gimble gyroscopes after four hours of 95% heart rate exertion.

I realize that this is my life, the path i have chosen and the path that I love. but gosh I need to streamline my priorities a bit. I often end up overbooking myself because I refuse to take a hit anywhere. What the heck am I typing this for, all of you (readers) know that.

Kudos of the day go out to my friends, Cody and Mary Hall. Amongst all of this week's academic mayhem was thrown the challenge of finding a ride over to Columbia Plateau (the race: www.columbiaplateau.org). None of my team mates are going and the other cyclists from Boise are being clicky, snobbish turdsters; I had a ride lined up with a married couple, then another, before they both made it obvious I was infringing on their precious love bubble. On the eve of packing Greg's GMC Suburban and pouring my bank account into the gas tank, Cody and Mary Hall (you guys freaking rock) offered to let me use their commuter car... a well-maintained and dependable Subaru hatchback. I owe you so, so much, you've saved me a considerable amount of stress.

Bah bah bah (motorcycle sounds, not hum-bug disgust), I'm looking to tear some legs off this weekend. Hopefully others' legs, not just my own.

Off to Dynamics. Wish me luck.

Captain Clavin, Cavlin, C-anvil, SweetCheeks.

Kosher Implants and Primitivo

Hello all.

I'm red-faced and bored and looking for an excuse to take a break from this freaking Biomechanics report... lucky you for tuning in to experience my self-diversion.

In true cyclist fashion, I uncorked a bottle of cheap-ass pinot noir and poured myself about four fingers' in attempt to 'facilitate' the writing process. Two fingers later and the keyboard is already playing trecks on mee. I feel the fire in my cheeks and the sass in my brain, not too conducive to report-writing.

The past weekend was crazy: a ton of travel and race experience. I drove up to Walla Walla with Eric J. Rumps, leaving on Friday at about 4pm and arriving around 8:30. Rump(elstiltskin) is the definition of eccentric, and the four hour journey still has me reeling from cultural, physiological, and moral overload. He's a chemist/material scientist out at Micron and manages to put in enough training otherwise to really turn the screws on the local race scene, so we decked him in team clothing and styled him out for the weekend (that is, paid entry fee and made him wear one of our saggy retro jerseys).

Between topics of life on the farm and nanotech-specific polymers, he suggested I reach behind the seat and pour us out some fruit of the vine. He rolls in style: a fine, fine bottle of Primitivo aside two softball-sized wine glasses (custom etched from the Mondavi winery) in a convenient foam package. The trip went rapidly, to understate it, and upon rolling in to Walla Walla we decided to chase the fab red with a chicken burrito at La Casita Mexican restaurant.

We found our host house at about 9:30pm... Shawn and Matt had yet to arrive so we were the first to survey the scene and claim the most "ideal" bed space. Well.... let's get something straight about host houses: in general you end up with a pretty sweet family of cycling enthusiasts eager and willing to stuff you full of succulent simple sugars and tuck you in tight to a comfy bed. The ugly flipside are host bachelors; recent divorcees looking to rejoin any and every social scene by volunteering for random community events. We got the latter. Due to the scents of stale beer and sweat (urine?) Eric and I opted to sleep out on the trampoline.

Just like old (old) times as a lad, I was zipped up in a mummy bag lying on my back and staring at the full moon, with the plastic support beneath and the vibrations from Eric reverberating (and resonating) from the other side of the trampoline. However, I have aged in a few ways: 1. Mummy bags suck, and I can not sleep well on my back with my arms perfectly glued to my sides (if you really want to know I sleep with my forehead in the sheets and my arms akimbo... jsut kidding), 2. The omnipotent light from a fabulous full moon is actually too bright to sleep under, and 3. I can't see half the damn stars anymore since my eyesight is declining and I had to take out my contacts before bed. Nevertheless, the ambient noise from frogs, the smell of roses and Dogwoods and Lilacs, and the metronomic rhythm of Eric's gas problem made for some decent sleep with lucid dreams.

I'll skip the race crap, you don't want to hear that and I don't want to explain. I had a blast but am more eager to explain a quirky scenario: Lining up for the TT, approximately four minutes to "Go Time", I was chatting with an aquaintance regarding my upcoming thesis in the field of Biomechanics. So this referee/official overhears me and says "You biomechanists need to design an artificial appendix, one that works."

We get into this discussion (lasting about 3.5 minutes till I sped off for my event) about the incompatibilty of materials and the body's tendency to scoff at anything man-made we try to insert.

"Hell," he says, "I also got a bad heart, and they wanted to put a pig valve in me."
"Yeah, funny that our body is OK with swine material." Says I.
"Funny my ass, I'm Jewish. You think they make Kosher implants? Can you see a Rabbi blessing a chunk of ham-heart?"

I had a decent ride, got cleaned up and went out to breakfast. Chuckled to myself as I crouched over my plate of French Toast and Sausage.

Back to my report.... take care.

This Just In: Racer Boy Press Release

Antelope Island: 9 April 2005

Despite legitimate attempts to provide a neutral, unbiased recount of Saturday’s race, the following will most likely convey a grotesquely skewed version of how the BODE Team conducted itself. If you prefer an impartial report, speak to an inactive member of the peloton who was content to simply hang on instead of race bikes. Chris McGill and I, Don Calvino, did not travel 280-miles (each direction) to sit at the back of the pack. Nor did Chris parents’ offer the emotional and caloric support (host housing with scrumptious burritos) to see us passively pedal in the draft of other teams.

We loaded the BODE-mobile and escaped Boise’s magnetic field at 4:30pm on Friday afternoon, mentally and technically prepared for the forecasted 34-degrees-and-raining race on Saturday morning. The weather was surprisingly nice on the drive down, and although we didn’t risk ‘jinxing’ it we quietly prayed for similar weather during the race. Four point five hours later we pulled our oh-so-pro-looking Volvo into Chris’s parents’ driveway, visited a bit and ate some Mexican food, then crept into bed. I zonked out before Chris, but by 11:30pm we were both dreaming of antelopes and glory.

Eleven hours, three cups of coffee, and seven dollar-sized wheat pancakes later, we pulled into the parking lot on Antelope Island’s eastern edge. The Cat Fours and Masters were well underway, while hordes of Cat Three riders and roughly sixty Cat Ones / Twos prowled around waiting to begin.

11:45am, the pop-gun barked and everyone snapped in to begin the fifteen-lap, sixty-mile race. The weather held out, and aside from a 20mph wind it was beautifully pleasant. The peloton was quite nervous, as demonstrated when a fellow Boise rider (non-BODE) pegged the first cone on the first lap and nearly wrecked all five-dozen racers. Chris and I moved up to the front third of the group simply to avoid being broken, and within five minutes the attacks started flying.

I countered an attack with the sole (malicious) attempt of blowing an Ogden One rider out the back of the group, and by chance I got a gap with a few other riders. Matt Weyen, to be described later, bridged up to complete our group of nine riders. I assessed the situation: Orbea, Ogden One, Contender, Sportsbase Online, Porcupine, and BODE. Well represented: NAIL IT! We drove hard and within three laps had two and a half minutes on the main group. Back in the main pack, Chris McGill kept a tight rope on any individuals attempting to spoil our break’s success. A few teams missed the break and earnestly wanted to bridge, but McGill (whose legs and race-savvy are blossoming ten-fold each race) would allow no such thing. Within a few more laps the main group lost its impetus, though up ahead we kept it smooth and the gap widened.

In the main group: chaos. The aforementioned 20mph wind created unique conditions on each section of the course. On the tailwind-climb the riders averaged 28mph and were offered no draft, while on the western edge the wind drove hard from the Northeast and swept the riders left, across the yellow line, and into the left-hand gutter. The main group shattered into chunks of colored-lycra-shrapnel, with McGill toward the front and riding strong. However, due to the yellow-line violation by various individuals trying to draft and survive, the officials decided to disqualify the entire field! When alerted of the situation with six laps to go, our break had 4.5 minutes on the main field. At that point our break actually picked up its pace, ironically, and we shed three riders from our group.

To make a long story short, we kept the pace hot until the finish line. With three laps to go, Matt and a Contender Bicycles rider accelerated on the tailwind-ascent to break free from our group. Few people can match Matt’s power at 30mph, and although my legs are coming around I couldn’t respond. I drained my legs driving it hard to try and regain contact, but Matt and his companion widened their lead and maintained it to the end. My group of four popped one of its riders coming into the finish, and I took third in the sprint to the line.

The 52 riders not active in the front break voiced their frustration to the officials, many demanding a refund for entry and travel to a race only half-completed. To no avail, unfortunately. Chris asserts he was riding with a pair of “top-ten legs�, and I believe it, but the disqualification of the group prevented any placing beyond the top seven spots.

Great things are coming around for this team, and I’m anxious to see how the rest of our riders are pedaling. A few local races remain before we test our mettle against bigger fish in bigger ponds. Stay tuned for more blatantly biased accounts of our superhuman individuals. Special thanks to my mom and sister, aunt and uncle and cousin, and Chris’s family for the support at this event.

-Captain Clavin

Ya hace un ano

"Isn't it ironic that, now that you aren't bulimic and obsessing about your weight, you're the smallest and fittest you've ever been?"

- Lauren Dorsch, an observation of her pasty-white, partially-clothed and apparently fitter-than-hell boyfriend on Thursday evening.

So nice to be out of that cloud. That unconquerable haze of worry and preoccupation that tweaked my emotions for so long. I can not believe that it is dead and gone, but it is. Do I still think about food; still get frustrated when I don't eat a 100% perfect diet all the time? Am I a cyclist? A perfectionist? Yes, to all of the above. The difference now is perspective. I now have the ability to step back and see my overall progression, the ratio of forward to backward steps, and to use that perspective to halt my temporary back-slides with food.

It's been about a year. Ya hace un ano. There is no tilda key on this white-bread-American keyboard so perhaps I should write an-yo instead of ano. Good things are happening in every facet of my life, but I am especially jazzed about my athletic fitness. An analogy, courtesy of my counselor:

Look at dogs. Look at greyhounds, St. bernards, labradors, and dachshunds. Have you ever seen a labrador as skinny, as lean as a greyhound? If you did, would you think him healthy? What about a greyhound; have you seen a greyhound as large as a labrador? Would you think that greyhound was healthy?

Within each species, each race or body type, there is a certain degree of variation. A robust and athletic labrador may reach a certain level of fitness, but will never look like a greyhound. The point? I'm nearing the bottom end of my spectrum of labrador fitness, and while I may still occasionally view those vieslas and greyhounds with slight comtempt, I am optimizing myself to the best of my abilities. And I AM FREAKING STRONG.

This afternoon I head down to Antelope Island State Park, just north of Salt Lake City, for race number three of my season. Wish me luck and join me in celebrating good health and a balanced perspective in life. This is so cool. -Calvino

Two's Day

Back in the swing this week. I don't really feel like I am caught up on sleep yet, and there's a nagging little feeling in the back of my throat, threatening to morph into some nasty bug if I don't heed the warning.

Lauren and I had a great evening last night. As she jokingly put it, "a solid afternoon and evening of pure Calvin time, no meetings or schoolwork or otherwise to pull me away." I went over to her place after my session with Ms. Stacey (counselor), and although Lauren didn't ask I sort of needed some mindless diversion to unwind from my 60 minutes of introspection. The session wasn't too revealing, just challenging in regards to my direction, priorities, and satisfaction. Still stewing on everything... I'll let you know if an epiphany hits me.

But yes, the evening went by splendidly. We decided to hit the transplanted Sun Valley coffee shop "Java", but were soon chased away by the truly poor selection of music blaring on the sound system. Being a Sun Valley-style java junction, you'd expect some decent music; anything other than cheesy late-eighties dance club favorites.... Pump up the Jam, Pump it Up. O---K.

Cooling coffee in hand, and bad electronic music looping through our brains, we skirted over to Barnes and Noble. I had a gift card burning a hole in my wallet since Christmas and Lauren was eager to dig for some literature regarding the Catholic Church's future direction. Ironic, and sad I suppose, that I spent the majority of the visit bobbing my head and sampling new bands, whilst she studied up on the future successors to the papal thrown. Her passion and concern for the situation is amazing, and I feel like a jerk for not deeply understanding the magnitude of the situation. Raised as a Baptist, I more thoroughly understand Pot-Luck Etiquette than ceremonial protocol.

For now I just cant' wait to get home. It's only 12:43pm, but I arose this morning over at Lauren's before seven and came straight down to the U. The lab I taught was boring today, biomechanics was even worse, and my Dynamics homework stopped me dead in my tracks. Not feeling too productive. That's it. I'm off. At least the weather is cooperating today. Commuting and riding in the rain gets old, thus the 45-degree and windy-but-dry climate makes me smile. ~~*~~

doper

If this is truly an online vent session, and it's for my benefit more than ya'lls, I need to lay something out.

My dad is a f*@% ing creep. My sister put it quite succinctly when she stated "I'm not even hurt anymore, just mad. Not mad about his absence, but mad about not having the fringe benefits of a functional father." You know, like an available mechanic, hiking and hunting buddy, someone to go to oldies concerts with.

Of course, we both feel the loss deeper than that, but the frustration and bewilderment surfaces in strange ways. I hit a Big Head Todd and the Monsters concert last week... lots of old timers around with their 'old ladies', digging the music. One of those situations in which a real father would love to accompany his mid-twenties son. My dad was likely capping off day seven of a thirteen-day bender, and you bet your ass that was on my mind while sipping my concert beer from the plastic cup.

Finally got the key to my moto-scoot. Honda 360T, look out world! Needs some work, though... Again, no father. After the initial shock of his son riding, as he would refer to it, a piece of "Jap Crap" (white-trash fathers, breed racism, yes, yes!) he might actually help tweak the engine with me a bit... I'd enjoy seeing his reaction to me scurtting by on it, whining in that higher-pitched (yet verifiably more efficient) engine frequency. Sheesh.

So here I am, eleven thirty four on the digital clock, numbers blinking and marching onward without mercy while I wait for the Sandman to knock me upside the head. Too much salad too late at night means an overloaded Buddha belly and delayed onset of sleep. This ensalada mezcla breath is too much, even for me; damn those Vascos for instilling such garlic-scarfing habits in me. Overall things are going pretty well, though the inkspot in my life (labeled James D. Allan) seems so dark when the rest of life shines so brightly. I'm off to bed. Big middle finger to JDA, wherever he's squatting tonight. Ouch.