Fireworks (6 for 1), Roadside Porn (or tractor pull) and Needing an Arc

Saturday morning was TT practice. Craig can TT, I can TTT, but somehow, when forced to go it alone, the race of truth tells me lies about my cycling ability. We left the Inn for a couple hours of being in that awkward position. It was my 3rd day in the TT position this week, and the 3rd time since 2001 as well. My ass cramped up on me, but no one cares about the pain of others as we all have our own. I took a bunch of shots of the landscape, us assuming the position (bent over) and of course, of some midwestern (organic corn?) farming.
Other than the impending thunderstorms, we were unconcerned with the 30 mph wind gusts. A quick loop around Maloney Lake and a shot out Brown Road was enough to tire me out. Back we marched into North Platte to pack up for the haul to, well, we weren’t sure where. We were on our way, but didn’t know where we’d end up. If we wanted, we could have stopped every mile for fireworks, every other mile for XX porn (I guess XXX would be too raunchy), and every 5th mile for roadside liquor and church services. After seeing the Fireworks Emporium, Outlet, Warehouse and many signs for "6 for the price of one" (is the one that marked up, or is this just the mother of all bargains?). We later saw a guy with a stand claiming 2 for 1, and wondered how can he possibly compete? In Missouri along I-70, they have life figured out. If you're not at the tractor pull, you can blow things up, get drunk enough to not care what you’re doing, and then get excited enough to touch yourself. Once complete, simply cross the highway overpass to the where Yahweh’s word is being handed out – and bingo, repent, rinse, repeat.

I was thoroughly impressed with the might, mass, and majesty of the Missouri River. Wow. It is filled bank to bank, levee to levee and flowing with alacrity. We crossed before and after Kansas City several times. And all I could think was this is a tributary of the Mississippi. Once into St. Louis, the Mighty Mississippi was earning her keep - pushing Amazonian volumes in late June. The pillars of the RR bridge were barely holding their ground and both upstream and down from the Gateway to the West, she is spilling her banks and causing billions of dollars of damage. Nature bats last and while the banks haven’t been split like this since 1993, the folks along the river might think about backing up again. But naw, this is the U.S., instead, we’ll likely pump out all the mud and water from hundreds of towns, and claim that all we need are stronger, bigger, taller levees. That will do the trick. Go for it.

The day ended an hour east of St. Louis in lovely Mt. Vernon, Illinois. We were knackered, all we could muster was a Roadhouse Saloon dinner, margaritas and another night in an air conditioned haven. The continental breakfast will likely be the same, bagels, oj and a cup of coffee that can be described as “worse that licking the oil pan under a Ford Bronco.” Tomorrow we’ll be in Louisville, riding the blustery TT course and getting ready for Monday’s National Championship TT. My goal is to not finish DFL and if I do, break the hour mark. Craig’s wants to win, conquering his past TT demons. He's got a shot, I'm not an oddsmaker, but if I were, I say he'll have to have a perfect day and his very strong class of competitors will need to be less than perfect. I've got my fingers crossed, he deserves it. Especially after finding this turtle.

Can you tell how big the Mississippi river is, how full, how powerful?

Hit Me, Byyyy… That Much

Our sundowner ride was a refreshing way to end a 13 hour day in the car. Emigration Canyon is popular ride for Salt Lakers. The climb was crawling with riders, groups, males, females and triathletes. Shortly after the ride we arrived at Miss Kotval’s palace, where she and Nate had coldski’s and gin-tonic’s waiting for us. We enjoyed the view westward of the valley, but Craig could not believe the amount of development that had occurred in Park City since his childhood ski adventure days back in the 60’s. Development changes landscapes and makes people rich. It didn’t take long for Kotval to ask Craig, “Can you stand him for more than, like 10 minutes?” To which Craig responded with silence.

“He’s unrelenting,” she added.

"I relent," I rebutted. We chatted, played with Pow-dog and Buster and slept peacefully. The peace would relent in the morning.

Instead of riding with us, Kirsten sent us up to old PC, down Main Street and up to Deer Valley. The Royal climb was filled with vistas of thin air and empty green slopes. All that was left was the descent back to the homestead and saddling up for the leg to Nebraska. About 2 miles from home, I did just what the Safety Buffalo (aka K-dog) and balding Benji would have wanted – I took the lane. There was no shoulder so after accelerating up to speed in the lane I pulled to the right to let an aggressive driver pass. She was on my tale and I didn't want to hold her up.

Only problem is as soon as she did pass, she made a hard right, forcing me to make a right with her, braking hard and bouncing off of her passenger door until the pavement gave way to dirt and I lost my front wheel. I reacted by throwing my right leg over the bars and wound up jumping over my bike as it hit the deck for the first time in its two year life. Rather amazingly I landed on my feet and took it into a dead speedplay cleat run to the black Audi, irate at the either oblivious or malicious driver. She stopped and I approached her driver window letting her know she just hit me (not in such polite terms). She responded in denial, asked where did I come from and said she didn’t even see me. She passed me, swerving around me on a narrow road and turned right in front of me. Didn't see me, my ass.

After cursing her out, I was pounding with adrenaline, as was Craiger, so we rolled away, there was nothing left to say or do. I picked up my banged up bike and not long after, there she was. She had followed us, was trying to take our picture with her phone and was veering into the bike lane, forcing us to brake and swerve to avoid her. Hello? Psycho bitch! I turned around on a two lane road to ride back to Craig and she pulled a U-ee, stacking up lines of cars and city buses as she did so. Twice. She was hunting us down (on the road at the top picture) so we split up, Craig back to the house and me up into Kotval’s hood. We made it out of there, barely, in time to shower for the majestic drive through southern Wyoming and into Nebraska.

I must have slept half of the drive. But what I saw of the Continental Divide, the Red Desert, and the Snowy Range was impressive. A stop in Rock Springs, Wyoming was enough to convince us that we were blessed not to live there. Much the same feeling we got when we rolled into North Platte, Nebraska to have our "supper" at the Whisky Creek Steakhouse Grill and Saloon. What a cultural experience that was. We were the only two men (on honeymoon) out together. The restaurant was filled with families, robust adults, well mannered children, and a few courting couples. Absent were any same-sex tables, any blacks, any Mexicans (not even in the kitchen or bussing tables), or any other non-anglo, non-Christ loving persons. The pulled pork, the briskets, coleslaw and bake beans (that’s twice now!) were tasty and filling. The Hampton in was calling our name and we got a king bed to share and prep for time trial practice on Saturday morning.

Chasing Pussy, Getting Stiffed

I wanted it, I couldn’t get it. If I was to get it, I couldn’t decide between spanking it, loving it, or leaving it. I searched, I hunted, I cat called, but that pussy was elusive. I was getting desperate and blue, like the Pacific over Malibu.

I knew not to let it happen. I corralled Che when I was about an hour away from departure. The previous month was filled with big time decisions, the previous weeks with life’s transitions and the past few days with backbreaking hauling, cleaning (spank you black hammer) and condo improvements (spank you gym rat and Isaacs). All I really wanted was to be done with home and on my way to wine country to start the bike racing adventure of 2008. What I got was a beyond frustrating day of testing my patience (I have none) and figuring out if the trip would even happen. He's a good kitty, when sleeping.

Up ahead lies roads not traveled (I’m 72 miles from Winnemuca as I type), behind me the best group of peeps within the first real community I’ve ever been a part of. The future holds a promising planning career in the resplendent wine country of Sonoma County with its proximity to both the city and the rugged Mendocino Coast – that place has culture galore and rides to die for. The trade off has been letting go of landscape, rural roads, perfect weather, and an utter absence of traffic, crime or pollution. But in this moment, none of that mattered. The car was packed with three bikes, all the goods needed for 10 races in 4 states, a gimpy dog and work clothes for the first few weeks in Santa Rosa. What was missing was Che el Rey, el gato revolucionario. He smelled the departure and like all good revolutionaries, he rebelled. So there was no way to leave. I had to wait, and wait, and wait. One, two, five, six hours went by. No pussy kitty.

For ten years, the most predictable, loving, caring and smelly (pussy breath - ewe) creature in my life was gone and not coming home, not with all the landscaping leaf blowers, paint guns, and construction around the complex. Because I was dumb enough to let him out, I was paying the ultimate price. The irony! I was imprisoned in SLO town, the place I most hated to leave until the very moment I was ready to go. Much like the time I forgot to set the parking break on my car in my steep driveway and let it roll into my neighbor’s kitchen, thus prompting a $30k “remodel,” I was once again reminded how expensive it is to be dumb. Many of you know, others can only imagine, stupidity is so spendy… need any proof, look at our national economy!

Miss Hernandez to rescue. I found a lovely lassy to, in the event the pussy returns, keep Che fed and watered until mid July. So off like a prom dress – after six hours of dancing and cat calling, the spaghetti straps were torn and the silk hit the ground as fast as gravity would accelerate it (9.8 meters per second, per second).

A sundowner ride awaits in the Wasatch, an evening with Kotval in Park City. Craig is in good spirits (shown here with a message of sorts and the backdrop of the Bonneville Salt Flats) and despite Karen’s farewell dinner of baked beans and coleslaw, he’s not too gassy so far. The minivan has two racers in the front, five steeds in the back (Clapper!) and the adventure has begun. The motif of the trip, as we cross out into this great nation of ours – liberal, progressive, conscientious (that’s the hypothesis) – is that Craig and I are “on our honeymoon from San Francisco, courtesy of Gavin Screwsome, Mayor extraordinaire.” You should have seen the looks on the faces of the gals at the counter in Reno, Nevada when I let them know such. We about died of laughter. One turned bright red, giggled, and said, “Yeah, I guess with the new ruling in California, we’ll be getting our share of San Francisco honeymooners up in the Tahoe area.” Wildfires aside, Craig quipped, “It’s all about a smokin’ good time this trip!” The lady to the right had a cartoon caption coming out of her head, “OH MY gOD, dem dar’s some gay folk!” She didn’t look at us, didn’t laugh, didn’t smile. All she could muster was a nervous manning of her computer screen. She was as anxious for us to leave as I am to try our skit out in a diner in Lincoln, Nebraska.


And by the way, the rides up East Canyon, Emigration Canyon, along with the sunset in Park City come highly recommended.