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.

Keep it Simple

Simply put, i have an amazing dog. Actually, I have two amazing dogs, but they cause amazement for very different reasons. As complicated as life can be at times; refi's, redo's, relationships...to slash and scoop or to drive and dish? How much should I train, for what purpose? Who and what should I invest in? How we spend our days, is how we spend our lives. Ah yes, all of this and more is why sometimes, it's so nice to stick to what we know for sure - Eddy is a sheppard/chow genius and Merckx is pointer/lab instinctual hunter and prolific runner.

Eddy knows what she wants, how to get it, and makes everyone fall for her in the process. She likes affection, her way on her time. A scratch here or there, but no cuddling. She loves swimming in the surf, herding anything on the move (cars, bikes, dogs, cattle), and of course her greatest pleasure (also one of mine) - eating. She is kind, caring, very much in touch with all human energy and extremely patient and tolerant.

Merckx, um, er, not so much. He is more anxious and demanding than she is calm and enduring. He's kinda dumb. He is bred for a singular purpose; to flush game (birds and small mammals) in the field for hunters. He is a true field dog; tireless, unbridled and knowing no distraction when on course. He won't come when called, he won't tire when run, and he won't stop whining until he is turned loose to be the dog that he is. He can clean a 6 foot high fence like a low hurdle or a 12 foot wide ravine as though it were a stepping stone. He'll scale any slope and occasionally slams his face into the ground while descending hills and misjudging the dips in the terrain. But this does not stop him. A shake of the head to regather, and off he dogs.

Eddy is an Alpha, she will let you (other dogs mostly) know that she thinks she should be in charge. If you disagree, prove it! I lost a lot of blood one time, breaking up a true dog fight (as opposed to a loud barking and dancing match) between her and a ripped pit bull. I had to save the pit from the jugular hold it was under. The great thing about dogs (and most people don't know this) is their language is deep and complex. Full of statures, smells, glands, pheromones, postures, poses, and showing of ass or teeth, their communication speaks volumes to one another. Most humans don't recognize this and feel the need to intervene. But neither dog wants trouble - the alpha doesn't want to risk injury or loss of status and so signals to others - I am the one, you are at least two or 4 in the hierarchy. The others signal, belly open, or head or tail down - "ok, agreed." It is only when there is a disagreement, rarely, that things must be worked out. And even then, a shouting match is about all it takes before the dance settles into play.

Merckx and I will partake in one of our favorite pastimes for lunch hour - Mt Biking. He'll do 20 miles and I'll do about 10 on the same route. The only thing he enjoys more is a wide open beach full of birds and the only thing I enjoy more is, well, not part of this post. We are keeping it simple, remember. As a rescue project last summer, he has come a long way. Extremely demanding and far from ideal, it is time to accept him for who he is, all his wonders and all his shortcomings. I am learning to appreciate both, and it feels good. He will never be able to calmly stroll about on voice command, unleashed and focused on me. He will never be secretive about where he drops his doggy bombs, nor will he leave the room to pass gas. He will simply be himself and the truth about that is, he brings lots of laughs, companionship and smiles to anyone who experiences him just being himself.

Eddy is due for some surgery, soon. The queen has a torn cruciate ligament. She has had a hard time with the lack of mobility and lack of opportunities to herd Merckx. She knows she's hurt, but doesn't care, would rather just run till she can't anymore and limp there after. I struggle with doling out $3000 for a canine, when so many of my own species are struggling to eat, breath, survive. What would that Burmese family I stayed with say if they knew I was going to spend that much money (more than they make in a year!) on my dog's knee? They would have me committed.

Probably not a bad idea.

the arm was re-attached

i guess i'm not having such a rough day afterall. a vet was trying to remove some tranquilizer darts... oops on that dosage!

Pants on FIRE

I'm as big a flirt as the next guy, but I try and make sure that what I say, can be pass the significant other test.

Some time ago after (guess what?) a nice 2 hour bike ride, my riding partner for that day and I decided to end the morning with coffee shop stop. Hmmm... deep rich bitter black brew for me, some sugary foamy non-fat milky desert-like drink for her. Gross. The place we were staying was close enough to the cafe to afford a shower and change before getting high on caffeine, even though going to coffee shop in the shammy and cleats feels like vacation - to me anyway. Oh and what else do you need to know? She's a looker.

So we funnel in like cattle, line up for our fix and decide to divide and conquer. I'll order the drinks and get a table and absent any readable newspaper, she'll walk to the drug store next door and get an LA or NY Times to peruse while the jo begins to flow.

We get the drinks, and I head over to the bar as she makes a pit stop and then runs the errand. I'm at the sugar/cream bar polluting her beverage with "in the raws" and this attractive lady is scolding her 6 year old, "Johnny, you have to start eating something that's good for you, waffles and bagels everyday isn't cutting it." (Maybe she should start feeding him something different instead of giving in to his constant beggings for maple syrup and cream cheese depositories?)

I chime in, glancing both mother and son a smile, "She's right, gotta eat those fruits and veggies to be strong." She winks a thank you and whisks him out the door for patio time and I settle into a table awaiting my mainstream media indoctrination.

Back comes my hotty with a paper and, "you won't believe what just happened!" "Sure I will," I say flippantly, "go for it."

"This guy just followed me into the drug store, practically stalked me in the isle to come up to me and say 'WOW, I just wanted to let you know you have some gorgeous legs.'" Not so terribly surprising, given the actual legs, but wait. "Get this," she adds, "he had a wedding ring and a kid with him, and look (out the window of the cafe), here they come back from the drug store! What an ass!" She didn't respond to his flattery and went about the Sunday deforestation purchase. Got it? Get it? Guess it?

Yeppers, it's little Johnny, this time with daddy. I let her know... "I think I know you suitor's wife!" I look outside to see the milfa and sure enough, she's out there yapping away to some girlfriends and I seize my opportunity, the ground work for which was laid with fruit and veggies.

I stroll on out and ask her, "Excuse me ma'am, but is that your husband standing there in the t-shirt and blue shorts (me pointing to the jerk with kid in hand)?" Surprised, confused, she says, "What?"

"I said, I'd like to know if that's your husband."

Cautiously and perhaps cringing at the thought of an unwanted come-on or insult, "Yes, why do you want to know?"

"Because my lady friend and I would appreciate it if he didn't follow her into the drug store into several isles towing your son, staring at her "features" and compliment her on how amazing her legs look, he made her very uncomfortable."

"Um, why don't you tell him that," she replies angrily. "Oh, I don't want to start any trouble," I lied, "I just thought you'd like to know." As she moves toward pops and Johnny, I calmly stroll back in, calculating that my coffee is just about perfect drinking temperature.

As I am recapping the outside-the-cafe tom-foolery to my gal, in comes MILF, laughing awkwardly, cowering and apologizing, "I'm SO sorry!" she says, "I just wanted to apologize, I am SO embarrassed."

Um Yea, no kidding!

"It's just that my husband just shaved his arms and legs, and he was talking about his legs, not yours."

"Ya know what," I wryly reply, "That sounds highly unlikely, but we'll just let this one go."

I know we can let it go, but I do wonder how the rest of their day went or if he'll continue chasing down gals to flirt with while out with his wife and son. And if she is that willing to buy that SHITE from him, little ole Johnny's gonna be eating pussy for breakfast as soon as he figures that one out.

Such an Idiot!

Passing by one of my coworker’s cubes, I see this picture from a distance. It looks like a wedding picture, so I ask, “May I have a look at that? Wow! You look beautiful. I really like your hair long like that,” I tell my attractive, middle aged, mid-length hair coworker. Mistake.

The next morning I hear her going off to our fellow coworkers about “if Peter doesn’t have anything nice to say…” and how she was up last night thinking about it, that she likes her hair as it is now. What a jerk I am.

So I ask Diddles, “What the F?” He says, “Look Peter, my wife will come up to me and say (pointing to herself), ‘How do I look?’” Diddles replies without much thought or hesitation, “Um, ya look fine.”

“WHAT!” she exclaims, “WHAT’s wrong, why do you think I’m so ugly?????”

I guess if he doesn’t do back flips, she’s not happy. I guess he should have said, “You look gorgeous, unbelievably sexy, I have to have you right now (in that old baggy t-shirt with the stain on it from that team building exercise you did for your old work several years ago)!” Can’t she look in the mirror and decide for herself how she looks? I mean he married her; he must like or even love how she looks. How will men ever be able to please women? And given the choice to try, it becomes clearer to understand why one may choose not to.

Take for example my buddy Izzo. He is no longer with his girlfriend; sweet, smart, athletic and cute though she is. So instead of hanging with her yesterday afternoon as I would have easily (stupidly?) chosen to do, after an epically fun and icy ride (i don't mean cold, I mean 3 inches of ice), he decides to go out with some idiot kid alcoholics. Mostly 21 year old boys who can’t believe they can now drink in public but also including a stick figured smoker gal with tight slacks and heals who says things like, “That turkey is SO cool, like amazing, you don’t even know!, I've never met a live turkey like that before”… to get plastered on wine and vodka with them. They were wine tasting, but at $10 a taste, some decided, “Let’s just go get a bottle of vodka.” Cut to the chase.

At least with that group, you don’t have to worry about offending or pleasing anyone. There must be some logic there. Apparently Izzo is smarter that he appeared yesterday.

It’s Just a Ride – Life, Death, and Tradition.

Traditions

What do you expect from yourself, your life, your future? How will you make that happen? Unmet expectations can be terribly painful and trying; exceeded ones joyous. Yesterday wrapped up 3 days of stellar riding in great weather with quality people. It’s official, Happy Hills SLO Training Camp (formerly known as Camp Peter Brown) is a local tradition. Expectations exceeded.

I love some of the traditions from cultures far away – celebrating the lives of lost love ones not by dressing in black and feeling bad for ourselves (necessary mourning notwithstanding – funerals and death need not be just about the pain of those still alive)... But by throwing parties in their honor thanking them for all they brought to our lives. The party can incorporate their favorite things – like a camping, dancing and drinking party for old Ed Abby in the desert southwest.

However, for the most part I am not big on traditions, not in my culture anyway. Fueling capitalism by buying gifts that people don’t need (or even want) to show you “care” on the anniversary of a religious figure’s birthday… for example. The more expensive the gift, the more you care? I’d rather show my friends and family they matter all year round through shared experiences, rather than exchanged pittances. I’d rather make them a meal, take them on a bike ride, backpacking, or to the dog park! I’d rather make them laugh. I like fun time with loved ones as much as the next guy. I am accustomed to the dysfunctional family gathering as it seems much more “normal” than a group of primates of shared inherited genetic molecules all getting along merrily. But I usually go for a long solo bike ride that morning. The roads are deliciously empty.

One of the ways to “build community” is to start a tradition and I am so proud to have begun one here in little SLO town. Communities and happiness have little to do with money. The GNP, GDP, consumer confidence and retail success are on the line this month, what ever will happen? Well, if measured by smiles and miles, the SLO Training Camp was a huge success. No dollars needed. With our newly rekindled SLO Criterium getting flack from short sighted and misguided downtown decision makers, next year maybe we can alert the local media and the downtown association to highlight some coverage – run a story, take some pictures as Happy Hills rolls out of town, surely to return. That way, the residents can see how a healthy, active lifestyle can be promoted in our town. The community can rally around cyclists and not let the closure of the a couple blocks of downtown streets for 1 day… be a reason to complain. Heaven forbid people have to park farther than right in front of a store, or maybe even walk, ride, or bus to downtown one day. We should dictate our own civic lives in the ideal gathering place, the city center. 100 riders, all together, looks impressive.

Happy Hills

Sure, there were folks who thought it was too fast, too slow, too hilly, not hilly enough, too short, too long – but that speaks much more to the big diverse peleton of 45-65 riders we had rolling happily (grumpily?) around the county than it does to dissatisfaction. I’d rather be all inclusive than too selective about who attends. I’d rather make fast people slow down in early December than give them a place to show off. Show me something in a race. Show me how you can help a teammate win, sacrifice. I think opportunities to split and rejoin the group by ability level keeps all happy. Fast folks go right and climb that steep biatch, if you’re taking it easy, follow them to the left and we’ll see you in an hour or two. I loved looking over my shoulder from the front and seeing the tail of the group cresting a quarter mile back as we reach top speed. I like giving relatively new riders a chance to ride with some of the best racers in the country in a large group, practicing their skills, gaining strength and endurance – all while seeing what a beautiful gem this Central Coast is. I like to see people making friends. I’d guess everyone, without exception, had some sore legs and happy hearts.

I cherish effort, the pace lifting, the pack growing quiet, concentrating, breathing, wondering how much farther to the top. How about the view from the top, worth it? The energy is literally palpable when a mob of happy, healthy, bundled hairless chimpanzees (been reading too much Jared Diamond lately – so convincing) roll around together hunched over two wheeled efficiencies transporting themselves while ensuring their own (and their planet’s) longevity. They could be riding to work, riding the kids to school, or riding to pick up something from the store. But they might just be riding because they love it. The wind is in their face and they feel alive, aware, awake.

But with NRC race winners and national champions riding along side weekend warriors through steep, challenging terrain – what can be gained? Experience has no substitute. What can be more beautiful than a cancer survivor riding beyond himself, knowing more than anyone else what it felt like to work hard, to face death, to live and to ride again? And while local doctors crack femurs descending sandy steep twisting mountains (Doc and Mrs. Collins were in GREAT spirits - morphine? He’ll be on the trainer soon, back to work in few weeks, and out on the ride by February) – who is to say what matters most in life? To each their own.

And lastly since no one read the description of the camp or route details (previous blog post below), next year’s invite will be short and sweet. It will look something like this…Comments and suggestions about this and future camps, more than welcome. Can’t wait to see ya at the 5^th annual.

Come ride for 3 days, Dec 5-7 – 2008 in Happy Hills San Luis Obispo. Bring warm clothes.

Day 1 – Leaving at 12 noon - 3-5 hour ride. UP the grade to Creston. All stay together. “B” Group – easy route back to SLO via O’Donovan and rollers on 58. “A” Group - via La Panza and 58.

Day 2 BIG DAY – Leaving at 8:30am, - 5-6 hours. Up the Coast to Cayucos. All stay together. Entire group climbs epic Hwy 46. “A” riders regroup at the top and are off to Peachy Canyon, Paso, Templeton, Atascadero and down the Grade. “B” riders regroup at top, and come down Old Creek, back the Coast home.

Day 3 – Leaving at 8:30am. Huasna Townsite out via Orcutt, back via 227. “A” group returns via Printz and La Teena, chasing back to “B” group on 227. Ride ends at Uptown Café.