Remember when?

Close your eyes.....and go back in time....

I'm talking about hide-and-seek at dusk.

Red light, green light.

The corner store.

Hopscotch, butterscotch, doubledutch, jacks, kickball, dodgeball.

Mother May I?

Step on A Crack

Kick The Can

Red Rover and Roly Poly.

Hula Hoops.

Running through the sprinkler;

An ice cream cone on a warm summer night; Chocolate or vanilla or strawberry or maybe butter pecan.

A Cherry Coke from the soda fountain at the corner drug store.

Wait......

Watching Saturday morning cartoons ... short commercials...

Fat Albert, Road Runner, He-Man and Bugs Bunny,

Double Feature Movie Shows

When around the corner seemed far away,

And going downtown seemed like going Somewhere.

A million mosquito bites. Sticky fingers.

Cops and Robbers, Cowboys and Indians, Zorro.

Climbing trees.

Walking to school, no matter what the weather was.

Running till you were out of breath and your side hurt
Laughing so hard that your stomach hurt.

Jumping on the bed. Pillow fights.

Spinning around, getting dizzy and falling down was cause for giggles.

Being tired from playing.... Remember that?

The worst embarrassment was being picked last for a team.

War was a card game.

Water balloons were the ultimate weapon. Baseball cards in the spokes transformed any bike into a motorcycle.

I'm not finished yet -- eating

Kool-aid powder.

Remember when...

When nobody owned a purebred dog.

When a dollar was a decent allowance, and another dollar was a miracle.

When milk went up a quarter and everyone talked about it for weeks.

When you got your windshield cleaned, oil checked, and gas pumped, without asking, for free, every time.

And you didn't pay for air in the tires.

When nearly everyone's Mom was at home when the kids got there.

When it took five minutes for the TV to warm up, if you had one.

When your Mom wore nylons that came in two pieces.

When it was magic when dad would "remove" his thumb. Or maybe have you pull his finger!

When it was considered a great privilege to be taken out to dinner at a
real restaurant with your parents.

When girls neither dated nor kissed until late high school, if then.

**When any parent could discipline any kid, or feed him, or use him to carry groceries, and nobody - not even the kid - thought a thing of it. **

When they threatened to keep kids back a grade if they failed ..and did!

When being sent to the principal's office was nothing compared to what awaited a misbehaving student when arriving home.

Basically, we were in fear for our lives but it wasn't because of drive-by shootings, drugs, gangs, etc. Our parents and grandparents were a much bigger threat! And some of us are still afraid of them! It is called respect!!!

Didn't that feel good.. just to go back and say, Yeah! , I remember that!

Remember when...........

Decisions were made by going "eeny-meeny-miney-mo."

Mistakes were corrected by simply exclaiming, "do over!"

"Race issue" meant arguing about who ran the fastest.

Money issues were handled by whoever was the banker in "Monopoly."

The worst thing you could catch from the opposite sex was cooties.

Having a weapon in school, meant being caught with a slingshot.

Nobody was prettier than Mom.

Scrapes and bruises were kissed and made better.

Taking drugs meant orange-flavored chewable aspirin.

Ice cream was considered a basic food group.

New abilities were discovered because of a "double-dog dare."

Older siblings were the worst tormentors, but also the fiercest protectors.

If you can remember most or all of these, then you have LIVED!!

Photos from Tuesday 7/18/06 ride

Heading out after the half way point break.

Mark, Yale, Christopher and Rebecca Irons and Wayne

Hey Mark, the club really appreciates the drinks!

Then Chris (ShawDawg) says, "I was riding along and I looked back and there was no one there and I thought to myself, Hey, I must be going too fast." "Golly gee, I was just spinning along at 32mph, what's the problem?"

New riders to the group. Paul Britt, Michael Mitchelle. Darrell is in the red but he's an old pro with us. Darrell wears red because it loves to ride in the heat.

If I can keep my eyes open...

If I can keep my eyes open then I'll blog. I was not ready to get out of bed this morning and now that I've done my civic duty to the citizens of crit racing-ville tonight, I'm ready for a shower and a pillow. Oh yeah, by the way on the way home from the crit races I stopped at this seedy Chinese food place (egg roll express in Levy) and got a mound of food that on a Chinese place could dish out for 5 bucks. I ate almost all of it. Now this is sad because I usually eat half and save half for lunch the next day but not tonight. Then I ate a Reese's peanut butter cup then I found out the kids had bought fudge from the fudgery in Branson and hid it from me. You know hose times when you eat so much ya wanna puke? Well that's NOT me tonight. I am very comfortably happy! HA!

The races tonight were fun and I sat with all the crit chick groupies. It was funny. I told them about the whinny green jersey guy and how he always is yelling about one thing or another in the paceline. They would all get real quite when the group would come by t see if they could hear him screaming about something. Of course like a dog on the Tonight Show, he never was yelling around the corner. Probably praying he could hang on.

Our own ShawDawg came in 3rd. He had a great season!

Oh by the way... HAPPY BIRTHDAY Mrs. ShawDawg! (Jen Shaw's birthday is tomorrow). Maybe Tom Danielson will call her... she's his podium girl ya know! HA!

Tomorrow night is picture night at the club ride. Honestly, I really don't know what it means but I'll take a bunch and post 'em.

Saturday has a ride coming through Sherwood so I'm going to ride to the ride then break off as I get close to the house.

One of the guys that was registering for a race tonight said when he passed a bank by his house it read 109 degrees. I didn't see any of the guys die from the heat tonight.

Ya might wanna check yesterdays blog that I'm just posting. Just a few photos from last nights ride.

A year ago...

Can y'all believe this weather? Whoa it's hot! I'm just really happy that this was not the case this time last year as I was riding the state.

I'll write more later. I'm riding tonight after work. Hey, it's supposed to cool down to 99 here in a little while.

It's a 100 right now...
WednesdayHotHi 102°F
ThursdayHotHi 101°F
FridayHotHi 97°F (Oh get out the blankets!)

Big Dam Bridge 100 -- Oct 1st

The website should be up by July 30th! This is gonna be so cool!

Here's the cover of Joe's book!

Ok all you Book-o-bizillion and Barnie Noble shoppers watch for this book in a few weeks. Release date is around 1st of September.

Check out Joe's ride! Yep, that is his son pedalling and his other son is in the trailer in the back. Man, I can't wait to read the book!

To see more go to Joe's website: www.metalcowboy.com
Tell him I sent ya!

Back to the grind

As Terri and I riding to work this morning I told her I had the, "I don't wanna go back to work after vacation" blues. It didn't last too long. I was working away and didn't look up until 11. Fast morning! Now I'm going to wish for a fast afternoon. I've got a lot of stuff to do around the house when I get home.

I rode a very hot afternoon ride ysterday and we were going to do 70 miles but ended up with 32 due to the hot temps and hotter heat index. Funny part about the ride was that we rarely start our Tues/Thurs night rides at the 6 pm start time so when i got to the start point and I saw them leaving the parking lot I looked at the clock and it was 1:01. They were heading over to Gators where I told them I would be but I lucked into getting the car so I had driven to the real start point. I had to push it to try and catch 'em. As I came down one of the bridges I saw a bike right behind me and it was Jenny so we worked together (windy conditions) and could pretty much keep the guys in our view. I told her they think I'm at Gators so we could slow a bit because we would be heading into a long afternoon of endurance riding. We got there just after they did and the group decided against the windy hot farmland ride.

On the way back Yale was behind me and Wayne in front and I noticed Wayne looking back then stopping as I ride by. I went on over the Broadway bridge and stopped and waited and waited thinking man, what happened to those two. I rode back to the bridge and no one in sight. You know how you have bad thoughts at times like this? I was starting to have them. I lost them and there was only one way off the bridge. Yep, I thought Yale and Wayne held hands and jumped off the bridge. Ok, maybe not. There is actually 2 ways off the bridge... the other is the Cantrell exit. That insane posse took the exit and rode Cantrell! Yes, folks, Yale and Wayne really did it! They probably popped a wheelie going down the ramp too! HA!

At the end of the ride was a nice freezing cooler full of bottled water. Thanks Yale man! Oh man did it feel good going down! Yale even poured one over my head and I could feel it going down my spine. I thought I was going to dance like a hootchie-cootchie girl. HA!

I knew I needed to get back to go to a going away party for a friend that I had completly forgotten about so I turned down the trip to Starbucks. I could have slammed a Java Chipp Frap!

Oh man, did you see the stage from yesterday's Tour de France. That wreck??? Oh man oh man! Kyle had told me there was a bad wreck then I stopped him. Then I asked if it was the front group. Then I stopped him. Then I asked if Floyd was a part of it. Then I stopped him.
I got home from the party a few minutes before it happened on the replay show. I knew there was a guard rail involved so everything I saw a guard rail I would hold my breath. Then it happened. Whoa! That was horrible! This will be one of the crashes they will show over and over. If you missed it watch OLN tonight since it's a rest day they will be doing a recap and I promise they will show it. Tomorrow's race will be one to watch... THE APLS!!! The toughest mountain climb in the race.

Well, lunch is over so back to work for me. If you're out today, drink water and be careful!

Congrats Chris and Rebecca Irons

Congrats friends!
Christopher and Rebecca Irons
What a great couple!
Wishes on many many happy years together!

Home from vacation... and a good time was had by all!

I told Em we would hit up Panera this morning for breakfast so come 6:30 she is up and in the shower?! I wasn't even up. Em, Sean and myself when over to Panera and had breakfast. Cimmamon Crunch bagel with hazelnut cream cheese! Yumm! Sounds like a strange combo but boy is it good! Thanks Melissa for the intro to this combo a couple years ago. Oh and hey Melissa... HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

Mom, Dad and I hit the road about 10 and had a nice drive to Benton. I got them unpacked and settled in and we called to see how far out Barbie was on her trip home from Florida. They were in Vicksburg and I had told Mom before we talked to her that I figured Jackson. Close. We were actually calling them to let them know of the pop up storms and she said they had gone through a couple already.

It was a great trip to Branson! We laughed, saw a show, shopped, ate, slept late (yep, I slept till 7 one morning!). A good time was had by all!

Before we went everyone including Mom was worried about taking Dad since he had a really rough trip when they went to Alabama several weeks ago. But I have to tell you, he did great! I did slip getting out of the shower but that was not really his fault! He was balancing himself on the towel bar attached to the shower door which was for looks only. He was fine and no other problems. He loved sitting out on the verranda watching the golfers and swimmers. We had a few laughes watching how bad some of the golfers were. I was sort of led to believe I needed to feel sorry for him but that wasn't the case a all. I really wished I lived in Benton because I'll probably go over everyday and take hime out for a minute (to the Sonic for a chocolate shake!). He was really moving great by this morning. He was very mobile. So much so that he got up the front steps at home very fast! Were there times I had to help him during the vacation? Sure, but like I told him during on of our first "gatherings" in the restroom, I've been in the locker room before so this didn't bother me. That seems to make him laugh. Thursday morning I waited until he was up and dressed before riding and he thought I was meeting my buds to ride. He told me to tell them I was late because I had to bath an old man. I just laughed and said, Nah, I didn't help you, we were just having a family reunion! It is hard to see a my Dad who has always been so active slowly down a notch. He does ask the same questions every now and then but boy he can catch me off guard with his sharpness too! Honestly, this really was a rewarding vacation!

Was it a Woohoo or a omigosh or a clean your britches moment?

I didn't wake up until 7 this morning and was on my bike cruising the back roads of Branson by 7:45. It was a perfect morning much like we had in Little Rock a week or so ago. Very nice, low humid and a slight breeze at times. The sky was dark blue like we have in April when a cold front comes through and it was painted with cotton white clouds here and there.

As I rolled out to the parking lot to check the gear several guys came up and started talking all the usual nice bike, where ya goin'?, lots of hills around here sort of conversations. I enjoyed talking with them. Just nice folks enjoying their vacation.

M plan was once again to try to ride the hill to Silver Dollar City but that just won't happen. At 8 there was a steady stream of cars heading to that hill so I decided to ride out to Table Rock. I rode the back road (Yellow Route) to Celebration City and then headed out. Nothing but hills then I came to a slap my and hide my clothes sort of climb... 19% grade! Mentally I'm telling myself that I am a climber and can conquer any climb and by the time I got to the top I'm pouring sweat (now didn't I just say it was a nice cool morning?! HA!) At the top I turned to climb a tad more and I could see the lake way down below. It was actually a really nice drop down to the lake but cars were coming and going. Several stuck their hands out the window to give me a thumbs up. I love it when folks do that. Great encouragement. Anyway, I turned and stopped for a second and turned around and starting climbing again.

Here's where the story gets cool/insane/stupid/crazy/whatever. I got back to the 19% grade but this time it's to go d-o-w-n. I laughed and clicked over to my highest gear and yelled Hi0o0 Silver and away! Faster and faster then panic. I mean sheer panic and fear. I'm moving faster than I have ever had and it it's not fun anymore. Serious, I thought this was going to put me in the room next to Matt. I starting the brakes. Appiled the back a couple times, then the front and went back and forth. I could smell the brakes. I mean I could really smell the rubber. I knew I was about to blow from the rims getting too hot and exploding a tube. It was meant to be bad. So I used force on the back and got slowed down enough to comfortably unclip my shoe in case of crash. Finally I slow down and stop. Still a little bit of the hill to go. I hope off the bike and touch the back rim which is very hot. I spin the wheels to cool them. After a few minutes I feel good to go. I had a great ride back to the condo and my parents said "Did you ride with that green and yellow guy? I made me wonder if Doc Phonak was up here for the weekend? I have seen several road bikes on cars and trucks up here.

I walked in to smell a great breakfast being cooked and showered real quick and ate with Terri and mom and Dad out of the balcony. It is just so nice this morning!

So Terri asked me how far I went and I nevered did check. I hopped up to go look at my bike computer and it was 36.7 miles. Nice distance. Then I clicked to see other stats and stopped and just dumbfoundly looked then looked again and then once more. Top speed... 56.7 mph!!! Personal fastest. Where was the cop with the radar gun? Seems cool huh... well, I'm not dooing it again! HA! Oh that was soooo insane.

Terri just came through and told me I was going shopping with her so later folks!

Branson... the fun and the riding

I got to Benton yesterday morning and picked up Mom and Dad and we headed to Branson. Terri, Em and Sean were supposed to wait until 10 to leave Sherwood but they got antsy and left. They got stuck in wreck traffic in Mayflower too. We were actually only about 30 minutes behind them.

We got checked in and drove over to the building the condo is in and first thing I saw was that there were stairs. I was ticked off big time. We drove back over and the lady said there was an elevator but it's hard to find?! So we drive back over there and find it and push the button to go up. Nothing... ugh! We tried everything but the elevator is out of order. Ok now I'm ticked and mad and about to say ugly words in from of my mom. I get on the cell and tell the receptionist what has happened and that I'm standing at the elevator with 2 senior parents and one's in a wheelchair and it's 100 degrees. She realizes she has a unhappy camper on the phone and brings us keys to a walk in unit which is what I requested in the first place! Duh! So we get settled in and Mom and Dad are pooped so Terri, Em, Sean and myself go over to Mickey Gilley's to eat. I love the giant tamles there and Em loves the chicken and dumplings. I couldn't stand the idea of going back to the condo without something for the folks even through she don't bring them anything. We loaded bags with chicken and dumplings and took them back.

Terri and I went to Branson Landing which is the newest hip place to shop in Branson. It's a mile long and the set up is like the Commons in Destin. Really neat. Bass Pro is at one end and Belks is at the other but there are tons of great shops between. There's even a Joe's Crab Shack. I picked up an new looking Discovery Team t-shirt in the Discovery shopand even got a free Team Discovery gift which I'll keep a secret and give it away at the next ride. Of course as of today Team Discovery is doing pretty lame over in France.

We all got settled in and ALL of us talked about waking up a lot last night. Of course there is a little league baseball world series going on so the resort is full is 12 year olds. They are funny though. Just making memories of the summer of 06. I think today must have ended their run because they have taken over the pool with all the kids and parents and tons of pizza.

We took Mom and Dad down to show them Branson Landing which is jut down from the downtown Branson area. They liked it. We then went over to Hard Luck Diner and had a late lunch. It was fun but man is it loud. The waiters and waitresses are also singers so every now and then one of them will come walking through the diner with a mic just singing away with some music track going in the background. The folks really enjoy it. Dad and I sat at the table a tad longer while Mom and Terri got a running start on shopping the shops that are around it. Dad and I sat out in the courtyard and people watched and talked about how most of the stores were Christmas themed and it's 90 degrees. HA! we had a good time and laughed a lot but I could tell my the time we headed back to the condo he was getting tired.

We returned and I went over to Panera to have my afternoon iced coffee drink. (Hey Sherry, I had one yesterday too... na-n-na-n-na-na!!!). I really went to try and get hip and use WiFi but I could never get it going. Of course there were a dozen college aged kids in there going on there computers 90 to nothing. Gosh, I felt old and out of touch!

(Another note to my sister Sherry... We where going through Clinton and I saw a flag and belted out God Bless America and I thought Dad was going to grab the stering wheel and end it all right there! HA!)

When I got Terri, Mom and Dad were all napping. It was funny to walk into the den and see everyone passed out.

Dinner was in and Terri had to go to Chicos to shop some more. There's goes the money!

Hey, I did get up and ride this morning. It was only 14.9 miles but hibbie jibbie it was TOUGH! there is a bike route which the guy who was doing cross-stitch when I walked int the bike shop. Yep, the bike mechanic was cross stitching. Anyway, when i walked in I asked him about the map to the whole bike route. He was all gruff and said, "We don't have a bike route." I said,"Sure you do because I rode part of it this morning. There are signs that say bike route and signs that say Share the Road." "Well, that ain't a bike route. They just put those signs up but I wouldn't ride it!" I told him it was a nice ride this morning and a good challenge. He told me that he wouldn't recommend riding anywhere around here. Ok now this is a guy with a shop full of Trek and Giant road bikes telling me not to bike his town. He told me to go about 10 miles out of town to a commuter lot and ride out there. I told him I really wanted to ride the bike route again in the morning and ride to Silver Dollar City before the traffic started. He looked at me like I told him I wanted to buy his daughter or something! He said, "Do you realize that that is a long hill?" I just said yep and that's what I wanted to train on. He just said, "Well good for you!" I bought some gels just to support a local bike shop but he needs to go to customer service school! If you are in Branson and you find yourself needing a bike shop, the shop itself is good. It in The Shoppes at Branson Meadows.

But there was one really cool thing that happened in there and I got my hands on one of the Hotter Than Hell 100 special issues and ther's a story about our Fast Girls and Slow Guys bike club and a photo of Mr Funk (Yale's dad) and a group photo from when the crew went down there last year.

Well that about wraps up the day... except that FLOYD GT THE YELOW JERSEY TODAY in the Tour de France!!!!! WooHoo!

Geo out...

The night before vacation ride

Rebecca, aka, Mrs. Chris Irons in a couple of days.

Yale describing the pain we are about to endure.

Keith making a hot date phone call. Hey see this young whipper snapper in the black. Watch him. He's very fast!

JBar doing his best JC Penny modeling imitation! HA!

The club about to cross the Broadway bridge to Little Rock

I kept wanting to take this photo so I shot it on the way to the ride. Just seems cool to have a Share the Road with the skyline in the background.

Well I'm off for the rest of the week and we head to Branson for a few days tomorrow. I'll go down and pick up Mom and Dad about 9 in the morning and we'll head up to the condo. Terri, Em and Sean will be leaving from the house around 10. I'm really looking forward to just getting out of town. I really don't care if I do nothing but hang out with Dad and hit up Panerra a couple of times. I'm taking the bike and hope to grab and early morning ride. What I really want to do is ride that hill to Silver Dollar City. Just one looong hill. If I go early enough I won't have the traffic. Sean is talking about getting up early and going to play a round of golf. All he has to do is walk out the back door and he's on the course. Emmy has shopping on her list and i suspect Terri does too but she'll deny it! HA!

I spoke with Mom and she said Dad had a pretty good day. He had just had his shower and was "worn out". Said it takes a lot of his energy to do things like that. It's sad when life comes to that.

Hey my bud Matthew is doing better! He was moved over to St Vincent Rehab and will be going through ome real physical therapy. We got Lisa, his sister, on our email list now so she can send out emails to the group. She said they thought they may have to go back to surgery due to the swelling of his leg and they thought is was still bleeding inside. But as of this afternoon, no surgery thank goodness.

The ride tonight was OK. I dropped and rode easy. Rebecca and I rode the ride back together and I didn't even know she was back there. Glad I was looley gagging around. We talked about the upcoming wedding, Chris having to travel to Mt Home. When she told me where he went, I said, "On purpose?" She laughed. Rebecca and Chris will be a great couple and my money is on the long long term marriage. They just seem to enjoy each other and life in general. You know, they are happy people. The kind you like to hang out with. I'm sad that I will miss the wedding on Saturday and I bet it's one of those really pretty ones.

Well, I better go throw some stuff in the paking pile before Terri shoots me.

Metal Cowboy rides again!

As promised, here's the new except from Joe's book! I'll come back later and clean the spacing up.

Advance Praise for Momentum Is Your Friend:

"Give Huck Finn a bicycle, give Lance Armstrong a sense of humor and

give Jack Kerouac a good editor and you have Joe Kurmaskie's latest

road trip. Hilarious. Joe brings a one of a kind voice to the travel world."

--Tom Lang, Author of "Coffee," "Cat", and "Mrs.. Claus"



"Joe Kurmaskie is the real deal and Momentum is Your Friend is true to the

man himself. Intimate, ironic, worldly, wise and most of all, fun. It reads

like a wild, downhill ride with lots of switchbacks, hanging on for dear

life and enjoying every bump. Read it."

---Robert Ferrigno author of Prayers for the Assassin and Horse Latitudes



"The Metal Cowboy has ruined his boys in the best possible way. Equal parts

Annie Lamont and On The Road, this book will take your funny bone for a joy

ride while it breaks your heart." - Whitney Otto author of How To Make an

American Quilt



"With his two sons in tow providing moral support (and comic relief), Joe

Kurmaskie treats us to a reader's trifecta: A humorous travelogue, a

stirring adventure tale, and a touching family story. - Bart King, Author

of The Big Book of Boy's Stuff



"Joe Kurmaskie Is a supercharged storyteller for the new millennium, and I

would cross the desert sands and climb the Rockies to listen to him tell his

tale." --Jay Atkinson author of ICE TIME, LEGENDS OF WINTER HILL and CITY IN

AMBER



Joe Kurmaskie ups the ante on ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE in

about as many ways as an ante can be upped. Not only does he bike

cross-country with his son perched in back, he bikes all the way across the

country. And his bike is a bicycle. And he has another son trailing behind

in a carrier. Joe writes about this adventure with panache and insight, and

more than enough detail to make the rest of us glad to read what a trip like

this is like, while leaving the actual biking to Joe.

Bill Merritt -author of A Fool's Gold: A Story of Ancient Spanish Treasure,
Two Pounds of Pot, and the Young Lawyer Almost Left Holding the Bag.



The Metal Cowboy rides again, and we're glad he does! With his two young

sons in tow, author Joe Kurmaskie traverses the American landscape with

blood, sweat, and gears, spinning a quixotic and witty tale that veers into

legend territory. Will he defeat the dragon of approaching middle age?

Will he earn the hero worship he sees in his children's eyes? Heck, will he

even pull the whole thing off? No and yes, and yes and maybe, and it's all

so damn entertaining you just have to keep reading.

--Jennie Shortridge, author of Eating Heaven

and Riding With The Queen



"An exhilarating ride through America; Huck Finn on a bike. Wise, funny and

at all times exciting, every page is a treat."

Jim Kokoris Author of THE RICH PART OF LIFE and SISTER NORTH.


Momentum Is Your Friend:
The Metal Cowboy and His Pint-Sized Posse Take on America

Joe Kurmaskie







Dedication

For Quinn and Enzo
My Princes of the Pacific
My Kings of the Coast


How am I looking? I don’t want the truth.
What am I doing? I ain’t in my youth.
I’m past my prime, or was that just a pose?
It’s a wonderful lie. I still get by on those.
—Paul Westerberg


It’s never enough until your heart stops beating.
—New Order

Prologue

A few things you should know about me: I’m involved in a rather unhealthy relationship with caffeine; it’s been going on for years, and I have no intention of breaking things off. Also, by my twenty-first birthday I’d quit more jobs than you’ll ever have, leaving me free to follow the only path left for a strapping young man of questionable aptitude and work ethic: I became a writer. When folks ask me what that’s like, I tell them to picture a super-hero with no special powers. You’re all Clark Kent, all the time. Worse, someone along the way, probably my mother, convinced me that I did possess God-like abilities. This will turn out to be in my imagination.
What else? I don’t know when to say quit, especially around certain flavors of pie, or after I’ve climbed onto a bicycle. Often, combining my suspect intellect with my stubborn resolve makes for lively entertainment. Case in point, I once raced a greyhound on foot along uneven New Mexico sand teeming with barrel cacti. This, while an entire deck of partygoers looked on. I was not drunk or running for my life, nor was this a high stakes wager. I just thought it might be fun, and part of me actually believed I could beat this graceful animal, (see mom, and the special powers ruse) and because someone needed to wipe that cocky grin off its streamlined face.
I would learn too late that centuries of breeding are responsible for its loopy smile, not to mention its incredible speed out of the blocks. Also, that there is no margin of error when running between barrel cacti.
One more thing, I have what teachers euphemistically referred to on progress reports as socially excessive verbal proficiency. I’m chatty; my mouth runneth over.
Let’s review. What we have is a jittery, unemployable scribe, a tenacious bastard to be sure, but lacking a certain intellectual curiosity, who wants nothing more than to ride his bicycle . . . and won’t shut up.
I’m as surprised as you that it’s worked out this well.


Part 1

How Momentum Works



The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware. –Henry Miller





Know thyself? If I knew myself, I’d run away.
-Goethe




Chapter 1

He did every single thing as if he did nothing else. –Charles Dickens

Climbing a healthy series of switch backs through the chill of a Colorado dawn, I don't feel tired. I don't feel the miles I pedaled yesterday or the weight I'm carrying now. Pockets of warm air hug the corners of the road. I spot wildflowers, rebels against the altitude, clinging to the washes as I clear tree line. When I look over my shoulder there's another cyclist, some industrious insomniac out for an early morning ride. He's determined to catch me before the top, but it doesn't happen. We rest beside a sign marking Cottonwood Pass, at more than 12,000 feet above sea level.
It’s every man’s secret desire to raise a middle finger to the approach of mid-life. High time to stick it to the reaper while I still have the lung capacity. I want to humiliate that cloaked coward. Put Death in polyester bellbottoms, gaudy gold medallions, cue the DJ and make him do “The Hustle” for the viewers at home.
After that maybe we’ll dress life’s little party crasher in tight Lycra, ride him hard, then drop Death like a wet bag of dirt on some slow rise in the Midwest.
Who’s with me?!
"You're coming from where?!" Insomniac asks a second time, looking over 14 feet of loaded rig: my two boys and the tagalong bike and trailer I've been towing for 1,576 miles.
He nods reverently. "And here I thought I was doing something this morning.”
We let that hang there for a few moments. In an uncharacteristic show of modesty, I try to shrug it off. The cycling equivalent of Jack Lalane pretending he hasn’t just crawl stroked the English Channel pulling a hundred speed boats by his teeth.
“Don’t kid yourself." The Insomniac spreads his arms wide, in an effort to take in the whole monstrosity, before he gives up. “Oregon all the way to Washington, DC pulling that? My man, this is a bold statement.”
I want to agree with him, but my perspective blurred beyond repair somewhere back in Idaho. These days, unless I’m in well over my head, it’s not even interesting.
I should probably have that checked.
When it comes to needing a competent mental health professional, Insomniac could certainly give me a run for my money. It turns out bold statements backed up by equally derelict actions are his operating instructions.
He has to be pushing thirty, but when the helmet comes off a spectacular abundance of piercings, ten in one ear alone, and a little metal pipe, glowing cobalt blue in the predawn light, runs the width of his pinched and punctured forehead. It’s an unsettling marriage of tribal art to a pack of angry teens. You know the ones who loiter, smoke, curse and nod with no enthusiasm from the steps of the public library; maybe a tribal leader failing community college who’s stopped speaking to his parents.
“I lost my sweetest trick bike into Blue Mesa Reservoir last weekend,” Insomniac announces.
A promising way to open an anecdote, it brings my second grader, Quinn, back from whatever reverie he’s lost in across the horizon. Five-year-old Enzo pops up through the top flap of the bicycle carrier, a prairie dog emerging at the first whiff of excitement on the breeze.
“It wasn’t a road bike.” As if this explains everything. We wait him out.
“I do BMX most weekends. Trick riding, extreme jumps. People know about me . . . I mean people outside the Colorado aggro biker community.”
We nod encouragingly.
“Dudes, I’m awesome.”
I recognize this behavior. To back up bold statements, a certain amount of grandstanding is required. Not always pretty, but absolutely necessary if one wants to complete the motion.
“On weekends, we toss up a plywood ramp on the railing of the bridge. It’s sixty feet to the water. Crowd mushrooms by noon. Music, Frisbees, lots of vans, a real Dead Show vibe.”
But with more tattoos and Incubus music is my guess.
“Never a question of ‘if,’ I’m just waiting until the crowd can’t take anymore tension.”
Or they’ve run out of ecstasy, perhaps?!
“Where was the other ramp?” Quinn asks. His question makes me proud and a bit melancholy, motivated as it is by a sense of safety and his misguided belief in self preservation as a universal human trait.
You can tell Insomniac lives for moments like these. “The lake Big Guy. I’m over the top and landing in the lake . . . roll tape, news at 11. You want to catch huge air, nail a triple spin like you do this every day, then kick out from the bike before hitting the water. No one wants to be near their ride when it lands. Bonus for a quick resurfacing to snag your swag before it sinks to the bottom.”
I watch Quinn’s world-view shift before my eyes. As though he’s studying the zoo orangoutangs hanging on high vines doing something foolish with fruit, a garden hose and their nostrils. The evolutionary connection has been made. I will need to watch my eldest son more closely the rest of the way to the Atlantic.
“Nailed the jump but did it get ugly on the way down. Bike came back under me. I had to take evasive action or else . . .”
“Or else monsters would get you?” Enzo’s into the story now, standing completely upright in the bike carrier, solar cover thrown back and bracing himself with the top bar . . . essentially turning his rig into a de-facto Popemobile and himself into a mini pontiff. We’ll teach him the official Vatican wave later.
“Or else I’m impaled on my bike seat and they’re dragging the res for my remains.” Insomniac winks, playing to his audience. “But I’m not going down like that.”
I interpret for the boys, complete with hand gestures. We should all have access to a diplomatic translator in Lycra.
“Speared, splattered . . . sunk.”
A cliffhanger before breakfast… it just doesn’t get any better for my kids.
“Bammo . . . I have to give the handlebars a roundhouse kick, then torque my back around like some circus performer, Dudes. Hit the water so wrong I forget everything until I’m pulled out and panting back on concrete.”
The boys sigh at the same time and in the same pitch. The only thing more satisfying than Insomniac’s ending would have been if it included a prize at the bottom of the box.
They might be done, but I have a few loose ends that need tying. Like how he has come to possess such a high performance road bike.
“My brother took it in trade for a drywall job. He says I’ll bury his best time by the end of the summer.”
Replaying how Insomniac stalked me up the mountain like some sleek jungle cat leaves little doubt.
“You know, there’s not a lot of crossover between trick riders and roadies,” I say.
Insomniac looks back down the mountain. Its angle and the distance to the lake below are something out of a Dr. Seuss drawing. Then he eyes our bikes, the boys and the radical tilt of the Earth in the other direction.
“There ought to be,” he says, not a trace of guile in his voice. “If this ain’t extreme, I relinquish my membership.”
We wait for sunrise at the top of the world—casual gods surveying an Evergreen kingdom that spans for miles in every direction—then roll the summit and barrel into another day on the road.






Chapter 2


This is a perfect world, riding on an incline.
—Talking Heads


We’re a few weeks and brutal headwinds beyond our triumphant cresting of 12,000 foot Cottonwood Pass.
“Come on, Dad,” Quinn pokes at me with a bike pump in the same fashion I’ve seen him use on roadkill. “Get up! We’re almost over the rainbow.”
I’m lying yards from afternoon rush hour traffic. The mercury tops 106 degrees and Quinn’s reference is to both the Judy Garland classic and the name of the steepest hill in Kansas City . . . probably less than 500 feet above sea level, which I’ve failed to top.
To my left is a church, its spiral steeple penetrating the heights that man can reach. To the right, a hospital… which will come in handy if the spots at the edges of my vision continue to grow.
Since clearing the Colorado border, I’ve talked up Baum’s Oz classic, even calling Kansas City its spiritual home. The boys are to be on the lookout for a horse of a different color. I’d give anything at this moment if they could locate a canister of oxygen.
It’s on the humidity-stoked hill of Rainbow Blvd., straddling Kansas and Missouri, caught between the cracks, that I wish there were “do-overs” in long distance cycling.
Wait a minute. Why not join me down here on the gravel? That’s it, lie down in the road and let the burning asphalt blister your sweat-drenched skin, swallow back the tips of your lungs poking right through your throat and try to roll into the shade like some wounded Green Beret hunting for a depression on the battlefield, only to find that shade, like everything else inside the breadbasket of America, is a Heartland lie. Okay, that could be the heat stroke talking, but we are stretched across what most call a gutter, two hundred yards from the summit, seemingly incapable of forward progress, two kids counting on us and it’s not getting and earlier, I’m allowed a little latitude.
And since you’re down here, I’ll tell you what we’re looking for; somewhere between the gravel pocking your soft spots and glass shards boring into your back, the ants going about their business as if you don’t exist and the hint of fresh cut grass carrying memories of renewal . . . is our will to live. We’ll need that, or, at the very least, faith enough to fake it.
One more thing, don’t lie so close to me, I really should take in some air that no one’s been breathing for awhile.
We’re nine blocks, less than two miles from our destination, but I don’t know that. I can only recall it’s something of an oasis, the home of close family friends, God parents more or less, and their beautiful daughters, one of whom broke my heart in all the right places years ago. Oh, and there’s a pool, nestled under tall pines and lush flowering plants.
Still, Eden always comes with a price tag.
I can’t beg or borrow the strength to do what is necessary on that bike. Eyeing the angle of our slope divided by the build up of lactic acid in my joints, then carrying the remainder of the day . . . nope. I’d better stay here a little longer, until my math improves or time and nature grinds the hillside down to an acceptable size.
“Go Laaaannnce!” Followed by a few yips and yeehaws from the passenger side of a pickup truck. I’m too far gone to let its sarcastic undertone, or what may have been snickering from the back seat, touch me. Nothing’s thrown in our direction, so there’s that. Quinn wields the bike pump like an old man waving his cane at the neighborhood hooligans.
“Dad?” Lack of forward motion has interrupted my five-year-old’s afternoon nap. Enzo emerges from the cave of his carrier holding a spray bottle of water. It sports a little fan attached to the nozzle.
“Do you have any chocolate?” He comes to a halt over me, stares for a moment, and shakes his head. My current state does not offer him much hope of obtaining cocoa product. I hear the little fan whirl into action. Enzo spritzes himself a few times, then, in an act of unprovoked kindness, what I choose to read as empathy, he turns the mist on his old man.
“No one’s out of gas around here until I say so,” Quinn barks, parroting one of my favorite self-help seminar lines. He gets in close, eyeing me with the disappointed glare of a high school football coach. “Get up. We’re in the Emerald City.”
I don’t even make an attempt.
“Emerald City for you two, maybe,” I say. My breathing is reminiscent of someone locked inside an iron lung. “For me, it’s all tornados and flying monkeys right now.”
Enzo turtles his neck a little and scans the skies for aerial chimps and twisters. I’m not trying to scare them, just buying some time.
It occurs to me that if I can still make fun of my situation, there might actually be something left in the tank.
“Another minute, boys, that’s all I need. Quinn, get me some of that Clif recovery powder from the right pannier. It’s in a Ziploc.”
I manage a seated position without blacking out. Quinn has my water bottle in one hand and a bag of powder in the other.
“No, no . . . that bag’s your grandpa. I’m talking about the other Ziploc, next to the gel packs and Band-Aids.”
Did I mention we have three generations on board? After my dad’s heart blew, Thanksgiving morning of 2000, his urn ended up in my home office. Not much of a final resting place. The man spends a lifetime grinding it out inside cubicles . . . it didn’t seem right to keep him cooped up any longer. Deserving better in life, but when all that’s left are gestures, go big. That was before every ounce mattered, back when rolling weight on a bicycle was just an abstract theory and a source of future bragging rights.
But when the road hits this hard, every item, even your long suffering dad’s remains, feel like a burden.
With Pop back in the bag, a few gallons of electrolyte therapy down my throat, and a pair of wobbly sea legs under me for support, we soldier on. It’s asking too much to straddle the bike yet, but pushing it the short distance to the top is no picnic either, even with Quinn’s help. Enzo has located the dregs of a lollipop along the floor of the trailer, silencing him for the moment.
The adventure hits rock bottom at what could be the highest point of Kansas or Missouri. In my bleary excitement to crest the rise, I surge the bike forward faster than we’ve been coaxing it up the hill. Not by much, but it’s enough to catch Quinn in the calf with Enzo’s trailer. I can only watch as he performs a slow motion stumble forward.
My stomach jumps into my throat.
I’m on the wrong side of the handlebars. I can do little more than witness him hit the sidewalk. Quinn’s bike gloves and one of the knee pads work like a charm. Little consolation to the other knee, scuffed under the pad just enough to raise a light but crimson patch of blood.
Quinn’s rage and recriminations are perfectly natural. The only surprising thing is why it hasn’t happened before now. For a seven-year-old, over 2000 miles into a bike adventure, he’s been, with a few exceptions, Jedi-like in nature. Knocked down by the rig that has brought us all such joy, and by a father who, until now, has protected him from injury, not caused it; all this is too much of a betrayal to let stand. His outpouring of raw emotion is a Cal Ripken Jr. hard ball to my head. Knowing it’s coming doesn’t make it hurt any less. Shame, exhaustion and this hapless feeling of failing my son nearly sends me over the edge.
I pull him close, a bear hug he’s both encouraging and resisting with physical violence. I take a deep breath, absorb the worst of the blows, and for once really question the wisdom of this endeavor. Am I giving them the time of their lives on two wheels, or making them do hard time in the saddle? We stay like that until his tears dry up and his breathing levels out. I’m not broken yet, but for the first time on our “Boys of Endless Summer Freedom Tour,” you can see some cracks.
That’s when he remembers the swimming pool.
“According to this sweat stained freebee map of Kansas City’s best BBQ joints, it’s nine more blocks. Just nine,” I say.
Helmet to helmet, we lock eyes. “Gonna take all my strength (and probably a blood transfusion) to get us there, son. I’ll need to go radio silent . . . maybe you could count us down, block by block?!”
Enzo removes his lollipop. “I know you guys can do it.”
And with that we have our momentum back.
How important is this underrated law of physics? Here’s the thing about trying to push pounds of metal, gear, human cargo and two thin strips of Kevlar 4,000 miles across America. At some point, no matter who you are, after the excitement and scheming, purchases and preparations are behind you, the full weight of your possessions will threaten to crush your deepest ambitions.
Narrow mountain roads focus your attention like finding religion or dating a supermodel, ancients navigating motor homes around blind curves send shivers down the small of your back, hills go on without end, windstorms blow, fatigue settles in, flash floods threaten, black flies bite, humidity, tornados, traffic and worse try to break you like balsa wood under a well made work boot.
Momentum . . . is the only force on Earth that can possibly carry you through.
But if you want to come out the other side with more than miles, then you’ll have to grab the brakes, get off the bike when your gut tells you or your legs force you, and have a good look around.
I decide we’ve seen enough of Rainbow Boulevard. It’s time to take us to the water.
“56th Avenue!” Quinn calls out clear and strong, like he’s a cadence jockey on the Tour de France postal team. The miles have really worked him into quite a stoker, hollering “car back”, and “on your right” as though he’s been riding for years.
“One more block, boys.” I’ve been stifling back cries of anguish, choosing instead to focus the pain into a meditation of little circles, suffering in silence while tears run the length of my cheeks. I burned the last of my fumes back on 57th Avenue, before searching around for the packaging it came in so I could torch that up also. The top of each short but deadly rolling hill is achieved by digging deep into muscle memory, then letting the enthusiasm in Quinn’s voice wash over me and push us along. Anyone witnessing our caravan barrel down that blvd., looking good from tail to hood, has no idea, not a clue of the battle raging around inside.
It’s that way with most of us.
“59th Avenue!” My son’s screaming now, a half-mad third base coach waving me in. We round the corner and it all floods back. I know where I am. It’s 1980. I’m fifteen years old, fueled by lust, Little Kings beer in the bottle and Black Sabbath concert tickets. The world and my hair, know no boundaries. It was quite a summer.
The pedals crank on one last surge of energy. I dump our rolling whale on the front lawn and crumple in a happy heap. No ticker-tape parades, brass bands or medal ceremonies; the hum of cicadas in the high branches is our only soundtrack. Chain grease covers my calf, gratitude the rest of me.
I’m on my feet before the boys can locate bike pumps and spritz bottles.
“Pool’s out back.”
Quinn hits me with a bear hug, Enzo whoop-whoops from the carrier.
We’ve come halfway across America, and, for the moment, all the way home.


Part 2


Portland, Oregon to Kansas City, Missouri


"I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed . . . or buy anything sold or processed . . . or process anything sold, bought, or processed . . . or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."
—Lloyd Dobler, “Say Anything”





Chapter 3

"We all agree that your theory is crazy, but is it crazy enough?" - Niels Bohr (1885-1962)

JULY 1 0 MILES
Portland, Oregon
Neighbors stop weeding their flower beds and let hoses spill water down porch steps as we wobble by.
“Feels like a parade,” Enzo calls from the trailer. I can barely hear him at this distance, but I’m glad he’s enjoying himself.
“We are the parade,” Quinn points out.
Big Steve, an engineer who is never without his smokes, bottled beer or his black convertible with suicide doors—the John F. Kennedy assassination car—stands at the curb shaking his head. He smiles at us through a prodigious cloud of smoke rings.
It’s T minus two hours until lift off and I still have a few bugs to work out, but even this minor victory tastes sweet. I imagine it’s what the Wright Brothers savored high on that hill. Granted, we’re going to have to stay aloft for more than a couple hundred feet, but considering that 24 hours earlier our engineering set backs had reached an Apollo 13 rescue scramble, and not a rocket scientist in sight, I feel pretty damn good.
“Your arms look like Popeye,” Quinn says. It really is taking some muscle to steady the rig and soldier forward on our pancake-flat boulevard. I try to ignore the fact that we aren’t even fully loaded yet. Pannier ballast will trim the wobble and straighten the ride, but add to the overall rolling weight. I’m vindicated regarding a winter regimen of free weights and hours spent wrestling with the basement Bowflex machine—Spanish Inquisition style.
I wave to the white haired woman on the corner who wears nothing but brown tunics or billowing pastel moo-moos no matter the season. This innocent action almost takes us to the ground. Adrenaline, angle, and dumb luck avert a pre-trip disaster.
Speed seems to level out our ride so I increase it. More reactions from front porches and other pedestrians. A blind man could read their expressions.
“Would you look at that! He thinks we haven’t thought about some foolish jailbreak from the daily grind? But what sort of man acts upon such things? And with kids in the bargain?!”
I opt to nod instead of wave this time, hoping to hold off a call to child services. If there was more time, I’d stop and explain myself.
It’s like this; I misspent the better part of my youth on a bicycle, with a career total of 100,000 miles and counting. That includes six coast-to-coast marathons, a 2,000-mile epic across Australia's crimson-red Nullarbor Plain, and up-and-down rollers on both of New Zealand's islands. I've chased ice cream trucks around Baja and pedaled a surfboard to the breakwaters of Jaco, Costa Rica. If a 12-step program for addicts of open-road adventure existed, friends would have tackled me to the ground years ago.
I was raised in a community of Tupperware pioneers making damn sure no one would want for anything they could order from a catalog. This left me insulated, parochial and restless. Who wouldn’t wander into traffic?
I did stop rolling long enough to find a full life. But a wife, two boys, three books, and one mortgage later, the dangerous notion that it doesn't have to end in one zip code keeps surfacing. Still, a meandering, unsupported, seventeen-state ride from Portland, Oregon, to Washington, DC, at the height of summer, my two sons in tow, Beth lost to us at grad school, and the big clock set at sixty-five days and counting?
Vegas bookies call this one a sucker’s bet, throw open the window and try to mask their grins as they take my money clip. Close friends talk around me in hushed tones. Several have the backbone to come right out and predict I’ll get the whole fiasco hooked together, realize my folly and call it off in the driveway.
Only my wife seems serene. Maybe it’s the thought of all that peace and quiet, but it’s more than that. We’ve witnessed enough of each others lives to know real resolve.
“You need this,” she says during a rare respite from the chaos around our homestead. “But if this is about our promise of always trying to stay awake. You do know we were young, foolish, and strung out of Springsteen at the time. Okay, and only because I know you’ll be the same big-hearted, safety freak of a Dad no matter where you are. So, have fun storming the castle.”
That went well, considering that my backup plan was nothing more than to say we were heading out for some Snapple, then keep going.
We’re calling this the WWLDD tour. It stands for What Would Lloyd Dobler Do?
For those who missed the 1980s, or VH1’s “I Love The 80s,” Dobler was the working teen’s hero in Say Anything, a very smart film starring John Cusack that, despite a few hairstyling missteps, feels contemporary even today. It dealt with love, tax evasion, kickboxing as a career choice, and how to look cool holding up a forty-pound boombox. (Answer: make sure it’s playing Peter Gabriel.) Dobler had it together even though it didn’t look like it. He took chances on things that mattered while wearing a trench coat right through August. He’ll be our patron saint for the duration of the ride.
I’ve had T-shirts printed up with WWLDD on the front, and Dobler’s four-line, star-making speech on the back. Along the way our shirts will elicit responses I expect: “great flick!” catchphrases from the movie like “Keymaster!” and the pantomiming of someone holding a boombox while they shout out the chorus to Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.” Other reactions will catch me off guard. I never expected so many thumbs-up signs and “amen”s from folks throughout the Bible Belt. They mistake it for a variation on What Would Jesus Do? In this case, What Would the Lord Do, or Decide to Do? or What Would The Lord Do, Do?
A sweetheart of a gal behind the meat counter at a country store in southern Indiana went so far as to ask me, after reading the “I don’t want to sell anything . . .” quote on the back, if Dobler was some holy man she hadn’t made the acquaintance of yet. Maybe on Sunday morning TV?
“As I live and breath,” I said. “But these days, he’s only on cable.”
Most wannabe mavericks looking to instill a bit of rebel yell in their sons would do well to start each morning by teaching them the lyrics, plus hand motions, to songs such as Violent Femmes “Blister in the Sun”, and read aloud from Huck Finn every night. I’ve taken this prescription a step further.
Instead of a raft, we’re floating on five wheels and so much forged aluminum tubing. Standing in for the Muddy Mississippi is every blue highway, back road, and the occasional farmer’s frontage path ending abruptly in barbed wire and robust cursing.
While Tom and Huck had the ingenious if not quite literate Jim, Quinn and Enzo have to settle for Papa Joe, clever in a limited sort of parlor-game way, chatty to a fault and, for what it’s worth, fully matriculated.
Those Missouri lads fought racism and a return to share cropping serfdom. We will battle headwinds and the end of their summer vacation.
Lest you think I lack for loftier goals to leave as a legacy, our plan includes learning, to public-performance level if asked, a full catalog of songs, mostly Brit punk, Talking Heads and three-part harmony on Bob Marley’s “No Woman No Cry” because there’s nothing more satisfying than really putting your suburban, white-boy back into the line, “Oba, Oba serving the hypocrites, mingled with the good people we meet” in a faux-Jamaican accent. It’s been known to help heal the hurt when the engine of injustice bears down on your rear wheel. A simple Trenchtown gift from Mr. Marley, which I want my boys to make their own; if only for singing in the shower, or in lieu of slugging a nasty coworker one Tuesday morning twenty years from now.
And while I doubt our tales of chainring rebellion will be banned in libraries and classrooms someday (couldn’t find myself in better company though), the audacity of our endeavor is obvious. You heard the body-pierced man of Colorado: he called us a bold statement. And if that impulse-free adrenaline jockey of a man defines me as a radical, I must be completely off the map and I just don’t know it, yet.
Stupid is as Stupid pedals, Sir!
Regardless, our project doesn’t want for wanderlust, a solid grab at independence, the head-clearing simplicity of graceful transportation and enough journalistic commitment to make the ghost of Twain tear up a little. Braving first light with my pint-sized posse in tow, shaking off the easy pleasures of inertia and the merits of good sense all summer, we’re entering serious windmill-tilting territory.
On the face of it, blame falls squarely on an article deadline imposed by a national magazine, but that would be taking the easy way out.
I’m all about personal responsibility, sometimes.
To that end, I’ve been up nights assembling a long list of reasons for doing the ride and for doing it now, but here’s one that feels authentic: I've just hit forty, and there's no denying every man's fantasy—no, not that fantasy, the other one—to see if his body, tuned up to its current best, will stand or fall; stage a bloody mutiny at the bow of the boat or hold the lines.
In other words, do I still have “it”; the soaring finger-roll into the basket while two men guard me, (almost had that once) the perfectly executed swan dive from the three-meter platform. (never had that)
But I did have “It.”
What we have then is an old-fashioned Texas cage match pitting myself against the easy athleticism I might have treated with arrogance in my twenties. This could get interesting.
I’ll be pulling 14 feet of traffic-stopping rig: My custom-made 27-gear Rodriguez touring bike, plus four expedition-size Arkel panniers loaded with everything from replacement parts to fishing poles to pots and pans. Quinn’s my copilot, pedaling a Burley tagalong cycle attached to my rear rack; Enzo will lounge in his Chariot trailer, wedged between sleeping bags, bike pumps, and the occasional watermelon. Most days this 250-pound caravan will feel like I'm hauling a Hobie Cat behind me. I draw inspiration from the unsung Sherpas working Everest and New World conquerors weighed down by armor and battle axes. This brand of insanity always gets my blood going.
Returning safely from our “startle the neighbors” tune-up ride, we begin the tedious task of refolding map after map covering the hardwood floor of our living room. More of an accusation than a departure date, the red circle around July 1 stands out from the piles of papers. By pedaling Oregon, Idaho, Montana, a bit of Wyoming, high country Utah, and the length of Colorado, we'll get heart-pounding scenery instead of choking heat; I simply pretend not to notice how many times our planned route crosses the Continental Divide. But highlighting every mile of a proposed route is akin to cartographic masturbation. Once beyond the Big Muddy we’ll improvise our way to the White House.
“We’re bringing the red light saber for you, Dad . . . ’cause that’s Darth Vader’s.”
And they say you’re always the hero in your children’s eyes. Losing interstellar laser battles from here to the Atlantic doesn’t bother me as much as what those light sabers weigh.
With a long holiday weekend ahead of her, Beth will pace us out of Oregon, but she’s about the tough love, agreeing only to cart our front two panniers and some extra grub in the car.
“It’ll be less of a blow that way.” She notes from the front seat of the Forester, windows down, AC blasting enough to compete with the Coldplay CD. Beth appears to be enjoying my burdens a little too much. I’m reminded of every Florida highway patrolman who wrote me a traffic ticket from a cool, comfortable, reclined position, with the notable exception that I never slept with any of them.
When we finally take our starting positions, the day turns against us. Not by wrath-of-God thunderclaps and plague-of-frog proportions, it’s more subtle and far worse. A thin, hazy summertime cloud cover traps heat and humidity across the length of the Willamette Valley. I soak through my first jersey standing in place. It’s 2 pm, our rig is a few pounds shy of a prairie schooner, and there’s a slight breath of sticky wind coming out of the East.
“Ready, Dad?” Quinn adjusts his helmet.
Absolutely not. I’d look back but I wouldn’t want to turn to salt or lose my resolve.
“Let’s do it, boys.”

Happy 62nd Anniversay Mom and Dad!

Donna, Sherry, Mom, Dad and me

Still crazy after all these years!

Mom and Dad

We spent the afternoon out having a good time celebrating my parents 62nd anniversary. Dad was in good spirits and seemed to be having a good time. Always fun to see them laughing and carrying on!

We'll be taking them to Branson on Wednesday to a little vacation. We have a nice condo booked at Thousand Hills I we made sure it was with a view of the pool and the golf course so we can all sit out on the patio and watch people and drink coffee.

Barbie and crew left yesterday for FL (Panama City) and like any trip you wait a long time for, something would have o happen. Lindsey went out about an hour before the departure time and the Tahoe wouldn't start. Just a dead battery. New battery in and off they go. They got almost to Mobile last night and heading on in to PC Beach today.

WAY TO GO CHRIS SHAW!!!!!!!!!!

I have to have a bloggette all on it's on for Chris Shaw. Yep, the young lad blew the field tonight winning his first race... and get this... while riding only his second race. He is now a name among the racers here. Congrats my man! I'm proud of you!!

Funny story: I was working at the registration table and the Pro's where talking about the CAT 5 race and they were talking about this guy that won. "Who is he?" one asked. I gave them the duh look and said very matter of factly, "Chris Shaw".

Sort of makes you wanna make a flyer right quick and put it on everyone's windshield that says, "His name is Chris Shaw ... you want forget that name either will ya?!"

Fast Girls and Slow Guys is changing it's name Fast Guy and Slow Girls! HA! Not really. Our girls did pretty good themselves. It was their first race and they lived.

CONGRATS CHRIS!!! GO KISS THE PODIUM GIRL!!!!

We're thinking about you Matthew! Be Strong!

As the EMTs arrive

Jess, Patrick and John discussing the accident and race

EMT crew getting Matthew ready to be moved

Getting ready to straighten his left leg out. It's broken.

Surrounded by friends and his sister (standing) as the straighten it out.

Matthews sister talks to Jenn Shaw and Patrick.

Matthew, one of our strongest riders, crashed tonight. He hit the curve and popped the street sign breaking his left leg and busting up his right knee.

The race had just started and the guys were moving along. They had a plan and they were going to take the race and make a real name for themselves.

I was working over at the registration table when we heard the crowd yelling. There's a man down. I quickly start searching for my guys from the table and I can't leave due to the crowd signing in for the next races. I see Big John, Jen, Jo, Chris, Patrick. I hear a few minutes later that it's Matt..."Our Matt". The race contiunes but I know my guys are having a hard time giving it 110% because they keep going around the course and they keep having to pass Matthew down in the ditch with folks. Like I've said a 100 times, we're a close knit group.

The race ends and the registration slows to almost nothing so I let Ron know I'm going to go check on Matthew. When I get over there he is propped up on a guy and Jenn Shaw is holding his hand. There's blood and an oxygen mask. This is not too good at all. The EMTs prep him to move him into the ambelance to transport him over to St Vincents. As they move his leg to the brace and then turn the restaint Matthew is moving with pain. The man is hurting something bad. I look at his face and it turns my stomach. When your friends are hurting, you hurt.

They get him to the ambelance and take him away. The mood is one of concern. Prayers are quitly being said as the vehicle speeds away.

Matthew, I know you're not reading this but we are all thinking about you tonight. Get well soon friend!

Wednesday is Monday

I like hump day being my Monday! Work one day and it's already Thursday. That works for me!

Not really much to write about other than the car is screwed up again. Terri and I went about a mile from the houseto watch local fireworks and the car won't start but touch it with jumper cables and it starts right up! I think I'll take it to a different garage. I don't think the goof that worked on my car really knew what he was doing. They used to be a great garage.

Poor Terri went to the mall, then the post office and then Sam's gas station and the car didn't start at gas pump. The attendent helped her jump it. I really felt bad but it's been so hit and miss.

Tomorrow is crit racing! I'll be over at the course about 4:45 or so handling the registration. Yep, some of my guys are heading back out there to turn some heads. I'll probably barely see their race due to getting the others signed upfor the races that follow.

Oh yeah, wounds are healing fast and not bothering me at all any more.

4th of July

After a restless sleep I woke at a little after 7. Very unusual for me! I went to bed at normal 10-ish but woke from a bad dream at 1:22a.m. I rolled over to find Terri not in bed and I could see that there were lights on by the dim shine under the bedroom door. First thought was, daughter and boyfriend broke up or something bad. Something bad was very right. The kids had all gone over to Conway and Sean was asked to help shoot the big fireworks and like any college kid, especially a guy, would have been more than excited to be that close to the big bangs! All went well until the very end. Chris, the main fuse lighter has something go terribly wrong. The explosion hit him in the eye and took out his eye and caused very serious damage. His lungs filled with blood and he couldn't breathe. They took him via EMT to UAMS where he is in critical condition. And what makes it even sadder is today was supposed to be his wedding day. Terri was sitting on the sofa reading and Emmy was at UAMS. There was really nothing I could do except return to bed. I woke again later feeling Terri finally getting in bed. I have no idea what time it was.

I watched a bit of the Tour this morning but didn't want to see the ending. I know it was 99 degrees and the heat was causing tires to explode. There were crashes and one of my favorites, Eric Dekker is out with a broken collarbone. This tour is more fun to watch than the past ones due to Lance being out. Yes, he was the best, but it got old from an entrainment perspective. I'm enjoying all the different sprints and winners. I hope it keeps changing to the end.

Terri and I took our bikes out and rode a little after dinner last night. It was great to be out riding with her. She could be a good rider if she did it very often. She kept her pace right around 12-14 mph which is not bad at all for being on a Trek comfort bike and not having rode but once this year. I sort of wondered if she got out there to get me out there and recover from my fall. She's sneaky like that sometimes. It was a fun ride! I saw a few buds while we were out. Three were from my own club so they knew I was recovering.

This morning I drove over to the river not wanting to ride from the house and over do it. Wimpy, I know. I had a nice ride. Saw Kyle coming the opposite direction then Paul Britt. I had seen Paul on Saturday afternoon at the Shell station up from the house and pulled in to say howdy to him and Jon Van Pay. So he knew I had gone down and turned around and chased me. I was curious to see if Ft Roots gate was closed and it wasn't. Paul caught up to me and was checking on me. Nice guy. We rode a moment then he turned to continue to ride home. He lives a few miles from us over by McCain Mall. I rode to Cook's, around the soccer fields and eyed a few great games going on. There are folks from all over the country here for the national youth soccer tourney. I rode around Burn's Park and by was it quite for a 4th of July. At the end of the ride I was feeling my old self.

The rest of the day was dull but that was my own fault. I turned into a couch tater and even took a nap which I never do and even pitched a fit as a child when I was told to nap. I hate napping. Terri told me everyone needs a day like this ever now and then. Ok, I've had mine for the year.

My club was all riding the Lollipop ride today and I longed to be out there with them but it wasn't meant to be today. It was sort of funny because at 8:30 I was telling myself, ok they should be to about Hwy 10. Later, I would think, ok they should be around the lake. I lived the ride even though I wasn't there. Is that what is meant when someone says, I'll be with you in spirit? If it does then I was certainly with my buds in spirit today.

Happy 4th of July!

Looking like a good day!

Top photo is my blood stained riding glove. My hands would have been a real mess had I not had these on.

Photo of my shoulder.

Photo of my leg. The side of my tail looks like this too but no one wants to see that! HA!


I chose to take the Monday off like I think more then half of America did. I think the other half is taking the rest of the week off. Personally I think we shuld all just take the whole week, I mean the Tour de France is on ya know!

The bike wreck wounds seem to be healing fast! I plan to try a recovery ride after dinner. Terri said she wanted to ride so I'll wait til then.

I spent a lot of yesterday afternoon taking to get a bolt loose on the negative terminal of my car battery. I worked it loose enough to get off the post but the way it's set up I could not get anything small enough to unsecrew the thing. Ticked me off so I jumped it this morning and took over to the neighborhood mechanic and he was finished within an hour. I just left the car there and took Terri to her office and came back home. I thought about just riding my Trek over to pick it up but I'll wait until tonight to ride.

Emmy and I are going to do some chores and stuff. I need to grab a haircut so I'm going to try a new place the opened not long ago called Sport Cuts. Hope I can just get in and out real quick and still have a decent cut.

The buds are going to ride the Lollipop ride tomorrow and as much as I want to, I'm going to sit it out. Maybe ride easy along the river early in the morning or something. I'll kick it back in this week. I have to work registration at the Summer Series Crit races on Thursday so I'll miss the usually club ride.

One century down (literally) and several more to go

Saturday morning 4:08 a.m.
I'm looking at the clock telling myself the alarm will go off in 7 minutes so I do the kind thing and flip the switch before it ever goes off. No one will be awakened.
Shower, pancakes and double, riple checking everything. I'm ahead of schedule a bit and not having the usual nervous energy feeling I normally have before basic rides and this one is with folks I've never riden with and for a century (100 miles) towrd Pine Bluff.

I head out to Willow Beach park and there are tons of cars there! Some folks talking and laughing and some have the "I'm nota morning person... especaily a few minutes before 6 a.m. morning person" look in their eyes. I see several from my group and several friends from other places. I talk with Cecia and Bill and Bll tells us this story of his 3 year old grandson who had taken the batteries out of the flashlight and Bill's wife asked the little child if he wanted her to put the batteries back in the falshlight and he told her, "Oh no, grandma, I need Grandpa t do itbecause he is brave and strong." It was a hoot!

We all were given red, white and blue clothes for headbands, bike decoor whatever you wanted to do with it.

We all gathered and a prayer was lead and off we went. Great group of folks! We moved along about 15 mph as everyone was waking their legs up and Christopher and I were sort of hanging back a tad because bright eyed Matthew did wake up and grace us with his presence. He caught up very quickly and we make our move around the crowd and toward the front group. Ahh yes, the 21mph crowd. No I'm thinking, I could ride this pace all day. I saw jerseys from Trek, Baptist Med, The Ride, ABC, Carve and several others. We all took turns pulling and rides usually do, we split into several groups. Christopher, Matthew, and myself stay with the front group. I'm feeling really great today! We pass some minor road construction off to the side of the road and after that clears we bank into a curve.

Rider down!

OWWWW, man did it bite! I see the waters bottles rolling down the road. I see my bike laying on the other side of the road from me. I see I have a flat front tire. I see I have nice road rash on my leg. The whole front group stops and I tell them to go on, I'm fine, just need to fix the flat. But the truth is, it's hurting a bit. I remove the tire and take the tube out and fumble with everything, totally shocked I went down like that. Wayne helps me get the tube back in, we get aired up. I'm checked over... legs, hands, shoulder all road rashed. I get back on the bike and my hand is telling me to take it easy. I can barely put any pressure on it. It's turning blue on my wrist. I ride with one hand then drop to areo bar style but I don't have areo bars but resting and the handbars gives me a recovery type ride for a bit.

We stop at a little store and load up on Mt Dew, water, Gator and I hit the Tylenol corner. Stuff was a life saver! We ride on out the 15 more miles to the 50 mile point around and wait for others to arrive. Break taken and it's time to headback. Rumors of tailwind surface. That would be nice. We are heading back and ride with the bigger group. There are place along the way where they have these 5 ft gravel spots where they have installed new water lines or something so the group slows for these. I'm second in line now and a girl with a really nice pink Orbea bike slows to almost a stop for the gravel and I pass her and kick it in. 21mph again. I needed to work out the soreness of my accident. I look back a few minutes later and it's Myself, Christopher and Matthew. We've dropped the group. It's not a cocky thing but we were all going 21 one he way out and if I haven't gone down we would have been with the real front group that was way ahead even though it was only 2 or 3 of them in that group now. Chris takes over the pull and I yell that I need to grab some more water right quick at the store. Chris says we are stoping and waiting for the others. We stop and go in and it seems a long time before the others arrive. Were we really that far ahead?

We get going again and this is the part of the ride where everyone has had their fun and the general concensus is to just get it done. Everyone is riding strong and enjoying the ride and my wreck soreness is next to nothing but my butt sure seems sore.

The weather is heating up and begins to take effect on the group. Everyone is drinking a lot of fluids. We ride on slowing a bit and working as a group. We stop a couple more times to rest in the shade. Yale says he's ready for the ride to end, he's dogged out big time. Still laughing but dogged out. But then we're all starting to feel te ffects of the heat.

We all make it back to the parking lot,say goodbys and head home. The air conditioner feels sooo good! HA! I stop by the bike shop and they replace my bar tape while I wait! I love those guys!

I get home and Emmy shows my her sunburn and I one up her with my injuries. "Oh my gosh!!!" She can't beleive it. Chrisotpher told be back on the ride that the shower was going to hurt. I'm putting it off another 5 minutes. Remeber when I was talkign about my butt huritng? Well when I removed my bike shorts my butt looks like my leg! Road rash! My shorts have now gone through 2 big wrecks, the other being the train track wreck last year, and they've never torn? These are the mosamazing riding shorts. Pearl Izumi stuff rocks! Oh yeah, Christopher was right... the shower hurt more than the bike wreck itself.

I crashed on the couch for a bit, had dinner, and here I am. I've been up since 4:08 this morning so I think I'll shoot up some Tylenol and slowly ease into bed... I look like a lady that's had a baby trying to sit down. Ok, now where am I gonna ride tomorrow??? Not!