Winter Solstice

Oops, slept through the eclipse!  But the sunrise was nice. 

It's the Winter Solstice.  The first day of winter.  The shortest day of the year.  The dark has done it's worst and light begins to inch it's way back into our lives.  A day to celebrate!

Half the long nights are gone, barely noticed in the head on rush to Christmas.  Half to go, though.  The tough half, the half that contains actually getting back on the workout track. 

And we are ready.  New lights.  Sweat wicking underlayers.  Toe warmers, for Pete's sake. 

Some practice for San Felasco is due.  Up there, it's not the mileage that's the challenge.  Or the terrain. 

What is it about The Tour de Felasco?  Honest to god,  I have been more comfortable outside all day in a Syracuse blizzard. 

Riding here on the coast, in the rain, if it freezes again, might sorta simulate January conditions in Alachua.  If we can find some knee deep slushy puddles to soak our feet in, and maybe some frozen mud ruts to ride over, a flake of snow or two...

Ok, so you work with what you've got. 

One way to intensify a cold winters ride (and conduct clothing layer experiments) is to ride at night. 

This is the perfect week to start. 

We gotta lotta night right now.   

The new lights are in place.  One on helmet, one on handlebars. 

We like the new lights so far.  Serfas "True".  250 lumens.  Brighter, stronger, and cheaper than the old stuff.  And they only take 3 to 4 hours to charge instead of 12.  Good for us forgetful types.  We don't have to remember to plug them in before the morning coffee. 

The new red tail lights are Serfas too.  Super bright.  Flashing.  One on the bike, one on the back of the helmet.  Overkill?  Not really.  It's dangerous enough riding around here in the daytime.

Killer is GO. 

Lights are GO. 

Clothing is...  I don't know.

We went shopping on Sunday.  

Ah, Christmas shopping. 

The perfect gift for others?  Totally elusive. 

The perfect gift for yourself?  Jumping out at you from every isle.  

Popeye has been reading up on dressing for winter.  And I have to admit he seems to have it down. 

Popeye is often cold, but he doesn't get the energy suckage of whole body shaking and shivering.  His fingers and toes don't go so numb that shifting is clunky and brake levers impossible.  (Remember Tim Conway as the dentist with a shot of novacaine in his hand?  Not too cool on a mountain bike, either.)   

So, for the first time in my life, I actually listen to clothing advice from a man.

Layers:  A tight, inner sweat-wicking layer to start.  A looser layer over that, and a wind barrier on top. 

Ok, loose I got, and windbreakers too.  What's missing is tight.

Popeye advises a hug-you-so-tight-you-can't-breathe shirt.  I hate it!  I am not good with tight anything.  But what I am doing so far isn't working, so I buy two.  One sleeveless, one long sleeved.

The Ride. 

Suited up. 

Lights are GO. 

Killer is GO. 

Clothing: tight, loose, windbreaking.  Let's GO!

OK, so I am cold.  I think I will warm up, but it never happens.

Another thing that never happens.  Shaking.  I feel cold and uncomfortable, but not to the point of shivering.  My hands do go numb, but that's probably because I forgot to bring my new long fingered gloves home from the shop.  The really amazing thing is, I am not wet.  Anywhere.  The sweat wicking tight layer works!  I am dry for once.  My teeth are not chattering.  It's a real eye opener.

An eye opener is a good thing.  There's some cool stuff to see out there in the December night!

So, if you forget the last minute shopping, that's OK.

Just don't forget to charge your lights.

And think warm thoughts.

And wear your shirt tight...

This year's Christmas card.

Merry Christmas!   One week and counting!

Have you seen the Christmas Dog video yet?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KG3O6UBLGbA&utm_source=delivra&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=A%20dog%20named%20Grandma&mid=688598711&ml=14532589

Back around Thanksgiving, when TriLady sent this video, I saved it, thinking it would be the perfect email Christmas Card. 

Little did I know.

The visit to the county animal shelter last week was an eye opener.

 
FIVE roomfuls of stray cats.     

Cages fill all the rooms nearly to the ceiling.  It takes some time, peering into each and every one. 

More cages line the winding hallways. Cats, dogs, turtles, even snakes.  

At a T in one hallway there is a rolling cart, parked, and stacked with another dozen cages.  Right at eye level, a tiny Chihuahua shivers.  He is wearing a child's polo shirt.  The shirt is faded red.  It is too big for him, and too thin to be warm.     


I wish I had found Gypsy there.  Simultaneously, I am glad she was not there.

 "Do you update the website with the list of strays every day?" I ask, on my way out.

"Oh no," comes the reply, "We update it hourly."

Oh.   Dear.



It's the Sunday after the Boat Parade. 

Last night's party seemed a fair success by all the standard measures.  The last guest didn't leave until 1am.  Nobody passed out, fell in the fire, puked on the lawn, or rode the unicycle into the pool (to my knowledge, anyway.)  We are both feeling a bit immobilized this morning. 

It's been cool and damp and bleak all day. 
 I think of one last spot to look for Gypsy, a field of weeds with a scrawny stand of papayas behind the church down the block. 

I methodically clean up party stuff, waiting until afternoon so church will be out.  Still actively searching 2 weeks after blitzing the neighborhood with fliers and posters, is one of those things that might be perceived as crazy cat-lady behavior.  I'd rather search privately for now, and reserve my crazy cat-lady status for later years.  

Once in the field, I don't know what I'm looking for, exactly. 

I feel certain that if Gypsy were strong enough to sustain herself catching field mice, she would surely be able to get herself home to a full dish of 9-Lives twice a day and her favorite quilt. 

So I suppose I am looking for a body - or maybe bits of fur left by vultures.  There are no cars at the church, and not so much as a mouse in the field.  The only sign of life is a squirrel scooting solo up an oak tree near the chapel.    

Picking the burrs one by one from my new jacket, I walk home the long way, touring the neighborhood bordering ours. 

My fifty/fifty theory insists that Gypsy is just as likely safe and warm as dead.  

I spend equal time checking the ditch along the road and covertly perusing the front windows of every home I pass, hoping to see Gypsy perched on the back of some couch, staring back out at me.   

I do see a stripey young cat with tufted ears watching me from the high sill of a bedroom window.  Like some neighborhood pervert I stop dead in the street and peer at the window, not daring to walk into the yard to see better.  The cat, noticing me noticing it, vaults off the windowsill, and just for a second, it's long stripey tail is plain to see. 

Not Gypsy. 

But thankfully, a skitty kitty.  What if it hadn't jumped?  What if I hadn't glimpsed that tail?  How weird would it be to go to a neighbors door and ask to see their cat?  I suddenly realize there's no way I could ever bring myself to knock.


So, this whole business of cat search, as dismal as this crappy, cold day, comes crashing to an end. 


The posters can stay up a couple more weeks.  I can still hope.  For a while.  Whenever I open the door in the morning.  Or the phone shows a local number calling. 

But it's been two weeks.  It is time to stop beating the bushes (literally) and checking the ditches on bleak Sunday afternoons. 

If she were able, she would be home.  If she were findable, I would have found her. 

Frankly, as I type this, I am trying to think up a way to change the subject and gracefully segue to some more cheery topic.


That's when I remembered the Christmas Dog Video that TriLady sent.

I'm glad I saved it. 

You never know when you are going to need a good laugh.

Let's watch it again.

And if it speaks to you, I know where there's a chihuahua who needs a new shirt for Christmas.  And a home to wear it in.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KG3O6UBLGbA&utm_source=delivra&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=A%20dog%20named%20Grandma&mid=688598711&ml=14532589

Things we Miss. And Things we Won't.

Missing Cat
"Gypsy"

Gray/Brown Tiger-Striped Manx (No Tail)

Last Seen: 12/04/10

The flyers are printing.  In a minute I will go out and stuff them into the mailboxes on our street. 

Normally if Gypsy, our little explorer, stays out to play for a day, it's not a big deal.  But Gypsy is also a warm weather girl, burrowing into the quilts anytime the temps go below 80.  There's no way she would intentionally stay out for an entire 30 degree night.

The flyers are done.  I've walked the streets calling KittyKittyKitty.  Posters are next.  And a tour of the animal shelter.

While there are too few cats in the house, there are too many of some other things - namely bikes.

How can there be too many bikes, you ask?  Everyone needs at least three bikes!  

But 2010 was a big year for bike acquisition.

We gained one road bike, 2 mtn bikes, and got back the old Klein hardtail that I had loaned to the Chick's Hubby.  4 extras in an already full stable.

My favorite of the old bikes, the Santa Cruz, sold quickly.  It gave me such a pang, I haven't even tried to sell the others.  But with nine bikes in the living room, and a moving day on the horizon, it's time.

I know.  I promised.  You would never see advertizing on this blog.  I would never use it to sell stuff.  

I meant sell stuff, commercially, OK? 

Besides, we're practically giving these bikes away.

  

For Sale

Klein Hardtail
Pro Pulse - 1999

medium frame
$150

My first off-road ride!  Cost me a $1000 and tax, back in 99. 

The guys checked it over at the bike shop last month and said I could probably get $200.  The shock feels good, it shifts OK, and it's wearing the sweet Swamp Thing tires I won at the Hannah Park Xterra a couple years ago...  This is the bike that saved itself from the murky green quarry at Carter Park so I didn't have to.  Somebody hurry and give me $150 for it.  I'm getting that pang.

For Sale
Cannondale F2000 hardtail

2000
medium frame

$275

wearing slicks 

26 X 2s available

The Cannondale. 

MFB, my favorite bike. 

MFB cost $1900 in Atlanta in 2000, and lived at the crashpad for riding Georgia hills between trips. 

In the years since Ironman training wore out my love of road biking, this pony has taken me everywhere, and with enough speed, that I started leaving the Postal 5200 at home, even for road rides. 

Before I ever heard of slicks, I rode MFB on the Mt Dora Century and a Horsefarm or two.  What better satisfaction can you get from a mountain bike than passing the very same roadie who had so darkly warned at the start of Mt. Dora, "You'll never make it on that bike!"  

A little honesty in advertising here. 

I loved this bike and I rode it.  A lot. 

The shifters are OK but they need de-gumming, and I devalued it by replacing the once state-of-the-art hydraulic brakes with mechanical.  Probably not the most rational decision, but I got really p.o.'d when the brake cable caught on a branch and spewed fluid all over, leaving me twenty goopy miles to ride without a rear brake.

The Cannondale is still stealthy, though.  Furnace black, nicely centered front shock (pre-lefty), and 2 X 9.  I remember it weighing in at 19 lbs before I started hanging my junk all over it. 

Speaking of good junk, I might be persuaded to throw in the chrome "I Heart My Bike" bell, but sorry, the raspberry pink waterbottle holder stays with me!

For Sale

Trek Fuel 100

2003

small frame 15.5"

$1000?  $750?  $500?

This one is Popeye's.  Make him an offer.  OCLV Carbon, rock shock SIDs, Bontrager Race Lites, and XTR all the way around.  If it has tales to tell, you'll have to ask Popeye.    

So.  Feel free.  Make an offer.  Give some bike a good home.

If you see Gypsy, on the other hand...

We miss that little fuzz ball and we're keeping her forever.

If we ever find her again, that is.

(Lord, please help us find her.)

Rabbit, Rabbit!

Do you say Rabbit, Rabbit for luck on the first of the month?  

Here's how it works. 

Say Bunny, Bunny before bed on the last day of the month.  If you can remember to say Rabbit, Rabbit as your very first words in the morning on the first of the new month, it brings good luck.  Or you get your wish.  Or you get a present.  Depends on which part of merry old New England you grew up in, maybe. 

As far as I know, no one said Bunny, Bunny, Rabbit, Rabbit when I was a kid.  Just me.  Because I read Trixie Belden books.  (ALL the Trixie Belden books.)  Trixie said Rabbit, Rabbit in book #9, The Happy Valley Mystery, and got her wish for a mystery to solve.

I have been trying to do the same ever since.

Over the considerable number of years since fifth grade, I have taken liberties with the charm by giving myself an extra two chances a year. 

Saying Rabbit, Rabbit on your birthday should net you good luck, or at least a good present, right?  Even though my birthday is not on the first, I feel it is a special circumstance. 

And then there is New Years.  Yes, technically that is one of the twelve monthly firsts, but to my way of thinking, saying Rabbit, Rabbit on New Year's morning ought to net you good luck all year long.

So December is my big month.  My birthday month.  The month at the end of which begins the New Year. 

3 chances!  My best shot at good luck all year long. 

So far, the extra opportunites haven't panned out. 

On the first, I woke up somewhere around 4am with a cat biting my toe, and the first word out of my mouth was, "Ouch".

This morning, my own very special birthday morning, I did  remember to say Rabbit Rabbit.  Yep, I remembered at last to say Rabbit, Rabbit, immediately after waking up in the dark.  Immediately after first mumbling semi out loud, "Oh no.  Is that the toilet running?"

I am feeling kind of low about it, so I am guessing mumbles count as words, and the luck isn't going to stick for today either.

As I recall, Trixie had problems remembering to say Rabbit, Rabbit too.  We had a lot in common, Trixie and me.  Tomboy behavior, love of blue jeans, hatred of math.   And above all, the wish for some excitement in life.

Trixie was a problem solver, though.  I would have said it was cheating, but in the opening chapter of The Happy Valley Mystery she put a sign at the end of her bed, "Say Rabbit Rabbit!"  And of course, as we all know, she was able at last to pull it off, and got her wish.  Obviously, a sign at the end of the bed is perfectly acceptable to the lucky rabbit gods.

It's bright, clear, and cold outside (cold, as in 50 degrees, i.e., cold for here) this birthday morning. 

The TV news shows a scene of cars buried in snow on the NYS Thruway. 

I count eleven manatees rolling through the sparkles on the lake from where I sit typing.  There were a couple dolphins jumping up into the sunshine just a minute ago.  

Popeye is back from Maine.  We both have the day off.  There's a new Harry Potter movie out to go see tonight.  It's shaping up to be a pretty good birthday, now that I think about it.

Trixie may have needed her lucky rabbits up there in the Hudsen Valley, but I am already lucky.  The Chick is back from Colorado.  I live on waterfront in Florida.  I have some really great bikes, and a husband making me an omlette in the kitchen.  There's hardly a rabbit anywhere with enough luck to top that.

Maybe this New Year's Eve, my third and final chance this month, I might do better to appeal to some of the local good luck gods.  

What about whispering Manatee Manatee, as I put up my own sign at the end of the bed?

A sign that reminds me to "Say Dolphin Dolphin!"

That will work, I know it!  Like the charm that it is.

But what to wish for? 

Remember the old genie in a bottle scenario?  How every other wise ass kid in the neighborhood would say, "I'd wish for three more wishes!" 

That's it, exactly.

Another year, another birthday, three more wishes.

What more could anyone ask?

Chocolate Malt Cookies

It's never too early to start on Christmas cookies.  We have limited space in the freezer though, since we froze a record crop of mangoes this year, and last weekend, the Ice Cream Bananas. 

Chop em down, hang em up, cover with a blanket or towel.

Next thing you know, you are up to your eyeballs in bananas.

 

That's OK, make banana walnut pancakes,

then freeze the rest in ziplocs for smoothies.

I digress.   

Chocolate Malt Cookies.  Our new favorite.  Kind of like a malted milkshake, only you can put them in your lunch box.

And plenty skinny enough to slide into the freezer on top of the ziplocs full of bananas.

Martha gets all the credit for these.  Of course she goes the extra mile and makes sandwich cookies out of them.  Honestly?  I never got that far.  Got the cookie part made and just started munching from there.

Popeye is the type to go an extra mile or two as well...

Popeye's Chocolate Malt Ice Cream Sandwich 

Chocolate Malt Cookies

2 cups plus 2 T. flour
1/2 cup cocoa powder
1/4 cup plain malted milk powder
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt

1 cup butter
1  3/4 cups sugar
1 large egg
2 tsp vanilla extract
1/4 cup creme fraiche  (melt some vanilla ice cream, that works)
3 T. hot water

Sift together flour, cocoa, malted milk powder, baking soda, and salt.  Set aside.

Mix butter and sugar on medium/high until pale and fluffy.
Mix in egg, vanilla, creme fraiche, and 3 T. hot water.

Reduce mixer speed to low; mix in flour mixture.

Space tablespoon size balls of dough out onto baking sheet.  Leave about three inches in between.  Six at a time on one regular size baking sheet worked for me.  (But then I may have used a tad more than a tablespoon of dough...)  

Bake until flat and just firm.  10-12 minutes.  Let cool at least a little bit before you try putting ice cream on them! 

Freeze in ziplocs for your Christmas party. 

Or for camping at Alafia. 

I took half a batch along, thinking I would probably have them all to myself, with the uber-health conscious Popeye, Sailor, and Captain Bligh sharing the campsite and the foodstuffs. 

Let me tell you something about those healthy mountain biker types.  They are hungry.  And fast.  Really fast.

Note to self:  Next time take the whole batch. 

Gobble til you Wobble. But Don't Fall Down.

It's not often that I am up at the crack of dawn.  Not voluntarily anyway.  It's been a very busy few weeks.  There have been rides to get up for, destinations hours away, and the 3 day challenge of getting one single meal together in time for a certain Thursday afternoon. 

Truth is, that even though Popeye is waking up in Machias, Maine, this morning, his alarm clock is still here.  And set for five thirty.

The opportunity for early reflection reminds me that the recent busy weeks are merely part of the continuum, the latest tributary flowing into the rushing river of a very busy year.  

The very first entry in this blog was posted the Friday after Thanksgiving one year ago.  

52 weeks.  

Each day of Time seems squeezed, crammed into boxes big and little, set aside and labeled: working, riding, writing, taking care of "stuff". 

Each blog post is an essay taking upwards of ten hours to write.   Some weeks, that is almost equal to my hours spent riding.  It's hard to justify keeping it up.  I do it because I value writing practice, and I would write anyway, published or not.  The blog is only a reason to be as consistant as possible.   

A half hour after the crack of dawn.

It's not much of a day for riding.  We are spoiled here in Florida!  But even though November is usually not much of a month for riding, we still managed.

I do like a good sign, and the sign at Da Kine this weekend made us both laugh out loud.

"Gobble til you Wobble!

Happy Thanksgiving!"

Bike riders are notorious calorie-burning, gung-ho-gobblers at any time of year.  But the equally notorious (and ultra tricky) road of overindulgence lies dead ahead - the one that stretches from Thanksgiving to New Year's. 

Yep.  All about balance. 

Balance is essential for cyclists, and it's not just about keeping the rubber side down. 

I find there's a lesson in each and every ride.
  

Lesson #1  Hydrate well when exercising.  But not too well.

The Trail of Beers...

It's a Saturday afternoon and there's a Hare and his Mule pulling a keg around the woods on a little red wagon equipped with fat tires...  

You must be at a run hash!

Leaving full beers on trail at the checkpoints - what a cagey technique for slowing down the front runners and escape being caught! 

Let's just say 3 lonely beers sit abandoned in the middle of the trail by a couple of Hares. 

Along comes a group of Hounds, running, walking, laughing, and in general, each taking things at their own best pace, with an eye to eventually catching themselves a Hare or two. 

Look out!  It's a trap!  The first 3 runners to reach those 3 abandoned beers must either drink them down, or ask for help from some of the slower people as they go by.  (Umm, as I recall, that worked better in the hotter months than it did in November.)  Those fast runners may not proceed to the next checkpoint until all the beers have been consumed.  

Beer, the perfect equalizer.

Hare genius!      

Of course, one would expect the lean and fit Popeye to be one of the front runners. 

I was, however, genuinely astounded to find myself among the front three for most every checkpoint.  Over and over again. 

(urp)

Hares are not the only cagey folk in this group.  Obviously the wise and non-competitive Hound knows the value of pacing himself, in drinking as well as running! 

It turns out that most every hound is a wiser hound than me.   

Log crossings, bushwhacking, beer.

Run hashers may wobble, but they don't fall down!

Run hashes are held weekly, but the Trail of Beers is usually only once a year.  So put it on your List for next year. (But then again, run hashers have no rules, so check the website now and then.)

http://home.roadrunner.com/~mariani/ 

( Oops.  Did I say there are no rules?  I take it back.  You hafta be 21.  Yes, in people years.)


Lesson #2   Get an early start.  But not too early.   

The Econ....

Good thing the Econ ride the next morning wasn't too early! 

Our non-hasher friends - Krafy, Northstar, TomCat, and Inspector Gadget - have no trouble with my request for the mid morning start.  All delays are for bike adjustments.  

No day is a good day to be wobbly at the Little Big Econ!  It's clear and cool.  Gators line the banks like Simpson's on a couch.  I am happy to have had enough sleep.  Too much wobbling, and the gators do the gobbling! 

Lesson #3    When going through a rough spot, keep going.   

Ulimay....

The rumor reached the bike shop the week before Thanksgiving, and it was bad. 

We don't go to Ulimay often. 

It is short.  7 miles. 

It is flat.  A dike through the Ulimay Lagoon.   

It is typical of wild life sanctuarys on our coast.  Dolphins and otters, herons and gators, occasional bums and perverts.

It is also a few precious miles of shady singletrack, winding through long tunnels of green.

Ulimay is, in other words, thoroughly charming.

And it's been bulldozed.

No way!  At least, I hope no way. 

On my Friday off, I put Killer in the Fit and go to see for myself.

The first mile and a half is doubletrack, as it has always been.  No sign of bulldozers or heavy equipment of any kind.  Encouraging!

But, at the end of the doubletrack, it is as if a tornado has touched down - a long, thorough, methodical, bulldozing tornado.  You know.  Out of nowhere.  Right where the charming singletrack used to be.

What on Earth is the County thinking?  Never mind biking and hiking, where is the wildlife supposed to go?  The birds?  The otters? 

I feel kicked in the gut.  But I have to see it all.  I need to know.  What have they done to the north end?  With the fishing hole under the 528 bridge?  What have they done to the singletrack on the east side?

It's depressing to ride.  Rough and bumpy.  Dead brush and vines grab the derailleur as if to hitch a ride out. 

The fifty foot wide swath of devastation goes for exactly one full mile.  Exactly.  I know, because I set my computer and measured it.

Then the carnage stops.  It's a mystery.  Like the south end, suddenly there is no sign of heavy equipment.  How did they even do this?

The important thing is, it stops abruptly.  The trail resumes as it always has.  A little more overgrown from disuse, but still there. 

My best guess is that the dike simply got too narrow to support heavy equipment.  The trail has saved itself with it's own eroded frailty.  

As much as I would not have minded finding a county bulldozer resting on it's ear in the lagoon, I am happy that the second half of the trail is still there.  If I had turned back, I would not have known the island won at least a partial victory.


Lesson #4   Do not eat too much.  But eat enough.

The Horrible...

The Horrible Hundred on the 21st was the next big event for Popeye, Blownfuse, and about 1500 other riders, while the West Orange 60 was the easy going alternative for me, Tranny, and Just Plain Mike, all addicted to our cushy mtn bikes.

 I loved this slogan on the Horrible website.

(So I "borrowed" it.) 

And yes, it is true.  It's only Horrible if you miss it. 

Or if the Cakery is closed because it's a Sunday.  

I couldn't believe it.  No gobbling for 60 miles!  (No, Chomps don't count.)

The Cakery - closed.

Sometimes you wobble if you don't get to gobble.

Lesson # 5  Don't make the blog posts so darned long. You need time to ride!

Thanksgiving, TriLady's chocolate black bean birthday cake, camping at Alafia...

Later, everyone! 

The sun is coming out!