Goodbye Lady Liberte

 
Uh oh. They are here...  I'll be right back.

Ok.　

I made a gin and tonic first, and I'm back. Sara and David were here and they just departed our dock as the new owners of Lady Liberte.

Why is the boat like a living thing to me? It's like I sold off a family pet.   And maybe not to a good home, either.  I'm not even sure they are really sailors.   But it doesn't matter.  They will be. If nothing else, a Catalina 22 will teach you to sail.  It sure lets you know the instant you make a mistake.  Which, as long as you live through it, is the perfect teaching device.

So. The dock is empty. And I'm drinking a gin and tonic.  So there. I have no idea why anyone ever said selling a boat is the other happiest day of your life. Never been true for me. I could still cry that we turned poor, beautiful Quest over to that idiot who sank her at the Peace and Plenty.

So anyway, a goodbye toast to Lady Liberte! And to all the boats that have gone before her. And hopefully soon, a hello toast to the next and future family member.

 An empty dock just means there's something new to look forward to, right?

　

Goodbye, Lady Liberte.

 

 

If wishes were bikes, beggars would ride.

"1000 miles since I bought the bike," says Gobbler, riding just ahead of me on the Beer Can Scramble.  "So it's down to a dollar a mile."

I start to mention my beach cruiser.  But just then Gobbler takes the opportunity of Turkey Creek's root-laden blue loop (and his superior technical skills) to motor away from me off the front.  Oh well.  In a couple minutes, I'm too busy sucking wind to chat.

It's not the same, anyway.  I practically stole the old used beach cruiser from our friend Jason at Village Cycle Shoppe.  And basically, he let me.  The deviation from my usual taste in high end mountain bikes probably took him by surprise.  That, and he needed the space.  

I shrewdly took advantage - grabbing the old red cruiser and getting out quick.  Popeye followed me out of the shop, shaking his head.

So Red, the old Sun cruiser, was $20 instead of $40.  And $20 is cheaper than a one day bike rental at most any beach around.  I figured, if Old Red survives one ride, he's paid for himself, right?

I don't measure my time spent on Red in miles, though.  And certainly not in money.  

When on the beach, it's all about the wind and the tide.  Low tide here, the beach is a 60 foot wide highway - with no cars. 

 

Satellite Beach 

 

 

Cocoa Beach Pier

Paging through my ride notebook, I count 48 rides on Red since I got him a year ago on July 28.  Let's just say a quick average of 15 miles per ride, nets ole Red about 720 miles so far. 

Or, about 3 cents per mile.

So there.  Sometimes I can be thrifty.

Just don't ask about the new Santa Cruz. 

Yet. 

But I'm working on it.

Riding in Reverse

They say you should do crosswords to exercise your brain.  

If you've got a bike, there's a much better way.

In reverse.  Ft Pierce Trail.  Take your friends.

I think about the Big Dipper drop at the beginning.  Today, it'll be the uphill at the end.  A tad daunting, yes?

Neural pathways are funny things.  We get to Ft Pierce maybe twice a year.  Haven't been down there since Easter.  So, it's not as if the trail is deeply ingrained, right? 

And yet, my brain struggles with the trail reversal.  It is so very familiar - yet not.  If I recognize the turns at all, it is mostly after I am by them.

Which makes it a whole new trail.  And who doesn't love a brand new trail?

Up the Drop!

Unexpectedly fast - and fun.

Didn't even have to pedal.

Even when we ride the very familiar Turkey Creek or Wickham in reverse, it's the same sensation.  All new. 

Sometimes you don't even notice the spots that give you trouble from the other way. 

Or sometimes, say if the Ho Chi Minh became the Minh Chi Ho, turns and climbs might pop up in spots you never saw before. 

Then spots might be all you see.  Like purple ones.  In front of your eyes.

Fortunately I have a pretty good tan.  Hides bruising very well. 

Today I will probably forego my contacts and wear my new big-frame glasses when I go to Publix.  They'll cover the small, but noticeable, cut across the bridge of my nose. 
 
A sore nose.  A bit of a headache.  Ok, yeah, so my knee hurts a little too.  

A small price to pay for bigger, happier, brain cells, right?

If you have a mountain bike, you'll understand.



   

Do not ask for whom the bell tolls.

My Aunt Dora died in the nursing home this morning. 

If she'd been in a kennel, she would have gotten better care.

Neglect.  Humiliation.  Outright abuse.  A cousin with power of attorney a thousand miles away and no desire to pick up the phone.

They often say that falling is the beginning of the end.  I am saying it didn't have to be.  Not this time.  

Not if the home had actually done the rehabilitation they claimed. 

If they had helped her up when she needed to go. 

If they hadn't strapped her into a wheelchair when she resorted to trying to get to the bathroom herself.  Strapped into a wheelchair.  Left sitting up all night.  Sometimes for 24 hours at a time.    

I think of one visit, 2 weeks ago.  I made the turn into her hallway and caught two aides and the nurse making jokes and laughing at her desperation to get out of the chair. 

When she finally wiggled out from under the wheel chair restraint, they took to sedating her, "for behavior issues."  Sedatives so strong she wasn't able to wake up enough to eat or drink. 

After a week with almost no nourishment or hydration, a stroke. 

A visiting friend texted photos.  Matt and I drove down to Vero in the night.  We are told by the night nurse, "No, that wasn't no stroke."  When asked to explain the left side paralysis and lack of speech, the nurse said, "She jus' tired, that's all.  She been up in that wheelchair 24 hours." 

This was the system, and my aunt, as tenacious as she was, finally succumbed.  She didn't give up easily.  Actually she never gave up.  She tried to talk, but couldn't.  She tried to swallow but couldn't.  But she still kept trying.  Until she couldn't.

Ever wonder how long  it takes for an immobilized 95 lb woman to dehydrate and starve to death? 

About a week.

So.  Have you thought about the future?  How well do you really know your children?   If they don't listen to you now, they aren't going to listen once you are helpless.  And they probably won't listen to their cousins either.

I trust my daughter completely, but just there's no trusting a system that merely warehouses human beings. 

It's a lot to think about.  So far, I have no good ideas.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking maybe it's time to start saying yes to an ice cream or some cake once in a while.  Or a sunny day calling from beyond the window.  Go places.  Do stuff.  Say yes.  As much as you can.

If nothing else, have great outdoor stories to tell, when they won't let you outdoors anymore. 

     

Beer Can Scramble. Endos, Black Panthers, and photos not taken.

After a couple years of riding there every Tuesday, there's not much at Turkey Creek that's scary any more.  Not even the bridges at night.  Not even when the bushes rustle and the trees groan and the Walking Dead come alive in my head.

So Tuesday when my pedal was grabbed by a vine just as I got onto the bridge, I wasn't even a little bit scared to put a foot down and detangle.  I even got out the phone and took a picture, since I was right there. 

Then in a whoosh of wind, a branch went CRACK.  Suddenly it seemed like a good idea to stop goofing around and catch up to the group.     

I've been planning to talk about it anyway, but last week was a banner week at the Beer Can Scramble. 

Any Tuesday there's a spectacular endo, well, it's special.  

Although we didn't get to witness the actual air time, Kurt and I did pull up to witness some hang time.  Gobbler's rear wheel hanging from a palmetto.  And Gobbler.  On the ground, hanging from a pedal.

Ah, the moral dilemma of the smartphone. 

What do you do when you come upon your friend hanging upside down from his bike?  As long as he's alive and kickin', it's pretty funny.  To you, anyway.  And, you know darned well it will be to him too.  Eventually.

So.  Do you take a picture and then help him up?  Or do you help him up and wish like heck you had a picture?

As it turns out I was not quick enough to do either.  

Kurt got there ahead of me, so the way I saw it, the helping part was his job.  My job was to get the phone out of the Bento as fast as I could and get snappin'. 

Fortunately Gobbler was fine and hopped up quickly.   Which was a good thing, since Kurt was too busy laughing to do his job.  But not so good for the ever elusive photo op.

 

 

 

 

But then, I miss photo ops all the time.

Like this one.

The guys were all stopped at this little intersection, so I thought I'd grab my phone and get a shot.  When I looked up?  The last tail light had just gone round the bend. 

However the most spectacular missed shot that night was nothing so common as a group photo, or even a cool bike-in-a-tree endo. 

Most of my shots look like the one above.  That empty moment after all the action is over.

So, when I came around a bend in the trail and surprised 2 black panthers... 

There was no chance of being camera-ready.  They looked up, saw me riding straight at them, turned tail, loped about 15 feet down the trail ahead of me, then leaped into the underbrush, one to each side of the singletrack.

The guys came around the bend within seconds and didn't see a thing, except me, stopped - brakes!!! -  in the middle of the trail, one foot down on each side of the bike.

Oh my god!  Did you guys see that? 

Overlaid with the lingering vision of two long, ropey black tails disappearing into the bushes, random thoughts piled up in my head.
   
Thought #1.  Uh oh.  Was leaping to each side of the trail a defensive strategy or a hunting maneuver?  I think of Pepper, who weighs maybe 10 pounds.  When she gets hot under her little kitty-collar she can do some mighty nasty damage.  I really didn't want to think about what a wild cat, 5 times her size, could do.  But I was thinking about it just the same.
    
Thought #2.   Wow!   Proof!   (At least to myself.)  So that pair of black panthers I saw loping down the trail at the Econ 16 years ago were not escapees from some Orlando zoo, but probably Florida natives after all.  

Thought #3.  Why on earth did we get SUPs for Christmas instead of go-pros?

Back at Kurt's we had our beers and rehashed the endo.  Later, Popeye is polite, of course, on hearing my story over a bowl of slow cooker chili.  Endos are always entertaining.  But I can tell, when it comes to black panthers, true belief is a little tough for him.  

The next day, a gentle ribbing about saber toothed tigers in an email from Kurt reminds me to do a Google search for "black panthers in Florida".

Black panthers don't exist, by the way.  Not officially.  Kind of like  the way Bigfoot doesn't exist.  In a few seconds you can find dozens of reported sightings, though.  And a few photos too.  Like these, taken (not by me) in 2013 in the Everglades.

    

Yup, that's pretty much the type of cat I saw both times. 

Only darker.  

I do concede that yes, it is the time of year where the Beer Can Scramble starts out in the twilight.  So yes, a tan Florida Panther could have looked darker, even dark brown (as the big cat experts are quick to point out).  

But that certainly does not explain the two I surprised in almost exactly the same way, at the Econ, at high noon, on a sunny day.   Sleek.  Shiny.  Lean.  Muscular. Very close range, less than fifteen feet away.  And absolutely jet-black. 

Especially memorable in both cases, were the long black tails as they turned and loped down the trail ahead of me.  The only difference was, the Econ panthers were taller - top of my thigh.  The ones at Turkey Creek a little smaller - mid thigh.  Although that's not surprising.  Everything at the Econ is bigger.  (You should see the gators.)

But.  I digress.

The subject was supposed to be the Beer Can Scramble.  The Tuesday night mountain bike ride with beer at the end. 

At the beginning, we each threw a beer (or two) into a cooler.  At the end of the ride, we'd drag the cooler down the short dirt track to the one picnic table.  The rule was last guy in gets last choice. 

We soon learned a few things about this new scramble. 

The first thing was - be nice about the beer you bring.  The beer you get could be your own.   

I also learned that there was no particular hurry - not for me anyway.  My sissy wheat beers were plenty safe, since the other riders all turned out to be IPA aficionados.

But the biggest lesson of all was (duh) never stand still in a swamp.  Something will try to eat you. 

Sitting on top of the picnic table could get your feet up and away from the fire ants, but there was just no escaping the millions of mosquitoes.     

After the first or second session of incessant slapping, the whole idea of a Turkey Creek ride at night was going south, and fast. Without the beer enticement, the guys would likely have found good reasons to do other things on Tuesdays.  I would have still ridden, but alone, beerless, and feeling sorry for myself.

It was Kurt who saved the Scramble.  He lives on the other side of the creek from the trailhead, and very prudently has a screened pool deck.  By offering his deck for the end of the ride, he saved the day. And the ride.

I usually just write BCS on the park sign in sheet now, confident they know who we are.  Rain, cold, dark of night or summer storm.  If it's a Tuesday, there's a ride.  

I look back at my journal.

Last Tuesday there was a huge storm brewing, but we talked ourselves into going anyway.  We stepped back onto Kurt's covered deck just as all hell broke loose.  Hah!  The beers of small triumphs (and good timing) are sweet.   

The week before that - the endo and the panther sighting. 

The week before that was a spectacular full moon. 

So many Tuesday's, so many missed photos!  But photos mean stopping, and most rides are just too much fun to stop. 

So, when you look at the ones I did take, try to use your imagination.  

Or better yet, show up at 6, and see for yourself.  

Because it'll probably be awhile before I get that go-pro.

 

 

 

 

Ralph - the lucky cat with Binge Eating Disorder.

We've had Ralph nearly a year.  (Much to Pepper's vexation.)    

Ralph is kind of doggy.  He greets us at the door.  Follows us everywhere.  Eats like a dog too.  Frantic gulping, sometimes until he throws up. 

And - he's a lush.  He empties nearly a serving bowl full of water every day.  He also drinks from the pool, the hot tub, and puddles.  It's not unusual to see him topping off with raindrops and dewdrops wherever he can find them.

It's a Monday.  Chilly and blustery.  Not a morning to be outdoors.  I finished reading my book first, with the intention of running later. I head into the spare room for... um, something.

What the heck did I come in here for? 

Beyond the glass doors, the back yard is chilly, but bright.  Gosh, why don't we ever use these doors?  Wonder if the lock will even turn?  

(By now I have completely forgotten to remember whatever it was I was looking for in here.) 
I unlock the doors and step out. 

The wind is fierce.  

I barely hear it. 

Plop-flop!  A commotion under the dock.  Too splashy for manatees, but not quite right for dolphins either.  

I head for the dock, where I stand completely still.  Looking.  Listening. 

No sign of disturbance.  No sound but the wind.  A few waves lapping.  Whatever was there must be gone.  I turn to go. 

A subdued little mer-owl? comes questioning up through a crack between floorboards. 

Back down onto my belly.  Hanging over the edge to look. 

Big green eyes blink back at me from a little black face. 

Oh, good grief. 

Ralph, you goober.

Soaking wet, Ralph is balanced on the inch-wide edge of a 1x6 support stringer under the decking.  He has gotten himself up out of the water, but there's no way out from there. 

He's stuck under the dock.  Unless he wants to swim back out. 

As if!

Or...  I could go in after him. 

I picture trying to pry a panicked cat, with really healthy claws, off a solid wood perch and back into deep water.  And then trying to swim out from under a dock with him... 

Sorry, Ralph, no way!

"Hang on Ralph," I say, as if he has a choice.  "I'll be right back."

Out of the water, my new Christmas present, a 12'6" Bic stand up paddleboard, is lightweight, but huge.  And awkward. 

The wind catches it and swings me around, but thankfully the first heave is good.  It lands with a satisfying WAP!, fitting perfectly in the gap between dock and boat. 

Back on my belly, curled over the edge so I can see, I push one end of the pretty blue board under the dock, until it floats directly underneath Ralph, balancing on the stringer.  

I expect to have to coax him into making the leap, but he hops aboard the SUP and sits down as if it were a Sunday paper dropped on the carpet. 

I slide the board out from under the dock and up he pops up onto the deck the moment his head is clear.  

Any other animal would have stopped to shake off all that detestable lake water.   Not Ralph.  He is off like a shot to the cat door. 

I put the SUP away and head for the people door. 

Ralph is in the pantry, dripping wet, frantically licking the bottom of his food bowl.  

A year ago we brought Ralph home with his ribs sticking out and a panicked look in his eye. 

He's now a well fed (some might say overfed) 13 lbs.  He is also trusting enough to hop, without hesitation, from a secure claw-hold on a solid support beam onto a bobbing SUP. 

So, Ralph has made a lot of progress, but he still runs to his dish at the least bit of stress.  Stress, like a spat with Pepper or being pushed off your lap.  Or a fall into the lake.

Did I mention the name of that book I was reading?

"Brain Over Binge" by Kathryn Hansen.

Appropriate, huh?

I've been reading diet books since the Twiggy years. 

I am not easily impressed. 

"Brain Over Binge" impressed me.   

Kathryn Hansen is a former binge eater and bulimic, who spent years in therapy - therapy which didn't work.

One evening, using one new thought, she dismissed her urges to binge.  After six years of binge eating, she quit, completely on her own, nearly overnight.  

Where do those unreasonable urges to eat come from?  Probably not from some childhood trauma or deep seated personality disorder.  They come from our "animal brain" (the sub-cortex), simply sending out automatic survival messages.  Breathe oxygen, drink water, eat food. And in the aftermath of deprivation (or diets), overeat food.

The "animal brain" takes no chances.  It shortcuts straight to well worn neural pathways.   Starving = bad.  Food = good. 

And if you are Ralph?  Falling in lake = bad, bad, bad!   Food = good, good, good!!!

Ralph is one lucky cat.  In addition to luck, he has instinctive muscular control and amazing reflexes. Who knows what predicaments he has gotten himself into - and out of - when there's no one here to rescue him?

But, human survival depends more on a different part of the brain, the cerebral cortex, the "human brain", if you will.  When we encounter trouble, we have to use those great big brains of ours to think up ways to rescue ourselves.  

Sometimes, like Ralph, our thoughts follow well worn neural pathways.  Feeling bad?  Drive to a fast food restaurant and feel good.

Here's the deal, though.  The cerebral cortex ("human brain") has control of the voluntary muscles.   As owner of a nice big brain, a human can control those voluntary muscles that it takes to get into the car, head to the pantry, or open the refrigerator door.  It also takes voluntary muscles to put food you don't actually need into your mouth, chew it, and swallow. 

As Spidey would say, "With great power comes great responsibility."  

So the "need" to eat an entire bag of Oreos is coming from the "animal brain"?  Yes!  We have the power!  We can dismiss it for what it is - a junk message - old data.    

OK, I confess.  I've been meaning to talk about the Beer Can Scramble.  This post didn't start out to summarize an entire, methodical, and well presented breakthrough book on a serious human eating disorder, that I happened to finish the same morning that an incredibly lucky cat fell into the lake.  It just sort of happened that way.  I'm glad it did.  Really I am.

Now, Ralph.  Get off my desk, will ya?

 

 

 

Tour de Felasco 2015

It's a dark, dark Monday afternoon in Satellite Beach.  Pounding rain.  Lightning.  Thunder.  They tell me it rained all weekend.  

Three hours north in Alachua, Florida, the weather is vastly different from ours.  Normally, one would NOT rather be there.  Especially not in January.

But when there's sunshine, the cold doesn't count.  Not as much, anyway.  This year, the stars aligned with plenty of both for one  chilly, sunny Tour de Felasco.


Saturday January 10, 2015

Hopping out of the car, I am positively giddy.  

No matter what discomforts the ride has in store for us today, I am ecstatic with the bright, clear, 35 degree, north Florida morning. 

I can see my breath!  And it's cold enough to wear my once a year Maine s***kickers!

And there is...  a horse?  Yup.  Complete with Conquistador astride.  The horse apparently loves people, pats, and praise, and keeps us company in the packet pick up line.

A "real" conquistador at the start!

 

 

 

Promises, promises.

 

 

 

A dozen years ago, I attempted my first Felasco.  30 degrees and zero experience.  Ice skimming the puddles, and just a few snow flurries. 

 

50 miles seemed beyond impossible.  The aluminum hardtail may have been a factor, but not so much as the violent shivering.  Hanging in until the 35 mile bail out felt absolutely heroic. 

 

Enter high tech clothing and carbon full suspension.  Unless it's lightning or blowing a gale (or I've gone up to my knees in icy standing water), I take for granted the completion of the 64 mile distance right from the start.

 

Which, this year, was the right place to be mentally. 

 

Because they changed the choices.

 

Previously there was one choice for extra distance - at the fifty mile mark.  Take the extra mileage loop - or bail out to the parking lot. 

 

This year there were five choices.

 

Where did the mileage go?

Better not miss any turns!

 

Choosing all five extra credit loops resulted in completing the extra mileage.  Being cautious at the start and skipping any, would bring you to the end with no way to get back the missing mileage. 

 

Here's the map.  Make of it what you will.  I'm just glad they had  sufficient arrows!

But that's just mileage.  You can do mileage anytime. 

 

It's the company that makes the ride!  There is always a huge group from Melbourne.  And this year, it is bigger than ever.  At nearly every turn it seems there is someone you know.

 

Mike, Robin, Gobbler, Scott

 

 

Lunch stop.

Uh oh.

Where the heck did I leave my bike?

 

 

Each year, Jeff comes all the way from California. 

  C'mon, let's go!

He calls me Sag Nazi (as he does every year) 

then cranks up his music and goes anyway.

 

Gobbler - always in for the long haul.

 

 

I confess.

Before we finish

I take just one for my favorite Facebook page,

"Look at my Bike Leaning on Stuff".

 

 

Back at the lodge in time for the happy hour.

Our favorite bartender hooks us up.

Bloody Mary, please.  Lots of olives!

 

 

Dinner at the Alehouse, another favorite.

Then back to the Lodge

for Extra Credit Happy Hour by the fire.

until....

 

Yup. 

I know exactly how ya feel.

 

 

Another Felasco in the bag.  

 

Best one ever.  

 

But then, it always is.