BikeEatSleepRepeat

Never Say Diet

2012-01-25T13:50:00.000-08:00

"You can't beat the biology of blubber." - Dr. Oz

Great. Now there's a name for it.

The Biology of Blubber.

It's real too. I know.  I've had it proven to me often enough.

My body's always taking care of me, even when I'm mean to it. Anytime I stress it out with starvation or sleep deprivation, it pays me back with some nice, cushy, extra padding.

It's not just me. Ask anyone who put on the Freshman 10 in college. (Or gained 20 in the first year as a newly hatched flight attendent.)

Stress, bad food, odd hours, too little exercise.   The biology of blubber strikes again. And again.

So what's an XL to do?

If the XL is me? Nothing. No diets! At least not since the yo-yo days of youth. Some lessons had to be learned more than once.

It seems better to just carry around a few extra pounds rather than get all restrictive, and risk going off the deep end. I'm long done with that cycle of losing, only to gain even more back.

So I've been a little wary of detox. Super low-cal is usually a bad thing for reformed yo yo dieters.

But, like so many things that scare me - big drops, for example - a detox attracts me too.  And maybe, just maybe, if it's handled right, the benefits could outweigh the risk.

Filtering out common allergens for a week or two and infusing your system with super nutrition is an alluring idea.

We train for mountain biking here with nothing but bridges for mountains. I trained incessantly for triathlon despite years of Atlanta-based stress and airport food.

How far could we take our training if we were super-nourished? Could the Cross Florida feel easy? Might the Wickham Park Marathon, 50, 100, and 200 Mile Fun Run actually live up to it's name?

Popeye's always on board for super-nutrition. I've got nothing to lose but blubber. Just think what we have to gain.

Hey, no guts, no glory, right?

Kale Smoothie

Publix check out. Whole Living Magazine. February issue. If you miss the magazine, see

http://www.wholeliving.com/152870/2012-whole-living-action-plan

C'mon, what have you got to lose?

Whole Living Magazine. Ohmygosh, the photos of food are fabulous. I just can't help myself from wanting whatever is on that plate, and sometimes I even want the plate! Especially when it's one of my niece Michele's incredible ceramic pieces. If you love beautiful table presentation... Or the color blue... http://elephantceramics.blogspot.com/

Tour de Felasco, 2012: Dressed For Success

2012-01-17T07:31:00.000-08:00

I have 2 boxes on the top shelf of the closet.

One is labeled Winter Bike Clothes. Like for the Tour de Felasco and Croom. The other is Winter Clothes. Like for trips to Syracuse or Maine.

Guess which one has the most stuff?

The predicted temps for Saturday in Alachua were a low of 27, and high of 58. Winds, north at 15. Dry and sunny, thank goodness.

Later Popeye tells me that the prediction was right on. That it really did get up in the fifties on Saturday. I shake my head. No, no, no, I say. That's just plain wrong. There's no way.

The terrain at Felasco is pleasant, but not a particular challenge. A few decent hills, some roots, a bit of token sand. Plenty of woodsy, twisty singletrack. Several miles through huge, rolling meadows in bright, winter sunshine.

The distance is no trouble either. Choose your own. 35 miles, 50 miles, or 100k. There are multiple bailout points.

A hot lunch is provided.  Chicken soup - the perfect restorative.

Top it off with the luxury of a cushy full suspension 29r in perfect working order, and San Felasco should be cake, right?

Unless you have, well, personal issues.

How on earth do some people exercise and not sweat? How do they breathe cold air all day long and maintain a dry nose? (For that matter, how do some people eat so much and stay skinny? Or have shiny, straight hair, even on humid days?)

Obviously life is not fair.

If you are one of those dry-skinned, I-love-feeling-cold, snot-free, skinny, shiny-haired folk, you might as well go read some other blog this week. My version of San Felasco is not for you.

For those of us at the other extreme of the mucus-meter, it turns out that one way to survive Felasco is to layer up, embrace your grossness, and just keep riding.

Back at home.  Monday morning. Laundry done.

Just for review, I lay out the bike clothes I wore on Saturday in the 30 to 58 degree (supposedly) temps.

For those who like lists:

Padded bike shorts.

Tight wicking long sleeve underlayer.

Lightweight long sleeve shirt - with phone pocket.

Heavy long sleeve shirt over that.

Tights over the bike shorts.

Long sleeve windbreaker over the shirts.

Two pairs of socks, two pairs of gloves.

Snot rag, I mean, handy all-purpose bandanna.

Skull cap.

Camelbak Rogue, loaded with:

Wind vest - in case I get cocky and decide I can go without a jacket.

Headband - to change out for the skull cap when it gets “warm”.

Dry bandanna for the second half of the ride.

Clif bars, because sags are notorious for an enticing array of hydrogenated fats, which mess with my energy levels.

70 oz. bladder of Gatorade - laced with protein powder to avert hunger.

Extra baggie with powdered Gatorade and protein to mix with water later. (Unknown drink mixes on long rides can be trouble.)

Since I have to truck all my stuff back upstairs to the closet this morning anyway, I stop with it in my arms, and step on the scale. 6.6 pounds. And that's clean and dry. I don’t want to think how much more it all weighed soaking wet.

Add in the 70 oz camelbak bladder, a 20 oz bottle, shoes, toe warmers, and extra snacks, and I was probably carrying about 13 extra pounds.

I know. What a lot to wear. And to carry.

(Then again, I did save myself a few ounces of weight by leaving behind my egg/rice bars in the scramble of last minute clothing decisions.)

Gathering at the start. About 32 degrees.

Mike and Hairy to left, wearing shorts.

Popeye up front, in jacket, gloves, tights.

In spite of knowing at least twenty people riding San Felasco each year, I always end up riding alone. Last year, it wasn’t even that cold. But I was so bored (and glum over Tiger), that I bailed at fifty.

So, I am happy that Just Plain Mike doesn't mind a ride partner. (Although he is one of those people. He may not be the only rider starting out in shorts at 32 degrees. Or the only one to take his jacket off at the first SAG. But he definitely has the best hair around.)

Turns out that, in spite of our diverse approaches to clothing choices, we are a good ride team. Mike has the patience to wait a few extra minutes for me to layer up at the start. I decide I can maybe find it in me to wait a minute or two while he fuels up at the SAG stops.

Our first catch of the day is ‘Sauce, who has pulled off the trail to drink from his bottle of pickle juice. Bringing your own remedies is something I fully understand, and I wonder how much I will miss my sushi rice bars later.

But the Gatorade/protein powder mix does the job and the morning goes like clockwork. Mike pushes the pace on the flats. I set it going uphill. Right at three hours, the thirty mile lunch stop pops up.

Slam some chicken noodle, shed a shirt, swap out to the headband, and back on the trail again. This time with Semi and Peter for company.

It seems colder after stopping, though that can't really be true. Can it?

My nose is chapped from constant wiping. I wish I hadn’t taken off the extra shirt. I am very glad I kept on the extra gloves.

I work far enough ahead that I have time to fish my phone out of its ziploc for a picture as the guys approach down the trail.

Peter, is that you?

I put the phone back in what I think is my pocket – but who can tell with two pairs of gloves on? Next time I stand up, I feel it sliding down the leg of my tights.

By the time I fish it out again and get it into an actual pocket, Mike is far away in the open distance of a long, uphill trail under some power lines.

I have catching up to do.

So here’s the deal about cold weather effort/sweating.

There are probably lots of ways to deal with riding in the cold. The two that I know about are:

1) staying dry by starting out cold and keeping yourself uncovered enough to evaporate all sweat. Brr.

2) containing the moisture and feeling warm.

Dry is just not one of my personal options. If I were wearing a speedo in a snowstorm, I would still sweat. So the real trick for me, is to not be debilitated because my clothes are soaked when the temperature drops.

Popeye, bless his heart, made me buy a tight, technical, wicking under-layer last year. The only thing I liked about it at the time was that it was purple.

But what a revelation. It sends the moisture out to the middle layer, where I do not feel it. I do not feel it because I do not take off my outer wind-breaking layer, and evaporation is not a big factor.

I can step up the pace, sweat freely, and not feel it (much), even in the north wind of say, an open power line trail.

The soggy option, unfortunately, looks and feels disgusting by the end of the day. And gets really heavy.

Essentially though, only my nose is seriously cold. My hair is dripping.  I look a mess. My face is chapped. But my core is OK.

I am in a rare (for me) state of clothing/temperature equilibrium.

It only took 7 Tours de Felasco, and Popeye's help, to figure it out.

Head to the showers?

Or ride two more hours?

It’s past the official 2:30 cut off time when I reach the last sag, at mile 47.

3 more miles one way. 16 more the other.

But there is no one with a clip board, no cut-off police.

I am not especially cold. I am not tired. I am not bored.

It is entirely up to me whether to take the shorter route back to the parking lot and finish with a very respectable fifty miles, or push the daylight window and continue for the full 100k.

A few more guys we know come filtering in and dismount at the sag. Only Jeff, who flew back from California especially for this ride, can be talked into continuing.

And even as he consents, Jeff is protesting. Noooo. I don’t want to ride any more. I want beer. I want beer now. I hate you. I despise you...

But deep down, Jeff must really want to ride that extra credit loop. Because, in spite of the protests, he shrugs and mounts up anyway.

Always the gentleman, he motions for me to lead into the woods on our last and final loop of the day. He anticipates some pain, I guess. He jacks up his music so loud I can hear it coming out his nose. Then we get pedalling.

Jeff and Trail Gnome on the extra-credit loop.

We've maximized our daylight for sure. The sun is low and the shadows are long. A pair of yellow flags, snapping in the wind, mark the finish. Popeye and the gang from the Cabot cheer us in. The day ends much as it started. It's getting colder.

Time to get moving once again and take the celebration indoors.

At last. Clean, showered, and finally dry. Popeye and I head gratefully to the roaring fireplace - and the Cabot's famous, free cocktail hour.

Bloody Mary please. With lots and lots of wonderful, salty olives.

What a crazy way to earn a tee shirt.

Colorado calling.

2012-01-11T12:23:00.000-08:00

Had a dentist appointment first thing last Monday morning. And groceries, and laundry, and...

But it's January, and I wouldn't have tried to get in an early ride anyway. Just get the indoor chores done and look forward to afternoon sunshine. That's winter. (And the plus side of unemployment.)

But chores snowball. Late afternoon. The fourth load of clothes, and my long sleeved bike shirt, are still rumbling in the dryer. My vest is… well, somewhere, I’m sure. And my full fingered gloves have disappeared as quickly as the time.

Finally. Tires pumped and out the door.

A block later: Jeeze, it’s after five o’clock. Duh. Go back for lights.

Nearly night. I am on my own. I have no agenda. There is no wind to dictate direction. On Tropical Trail, the llamas will probably be in their little huts for the night, but I might as well go see.

By the time I reach Mather's Bridge, the sun has already set. Time to switch on the lights. I expect full dark before I reach the north end, five miles away.

But it's January. Two months in a north facing townhouse and I've already forgotten. On a clear winter night, the sunsets here go on and on. The colors intensify long after my turnaround at Pineda. The river is mirror still, and still pink, even after I turn my back on it to head home.

Tropical Trail

But just as I lose the sun behind me, I see the moon. Dead center between the red and green lights of the swing bridge, full and huge, and edging up into the sky. The turn toward home forgotten, I become a two wheeled moth, on an eastern heading, drawn to the light of the moon.

The beach is spectacular. Waves crash gently, and recede. Light treads a wavy path straight from the moon to my feet. It follows me down the boardwalk and on my way up the road.

Tail light - boardwalk rail - full moon.

Tuesday morning, another bright day, another drive to Vero. The second time this week. A1A is brilliant with winter sunshine. Even so, the drive seems to take forever.

Out the car window, somewhere south of Sebastian inlet.

Why is it that 42 miles on a bike is easy-like-Sunday-morning, and yet driving 42 miles to the next town feels so darned long?

TriLady is sorting out and packing up. She's sold her house, researched jobs, and renewed her Colorado contacts. She's about ready to go.

I am driving down to help.

Years and years in the same house. Memories, mementos, dust, and STUFF.

She has to be out next week. There's no going back now.

I really am the right person to call. When regret comes slithering in across the bare tile floor of all those empty rooms, I'm the one who will say (as often as it takes),  "You're going the right direction. You're doing the right thing. You have very-good-reasons."

Who hasn't made an irreversible life decision and not panicked, asking, "What on Earth have I done?"

I know the feeling. I also know, as long as you immediately start ticking off all your very-good-reasons, you will feel better before you get to the last one.

(Even if I don’t feel so good. I’m losing a friend to the distant mountains of Colorado. Where she will surely spend her weekends having really cool bike adventures without me.)

But TriLady is a seeker. The long quiet highway is not her path. She has lived here long enough, and is wise enough, to recognize her need for a place to really call home. She isn't the first of my friends to desert the flatlands, but she just might be the first since I decided it's not my place to give anyone grief about it.

Somewhere along that long road south, I realize the difference.

Even the longest bike ride leads me back home.  But what if it didn't lead to a place with which you have made your peace?  Every ride would seem as endlessly long as a trip in the car.

Nah, no regrets allowed, at least not on my part.

The same moon follows you wherever you go, beating the same path, straight to your door, wherever you are.

It's only fair to let people go. Even the longest rides of your life ought to lead you home in the end.

The Scar Diaries. Boats, and Bikes, and Christmas Lights.

2012-01-01T11:05:00.000-08:00

"Ha, you don't need to keep a diary," said Popeye. "If you want to remember what you've been doing all month, all you have to do is look at your legs."

Well, my legs, and my arms, and my shoulders...

The highlights of December are clearly marked.

Perfect 1" round scars on each ankle from the blisters of birthday roller skating. Scratches from the Saturday morning safari rides. Fire ant bites from the Full Moon Hash.

What an excellent month.

The roller skating party on my birthday was so much fun that no way was I quittin' or sittin' until every last minute was up. No matter what the rental skates were doing to my ankles.

Scout on skates.

Giving their ankles a break:

Greg, Lora, Roger

Afterwards, the table for twelve at Coasters new bier gartin and 25 Dogfish Head brews available for tasting made my ankles feel much better. (If not my head.)

But then, everyone knows the best cure for a morning headache is a run in the park. And miraculously, my other birthday present didn't rub the blisters at all. Any bruises were the result of catching my toe on that stump, I'm sure.

New shoes. Old goals.

Wickham Park Marathon

2012 - 50k - Who's with me???

The demolition left no wounds, unless you count a few pangs to the heart.

If you see bikes wearing Christmas lights and people in funny hats at your local LongDoggers on a December full moon, don't think a thing about it. (Just watch out for fire ants at the circle afterward.)

Longdoggers on a full moon.

Smiles got a new 29r. Awesome!

The boat parade had some amazing lights this year too, but Scout and Pie Man always get my vote for best Christmas decorations.

Grand Canal boat parade.

From the deck of Sunny Skies.

A little something for Santa.

Every year or two, Pepper is possessed by a vampire cat. I still have no explanation for the Doctor Jekyll - Mr Hyde transformation.

Apparently there is no known cure. The best online advice I could find was stock up on bandages and disinfectant.

Sweet.

Unsweet.

Fortunately, I had on a long sleeve bike shirt and blood comes out in the wash. Unfortunately, the scars on my forearm will last awhile.

Popeye's been commuting to work on his bike. In December that means 15 miles each way using lights. I can't quite bring myself to ride in the predawn, but I usually meet him somewhere along his route home.

Riding in the dark and the cold toughens you up. I guess my evening half-commute makes me only semi-tough. But it does provide an excuse to admire the Christmas lights along the way.

VW sleigh and eight tiny flamingoes.

Each Saturday morning, while Popeye is blazing around Palm Bay with the roadies, Killer and I ride around the block. The Melbourne block, that is. 35-40 miles, with as much off road interspersed as possible. Every once in a while our Felasco friends take that route and I get to ride with other people.

Sean and 'Sauce

OK, I allowed a "before" picture.

That extra ten has got to go.

At least Killer is at his perfect weight.

Semi at the top of the Parking garage.

Hey, it's Melbourne.

You take your hills where you can find them.

Christmas with the Chick and her Hubby. No cuts, no bruises. Maybe a couple extra pounds.

I have never been so excited to give a gift. Who else in the world would love a lime green mixer? Well, other than me.

We got out of town for a couple of rides. Didn't get marked up at either one. There wouldn't have been room for any more scars anyway. I've been layering them on as it is.

Greenway underpass at 49th St.

From Santos, it's an easy solo ride west out to 484. Popeye and his friends did nearly the same ride, it turns out. You'd think we'd cross paths in nearly four hours of riding, but there're so many alternate routes, I don't see any of them until I arrive back at the trailhead with three minutes to spare before Popeye shows up.

I have to say that the terrain out past 49th St. is a little more interesting than nearer Santos. Those trails between Santos and the land bridge are so flat and so fast, they feel downhill both ways. But, the upside to boring is no scars all day.

West of 49th St.

I didn't acquire a single scrape at Chuck Lennon Park either. But not because it was boring. Quite the opposite. Swoopy and super fun. Northstar and I go around a third time before quitting.

Tom riding around a sinkhole.

I hope that bike was riderless when it went in.

We did some other, only semi-perilous, activities. Like the chili cookoff at Pie Man and Scout's. Testing out their rental SUP fully clothed. And a round of shots after Murdocks, and before watching Resident Evil on New Year's eve. (Some things just have no explanation.)

I forgot all about burning old bad habits in the New Year's firepit.

But I did remember to say Rabbit-Rabbit this morning.

The only dilemma was what on earth to wish for.

Happy New Year, everyone!

May all your scars be worthwhile.

Fat Tire Linzer Cookies

2011-12-20T11:46:00.000-08:00

Come and listen to a tale about Minnie the Moocher.

Ok, I really don't know the tale of Minnie the Moocher. Not yet anyway. If I ever see a neighbor in this place who will stop long enough to talk, I will try and get the story.

Living in an apartment or a townhouse even a mile from the beach means lots of seasonal residents. Lots of seasonal residents means, sadly, lots of abandoned cats.

I am taken by one stray in particular. I admit it. I've been putting out food since last Saturday. She showed up in the driveway and began talking to me in long drawn out cat syllables while I pumped my tires. What else could I do?

And so the daily visits by Minnie the Moocher began. Yesterday she actually came close enough for a pat. Ribs, backbone, matted fur, and not much else. I picked her up. Shocking. An adult size cat. Maybe two pounds. I swear. I put her down gently, afraid she'd break.

I should have scooped Minnie up right then and there and gotten her to the vet. Why didn't I? You know how humans are. I was on my way to go Christmas shopping. Important human stuff. I left her in the driveway with a dish of Nine Lives, and went on my way.

This morning, no Minnie. Oh no.

To be continued. (I hope.)

She'll show up, right?

Linzer Cookies and Bird Food.

None of the cookie experiments this year have turned out well enough for company. Since we no longer live on the water, and didn't have our usual boat parade party, it wasn't crucial.

I never made Lindzers before but I thought they had potential.

As a test, we jellied up a few right away, dusted on the powdered sugar, popped them into a ziploc and left them on the counter overnight. They were mush by morning.

A Christmas cookie that cannot be made ahead is not a usable Christmas cookie.

The trick is to bake the kind of cookie that can be pulled from the freezer, and go straight onto your prettiest reindeer platter. Where it thaws attractively into a crisp, chewy, delicate, or whatever it is supposed to be, cookie, by the time the Lion Christmas Roast has finished brewing.

I will still serve the Lindzers, but jam and sugar may have to be a post dinner guest activity. And if the guests are wearing dark colors? Never mind, pass the chocolates.

Lindzer Cookies are a delight, but not good candidates for my nearly always unplanned, last minute, needs.  They are seriously delicious, though. Just eat them the same day. And make sure any helpers are wearing white.

"A woman can never be too rich or too thin."
Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor

"...and neither can Linzer cookies."

BikeEatSleepRepeat

Hmmm, Wallis Simpson, isn't she the one who also said shopping is more fun than eating? Something wrong there. Just sayin'.

This recipe is originally from Epicurious. The hazelnuts would probably have been even better than the almonds. But I had almonds and that seemed better than a trip to the store, no matter what Wallis might think.

Lindzer Cookies

2/3 c. hazelnuts
(or 2/3 cup blanched, slivered almonds, if that's what you've got)
1/2 c. brown sugar
2 1/2 c. flour
1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. cinnamon
2 sticks (1 c.) butter, softened
1 large egg
1 tsp. vanilla
12 oz jam
powdered sugar

Spread the nuts on a baking sheet and toast at 350 degrees 6-10 minutes, until lightly browned. If you used hazelnuts, rub off the skins after toasting.  Turn off the oven - you won't need it again for a while.

Pulse the nuts and 1/4 c. brown sugar in a food processor until fine.

In a medium bowl, stir together flour, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon. Set aside.

In mixer bowl, beat butter and 1/4 c. brown sugar until light and fluffy. Add nut mixture and beat in the egg. Turn mixer to low and add flour mixture slowly until combined.

Divide dough in half, shape into disks, wrap, and chill for at least 2 hours.

Go for a nice, long bike ride. Come back.

Turn on your oven.   350 degrees.

Roll the dough between two sheets of waxed paper to 1/8 inch thick.

* This is where the Dutchess of Windsor knows her stuff. If you roll to say 1/4 inch, the cookie layers will be too fat and too rich for even the biggest of shortbread fans. The ideal Lindzer is light and delicate, with just enough fruity jam to balance the nutty, sandy cookie portion. The contrast of the jam layer will be outweighed if the cookie portion is too fat.

Using a round cutter, cut as close as you can, and get as many cookies as you can out of the first rolling. (The recipe recommends re-rolling the scraps only once.)

Bake half of the cut out circles as they are, on an ungreased cookie sheet. These are your bottom layers.

For the other half of the circles, use a half inch cookie cutter and cut a hole in the center of each before baking. These will be the top layers - with a little window, so you can see what kind of jam you're getting.

* I didn't have a small cutter, or even a straw, which might have been a polka dot sort of window alternative.  Sensing an engineering problem to be solved, Popeye headed to the garage (the garage?) in search of round, hollow objects that might serve as a small cutter.  What he came back with was the lid from a bottle of Stan's tire sealant. A new bottle, at least - made cleaner by a bout of obsessive scouring on my part. This resulted in fat-tire looking Lindzers. At some point I reversed it and used the pointy end for one last cookie sheet of "normal" looking skinny-tire top layers.

Bake at 350 degrees. 10-15 minutes. Turn on your oven light. After eight minutes, start checking.  Take them out sooner than later. These baked for nine minutes.  Cookies very thin. Very, very lightly browned.

Into the freezer with the thinnest lightest cookies, destined for Christmas Day activity hour.

Throw away any thick ones. Even if cats are starving in Florida.

If you can't bear to throw them away, then throw them to the birds (for cat lunches later). Or, if you must eat them yourself, just know you are in for a sludge attack. Trust me on this - I don't throw away almonds and butter lightly.

As close as possible to the hour of consumption, take the cookie halves out of the freezer.

Go put on an apron - or a white shirt.

Spread a teaspoonful of dark, tart jam on the bottom cookie. (I used red current.)

Layer on a top cookie, the one with the window. Sift powdered sugar all over. The cookies, that is.

Then make your choice. Fat tire or skinny?

Almost worth abdicating the throne for.

Or, at the very least, powder coating your guests.

And I'll huff and I'll puff...

2011-12-14T11:55:00.000-08:00

No bulldozers were used in the demolition of this house.

There was, however, a really big claw.

No thoughts of asking to drive this monster!

Pat, the claw artiste, started with a bang. Maybe showing off a bit. Or maybe just to reassure us that he knew exactly what he was doing.

First thing he did was reach in (through the roof) and pluck out a fan I had mentioned hating, and plopped it onto the lawn. Then he ripped up a palm tree and dropped it through the roof, just for emphasis.

Once the opening act was over, it was all business for the rest of the day. Really, I couldn't believe how much time it took. There's more to it than just knocking down walls. Who knew?

Sorting out the scrap metals and the stuff the crew thought worth keeping took much more time than simply knocking down walls and scooping up the rubble.

Two men sifted relentlessly through the wreckage as the claw did it's work overhead. No hard hats in sight.

The fan was just the start of an impressive pile of scrap metal that grew slowly but surely over the course of the day.

Separating the scrap metal.

BTW, that 50's turquoise was my favorite part of the kitchen.

Extracted intact. Somebody else likes turquoise too, I guess.

Pat also wanted the carport roof,

which he dropped neatly in one piece.

It will be reincarnated as a shelter for his goats.

Plucking re bar from the wreckage.

Of course the neighbors turned out for the show...

Flanked by Jose (our builder) and Popeye,

Lou and Karen, representatives from across the street...

Frank, from the house to the east...

Me, with Kathy, from the house to the west.

I lost the best picture ever, though.

Debbie, Jose's wife brought some burgers for the crew. It was the only moment all day the crew took a break. Debbie, surrounded by the demolition crew, with Pat the goat herder and claw artiste wearing the biggest smile of all. (Must be nice to love your work.)

It was such a great picture I couldn't wait to send it to her.

I love my IPhone, but.... the screen does a flip turn every time you move. Flip! The little trash can landed under where send should be and schwoop!

There it was, gone. (To quote Gilligan.)

Speaking of vintage words...

Look what else the crew found - wrapped around some spare jealousy glass in the tool shed.

Sept 27, 1963

Popeye would have been 2 weeks old.

Presidents actually stood by the space program.

And who needed Wal-Mart Prices?

The 1963 paper didn't fare too well once we started turning the pages. It's still in the trash with the burger wrappers though, if someone really really wants it.

I think it's OK to discard old stuff, as long as you can take what it has to teach along with you into the future.

I think again about the new design. I've kept a few of those 50's ideas, and changed a lot of them too.

The old house has taught us well. There's no substitute for good plumbing. The side with the view should have windows, not walls. And turquoise kitchens rule.

All over but the terrazzo.

Not a thing in the pool but a little dust.

So, it's the end of a long, dusty day.

And one of my oldest wishes has been granted.

(Minus the bulldozer.)

Making peace with the Christmas bulldozer.

2011-12-12T09:36:00.000-08:00

The demolition is scheduled for tomorrow.

8:30 start. Come by and watch if you like.

Twenty years is a long relationship to have with a single house. And it hasn't always been a civil one.  Whenever asked what I wanted for Christmas, my most frequent reply was, "A bulldozer."

The other day Popeye was wondering aloud if maybe he could get the demo crew to let me drive the bulldozer - just for the first pass through the old kitchen.  As always, I am truly impressed by his thoughtfulness.

But the thought - the reality - of the old house coming down after all these years...  somehow I don't feel the elation that I thought I would.  In fact, I feel more like I have signed someones death warrant.

We have all the same old stuff in the rental townhouse that we had in the house. The same couch, the same rug. The same old Christmas tree we've had since the last time in a rental townhouse, when the Chick was five. Why does it all seem newer here?

Maybe it's the high ceiling, or the floor that's not ancient terrazzo, that doesn't look as if it were speckled with little brown roaches. Maybe it's the kitchen with the oven that doesn't run 50 degrees too hot. Maybe it's the lack of a thirty foot hallway to get to a bathroom. Or the fact that the whole place is not trying to slowly slide downhill into a lake.

I need to remember it's not the house that made Christmas or any part of life easy, hard, good, or bad. (Although stepping out of bed to an inch or two of water on the floor, or finding that the wall had moved three inches overnight, did make it a bit trying sometimes.)

It's just a house, only a structure. And not a very good structure at that. I remind myself that there's no reason for emotion, nostalgia, or vindictiveness.

I appreciate how lucky I am that I get an opportunity to set right the wrongs - within budget, of course. To make our lives, not worse or better, but more carefree and much less annoying.

In this world of litigation anxiety, I doubt I'll get to drive the bulldozer tomorrow. But it won't be the disappointment it might once have been.

House on Shepard Lake

1959 - 2011

The Thanksgiving Dance. Making Stock and Taking Stock.

2011-11-30T11:29:00.000-08:00

The Chick, her Hubby, and Popeye all confirmed the roasting of the giblet bag inside the bird last year too. (Huh. I don't remember that.)

Apparently weird body parts are packed into cavities both front and back. As if reaching in there and fishing out the long, scrawny neck from the front weren't enough.

I expect this is how new Thanksgiving traditions are born.

One of our old Thanksgiving traditions is to ride before turkey.

The trail at Ft Pierce was not my first off road ride, but it was always my favorite. And it was the first place I ever rode clipped in to my pedals.

Somewhere around the half way mark at Ft Pierce, there is a section of Palmetto roots called The Dance.

Over the years The Dance has been worn down and is now pretty much sissified. But back when those bike trails were new (and bike tails were hard), you literally had to dance your bike over the roots to get through. Staying in the pedals was essential.

If you cleaned The Dance without putting a foot down, you were good. Really good.

Had a few wobbles this holiday. Roasting the giblet bag. Missing out on the Macy’s Parade (darn!) when it didn’t record.   And one long hang-time of a night spent sleepless and stewing over all the holidays past and all the ways for screwing up the present.

That was a long night, spent hovering as if unclipped and about to let the obstacles of worry have their way with my Thanksgiving.

But if riding The Dance has taught me anything, it is that pig-headed determination can transcend moments of imbalance.

Make effort.
Stay clipped.
Stomp those pedals.
Stuff that turkey.

Just. Keep. Going.

It wasn’t perfect, and I had a lot of help. A wonderful daughter and son-in-law, a wonderful husband, wonderful friends, a wonderful bike, and of course, Barefoot Contessa's wonderful Thanksgiving advice.

But darned if I didn’t do it for once! Kept my feet in the pedals, my wheels on the trail, and got the turkey out of the oven on time.

I did it! I cleaned Thanksgiving!

The Thanksgiving Dance

(For those with interest in the details.)

Wednesday.

Make ahead day. A quick ride over the river and back to the townhouse. 1 hour.

Stuffing, gravy, squash, potatoes, black bean cake, buttercream frosting, 2 pumpkin pies, one apple pie, and two pints of whipped cream. 6 hours.

Wash dishes. Clean house. Whew. Ready as it gets.

Let Thanksgiving begin.

Shortcut over the Pineda.

Pies are done.

I write instructions for myself so I don't get distracted on The Big Day.

Thursday.

Ft Pierce Trail. Vero Beach.

A great ride, and a great dinner with TriLady and her guest Tim, from Nova Scotia.

Trekkie, TriLady's beagle mix, pulls the sweaty bike shorts out of my bag and drags them across the living room. Keeta used to do the same thing. I forgot what it's like to have a dog! Pepper isn't big on turkey or sweaty shorts but she really likes having a loft.

Ft Pierce Trail

TriLady, and her friend Tim-from-Nova-Scotia.

Friday.

Our big at-home turkey dinner with The Chick and her Hubby, Popeye and me.

We must have been in Gobble Mode...

From the first round of Wild Turkey and Cider cocktails...

All the way through the traditional meal...

Off to see the Muppets...

Back home for pie.

And no one thought to take a single picture.

Even me.

Saturday.

Santos. Mo's. World of Beer.

Popeye, Blownfuse, and Josh are quickly out of sight. After a sketchy once-through on the Jon Brown, I decide the better part of valour is to stay off the red trails when riding solo.

I head west on the easy stuff. Just before the Land Bridge, the oak hammocks give way to pine flats - it's like flying.

Sadly, a couple miles beyond the Land Bridge, the 49th St trail has been denuded. Once pine-lined single track, it is now barren, treeless gravel. State conservation tactics - go figure.

Time to turn around. There's something like 25 miles of perfectly good shady singletrack behind me and no rule that you can't do it twice.

I meet Popeye head on coming back from the Land Bridge. I guess he wore out his friends, so now it is my turn. At least there is Mo's and World of Beer for replenishment on the way home.

Flat and fast. Trail toward the Land Bridge

Pine flats. Just east of the Land Bridge

Land Bridge

Multi-use section of the trail.

World of Beer menu board.

Sunday. Econ.

We meet Northstar and Tom, TriLady and Tim, at the Econ. The plucky Canadian tackles the rooty Econ completely without complaint on my spare hardtail, even burping all the Stan's in a near miss with a head-on rider. Spare tube. Co2. Good to go. If a bit messy.

Popeye, in the lead, comes around a low bend and scares three or four baby alligators into the river. The Canadian wants to see, of course.  Fortunately for my nerves the babies have all disappeared under water by the time I get there.  Where there are baby alligators there is always a Mama alligator.   Let's just keep moving, ok guys?

On the way home, we four native northerners have dinner on the river at Captain Katanas. After our day in the jungle, we sit outside in the mild night breeze, talking about, what else? How much we love snow and ice and skiing and skating.

Monday. Rest Day.

Make stock. Freeze drippings. Chili for an easy non-turkey dinner.

And because the chili pot is occupied with simmering stock, I bake our chili in the oven.

Stock - carrots, onion, celery, turkey carcass.
Simmer about 8 hours for the real deal.

Baked Chili - who knew?

Today, baked chili.

Tomorrow, turkey soup.

Damn. I love Thanksgiving.

This old house has gotta go!

2011-11-11T08:39:00.000-08:00

We did it. We are finally moved out.

Whoa, the old place looks even worse empty.

Here's a quick trip through. Featuring the walls I hate, the kitchen I hate, and the waterfront lot that everyone loves.

Sometime in the next couple weeks, hopefully there will be a video with a lot more action.

Featuring a bulldozer.

Here's a few still shots if the video is still being cantankerous.

Even the dock and seawall need repair after last months's no-name storm. It's supposed to be easier once the house is out of the way.

So. It's quiet now, but that's about to change. Hopefully sometime in the next couple weeks.

Can't be too soon for us.

Just so you know...

2011-10-25T14:57:00.000-07:00

I'm not the only one distracted by old treasures...

Ready for launch.

One Day at a Time

2011-10-25T10:35:00.000-07:00

One day at a time, and today it's coconut cake.

Only it's not. Because I don't even like coconut cake. But it is a line worth repeating, since it seems to sum up my life right now.

Here's the blog from which I stole the line.  Looks like a spectacular recipe! If you like that sort of thing.

http://lifeinrecipes.com/2011/09/15/one-day-at-a-time-and-today-its-coconut-cake/

Nope, don't like coconut cake.

What I do like is knowing that even a quick little segment of time-out can offer salvation when you're stuck at home having a bad day.

When the going gets tough, the tough bake cake.

It's so nice to know I'm not the only one.

I realized yesterday as I stole 20 minutes to stir together a new cookie recipe, that cookies were not the point. Not the point at all.

Play. That is the point.

Everyone needs a reset button, a few minutes to be creative. Especially if your day is turning out say, a tad less than rewarding.

It doesn't have to be cookies, of course. An exercise break works too.

But yet another ride from home. Yawn.

How to find the reset button when you only have so much time and the same old roads? Just have confidence that somewhere along the way, there will be a chance to veer off the usual route. To find something new in the same old neighborhood.

Saturday morning. Trusty the Timex goes off, bleeping and blinking in the dark on my bedstand. 5AM. Huh?

Oh yeah, last week's KSC ride. (Forgot to reset my watch.)

Although I wasn't happy to be lying awake in the dark on a Saturday morning, I was glad to be reminded that we had made the effort to get up and go last Saturday.

3rd annual Tour of KSC

My three amigos for the ride:

Popeye, Inspector Gadget, and our host, Northstar.

After riding the runway, we head to the VAB.

Inside the VAB.

Endevour is being dismantled and cleaned up for the museum.

If we ever want to see her again, we will have to go to the California Science Center in Los Angeles.

They told us to smile, and we did.

But it wasn't easy.

Inside the VAB.

(Look. It's one of the space center's biggest fans.)

Parting shot.

After the early-up last Saturday, we took Sunday at a more liesurely pace.

At first I resisted the idea of Sugarmill. It's a long drive for a short loop. But we go so seldom that the trail seems new, at least until the third or fourth time around.

Overlook at Sugarmill..

What a difference 60 miles makes.

At home, it poured rain.

Officially the Doris Leeper Spruce Creek Preserve,

Sugarmill is super well maintained.

Downed trees from the previous week's storm

were already cut and moved out of the way.

The Kaye Paul Trail is my favorite section.

The trees are big and the roots are small.

After the weekend, sorting and packing resumes. How could it possibly be so much trouble? It's only one small house!

On my own again, it seems as if every corner, every closet, is a mine field from the past. Physically, it's no big deal. Mentally, it's exhausting. And it makes me feel old.

For Wednesday's moment of escape, I decide to try a run in Wickham Park. Haven't run since before the surgery.

Even in good old Wickham Park

there can be the unexpected.

I think I woke this little guy up.

By the weekend of the 22nd, we know the Gainesville centuries are a no go. There just isn't time to blow off 2 more days, not with the demolition coming up who-knows-how-soon.

On Saturday the north wind packs a wallop, and a quick cruise to Cocoa Beach turns into a real workout.

The Paragon with slicks.

A1A to Cocoa Beach is a mixed bikepath/road/sidewalk sort of ride.

Cocoa Beach

By the time I get there, my average speed is something like 11 mph. But it's worth it to see some undeveloped dunes for a change. And the ride back to the Pineda is a non-stop sleigh ride, not a moment under 20 mph.

The wind is still kicking on Sunday. Just Plain Mike meets me at Front Street for an early tour of Melbourne.

Just Plain Mike

Popeye, who was still communing with coffee and cereal when I left, took the other bridge and caught up to us at the Oaks.

I probably wouldn't have thought to cut through by the junk yard after Melbourne Village if I were on my own. But then, I never would have noticed the beautiful Memphis Belle, right? (Ironically, both the guys went right by without noticing.)

Then on to the airport trails, the bum trails, the beach, and home. Home to more packing. Ugh.

And just when I am feeling awfully sorry for myself, having 20 years of stuff to sort through, we learn that the house on the corner is also scheduled for a demolition and rebuild.

And their trash is even more vintage than mine.

Smith Corona Electronic Typewriter?

Wow, suddenly I'm feeling so much better.

And younger. Lots younger.

Full moon, fully appreciated.

2011-10-19T11:16:00.000-07:00

October moon, 6 AM.

Lights required for the commuter bike.

Popeye rode his bike either to or from work all last week. Some days both.

Thursday, he rode to work, rode to the ride after work, rode the ride, hitched a ride, and rode back to work in the morning. All completely in darkness.

Overachiever.

If last night's full moon ride were a hash, he would have done some down-downs for that.

But it wasn't a hash. It was just another awesome night ride.

Under a full moon.

A full moon at apogee. The farthest point from earth this year. Appearing 12% smaller than the "super moon" last March.

Crossing NASA Blvd.

Left to right:

full moon,

reflective 35mph sign,

Semi photographing moon and reflective 35 mph sign.

But don't let the apogee part fool you. It was the brightest moon we've seen in a while. Because finally, it appears to have cleared up and stopped all the incessent raining.

I was sure the woods, especially the airport trails, would be under water. But they were dry, fast, and fantastic. If a bit spidery.

We get hung up a few times, swiping the larger webs out of the way.

Wolf spiders are reported to be able to move 2 feet per second. That must be an average. Semi, our fearless leader, runs into a real track star. When the flash goes off, this one rises twenty feet straight up, almost before we can blink. Leaving behind his five foot web for us to sever out of the way.

He has plenty of relatives on trail. It becomes a stop and go situation, since no one wants to wear a web or take a 2 inch spider for a helmet ride.

Popeye and Semi finally break a couple branches to hold out from the handlebars as frontal defense and the ride pace picks back up.

Of course the regular stuff can hang you up too.

Dirty going through ahead of me.

As soon as I follow, I get strung up by my ponytail.

By the time I get untangled, the guys are waiting by the road.

Nope, not Simon Says.

Holding a hand over the light that blinds.

The full moon ride is my all time favorite.  But the coming weekend has promise. To go with a break in the weather, we've got a list of possibilities to choose from.

We won't even need lights. Not for the bikes anyway.

But with a clear sky, and a 5AM wake up for the Tour de KSC on Saturday, there's sure to be one more chance to admire the moon.

Molasses Bread with Apples, Walnuts, and Home Grown Bananas.

2011-10-12T14:50:00.000-07:00

Night ride tomorrow. Time to charge the lights.

Well, what have we here?

Oops, almost forgot about the bananas Popeye cut down before the weekend storm could blow them away.

Winds at 30-45, for 2 days straight.

12 inches of rain.

On Friday he put the bananas out on the work bench, wrapped in a thick towel to speed the ripening process, with the intention of peeling them all for the freezer on Sunday.

But I guess we got distracted.

Could have been dinner at The Professor and Merry Ann's...

...with impromptu Octoberfest beer tasting.

Or, it could have been Merry Ann's Plum Tart.

Or maybe the weather was the main distraction...

...and chasing down the loose boards that floated away when the water came up over the dock.

When I go out to the work bench today to plug the bike lights into the chargers, I find the bananas. And surprise! They are absolutely perfect.

I'm not a big fan of bananas, and these little Ice Cream Bananas are super sweet. I eat one, but that is about all I am good for until they have been blasted in the blender with some OJ, protein powder, and a few of the summer's frozen mangoes.

I set aside a couple bunches for Popeye to eat and commence peeling and bagging the 60 or so that are left.

About half way through the chore, my mind rebels a bit, insisting that there must be something else that bananas are good for besides smoothies.

Pancakes? Too gross to think about.

Bananas Foster? Better, but still yucky.

Ahh, but something about the idea of Bananas Foster, the colors maybe, attracts me.

Something about deep, rich browns and the pale glow of bananas and whipped cream....

Deep rich browns...

Guiness could do it for sure, but we don't have any. Molasses, maybe. And cinnamon.

And what about the Honeycrisp apple I had set out to cut up for a snack but forgot all about after finding the bananas?

Sounds like a recipe coming together to me.

Molasses Bread

with Apples, Walnuts, and Home Grown Bananas

1 c. light (no taste) olive oil

3 eggs

1 c. granulated sugar

1/2 c. molasses

1/2 c. brown sugar, packed

1 and 1/2 c. diced apples

1 and 1/2 c. firm bananas, cut into chunks

3 c. all purpose flour

(or substitute spelt flour for one third of the white flour if you like)

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. salt

1 c. walnuts

Butter two loaf pans.

Preheat oven to 300 degrees - if you are the patient type.

(I am not. I set mine on 350.)

Mix the dry ingredients in one bowl and the wet ingredients with the sugar in another. Then combine them until you have a dense batter.

Gently mix in the apples and bananas and throw in a couple handfuls of walnuts. (Or measure out a cup, if you must.)

Divide the batter between the loaf pans, sprinkle with a little sugar, and bake.

If using a 300 degree oven - bake about 1 hour, 20 minutes.

If using 350 - bake about 55 minutes.

Test for doneness by inserting a sharp knife to see if it comes out clean. Just to be sure, do it in a couple spots. If you get a massive hunk of banana on the first try, the knife will come back sticky, and you might think the bread isn't done. Also, don't be afraid if it gets really dark around the edges. That's a molasses thing. It's not burned - it's just dark. And delicious.

As soon as it's cool, I'll slice the loaves, wrap them up, and put them in the freezer out of sight. Save them for a for a bike trip or some time when we actually need lots of calories.

So, bananas all peeled, banana bread made...

Now, where was I?

Oh yeah.

Go plug in the lights!

Procrastination Mode

2011-10-06T15:34:00.000-07:00

It doesn't take a genius to recognize procrastination mode.

Boxing up the contents of a house is daunting.  21 years worth of daunting, in this case. My packing commences with little bursts of humming.  Dory's song, in Finding Nemo.  "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming." And it works. For the most part.

But when I do stray into a bout of packing avoidance, it's a dead heat tie between enticements.

The computer vs. refrigerator gazing.

Resisting the call of the refrigerator is tricky but I've done it before. A few months ago during a bad bout of writing avoidance, I made myself do 10 pushups every time I opened the refrigerator door. Let's just say, it made me a stronger person.

Today required something quicker and easier than dropping to the unswept floor.  How about downing a full glass of water every time that fridge door opens?

By afternoon, the sloshing is audible, but the work is on track. In spite of a few extra trips down the hallway.

In a momentary slip-up involving an email check, I read a note from Just Plain Mike, volunteering moving day labor in exchange for beer. Awesome. Thank you!

Back to work. Just keep swimming.

In the dining room, I pop open the door to the buffet, and a sudden memory hops out.  So this is where I stashed the excess liquor after the party last Christmas.

I send Mike a quick email. "Would you consider working for hooch instead?"

The liquor was easily dispatched.  Hey. Into boxes - what were you thinking?

But what was that? There at the bottom of the liquor shelf.

Something that didn't belong.

Oh no.   Not that.

I am not ready to face that part of the packing yet.

Worse than the call of facebook. More irresistible than checking email.  Even more alluring than leftover Pad Thai...

Oh noooo. A photo album.

And just like that, the competition for my distraction is blown away.

Check this out.

The Chick as Annie Oakley.

Maila as... a pilgrim with a paint palette? Oh no, Judith Leyster.

(Yes, I had to ask.)

Erin Callan as Sacajawea.

(Montessori, can you tell?)

Sea, Breeze, and the Chick

Whatdayaknow?

Clean feet.

It's not often you get a black belt on your birthday.

And an assistant.

The Chick, Keeta's backside, and Sea

Way too young for Faye.

Must have been Floyd?

I confess.

I once used HapKiDo belt test money for a rock climbing trip instead.

When climbing, there are only two kinds of pictures.

From the top...

And from the bottom...

How's that for a surprise end?

Back to the boxes now.

Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Just keep...

Tour de Fiasco, Tour de Melbourne, Hash de Merrit Island

2011-10-03T11:57:00.000-07:00

"Congratulations!

You are now entered for the Tour de Felasco 2012."

Thanks to a little help from our friends.

Hey, at least the site didn't crash this year. But for a few hours it did refuse to admit that there was such an event available. Interestingly, a few hours was the same amount of time it took to fill up. Emails flew. Facebook lit up. Suddenly everyone was in the loop. The old secret password trick. Ha. Foiled by the same internet employed to confound us.

The opening salvo of the Tour de Fiasco happens at 6AM every first of October.  Thank goodness following their trail markers is easier than following their online instructions.

Busy weekend here. Too busy to justify driving all the way to Hailes Trails.

We signed a contract with the builder.

Silly me. I thought we'd have 30-45 days to pack up and move out of here. Uh-uh. 2 weeks! Yikes! Find a place to rent for less than a year (as if), that takes pets (good luck), arrange storage, and get packing.

But just because we boxed a bunch of stuff doesn't mean we bagged all the fun.

Being up early on Saturday morning for the Registration de Fiasco was not a total waste.  Popeye had time to get to Palm Bay, while I got an early start on my ride around the block.

The Melbourne block, that is.

Which is the most dirt I can pack into a local ride, without violating my no-riding-alone-in-the-bum-trails-rule.  Highlights along the way were stops to chat with other Fiasco victims out early, and a few places-no-faces photo stops.

Nice and Lord-OTF were out early and stopped to commiserate.

Then there was the informative conversation with the poison ivy spray man in Mel Village, who was kind enough to show me a native potato plant. Right before he sprayed it.

Semi, the original Fiasco pusher, was coaching soccer in Wickham.

Gadget Guru and Motorcycle Mama were just starting out on their slick tires, a late take off for their Cocoa Village ride.

As for me... Melbourne Causeway to Melboune Village to the Airport Trails to Wickham Park to Eau Gallie Causeway, and reluctantly, home.

Miles: 36
Tires: fat
Time: Uh... home in time for lunch.

I think I took a wrong turn in Melbourne Village.

Don't put a foot down.

(Unless you are off the bike to take a picture, of course.)

Airport Trail

No, I couldn't get the phone out of its ziploc fast enough

to get a picture of the deer as it ran across trail.

You can probably do a century ride in Melbourne

on canal banks alone.

Just a single swoop through Wickham.

Running can resume once the move is accomplished.

So. Early Fiasco.

Saturday morning ride.

Followed by Saturday afternoon condo viewing.

And Saturday evening Roller Derby.

Roller Derby - Palm Bay Rec Center - BYOB

One bout left this year. Nov 5.

Check Molly Roger Roller Girls on facebook.

Sunday morning. Back to work. I packed up a few boxes while Popeye put in some overtime in Malabar....

Then out to play again.

Hash ride!

(It's good to be vertically challenged.)

There's only 2-3 miles left undisturbed at Ulimay.

If anything, it has grown in even more since this was taken Nov 2010.

Who can resist the allure of the amazingly eco-, and economically, diverse Merritt Island? Thank you to the hares who, of course, did down downs for their trail. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Miles: 19.27

Tires: fat

Time: great!

Good bye, weekend.

Hello, alarm clock.

It's Monday.

And we're gonna need a lot more boxes.

Back Behind Bars.. The List of Possibilities for fall.

2011-09-21T07:45:00.000-07:00

Finally. Back behind bars.

Four weeks have gone by since the surgery, and release is official. The exercise ban is lifted. Hooray! Even though it's been a month of no-to-low-mileage recovery, it's hard to think in terms of easing back into riding. There are just so many events available in the fall. All I want to do is to jump in on both pedals.

Boy, I hate to see summer end. Getting up in the dark. Sunsets earlier and earlier. And eventually, shoes. With socks.

Took the lights along for the ride last night - and used them.

Oh, fall has advantages.  Crispy clear days. Open windows. Turning off the Sunday alarm. Ride any time of day. Or at least you could if there weren't such a full schedule of events.  Like century rides. And mountain bike racing. And trail runs.

Keep that alarm clock within reach after all.

There's not much that's new on The List of Possibilities from last year. It's always longer than would be possible, even if you could be in two places at once. Or some days, three.  Some weekends could be as much about juggling as riding.

Any choice is possible. Except for sleeping in.

The List of Possibilities - Fall 2011

Sept. 4    ~~8 Hours of Labor~~  (Stupid surgery!)

Sept 24    6 Gap Century - Dahlonega, Ga. (Not me. It's possible for Popeye, though, and Ft. Clinch is on the way home...)

Sept 25    3 Gap - fifty miles

Sept 25    Ft Clinch - mtn bike race. Goneriding FSC#2

Oct 1     Set the alarm! 6 AM Register Tour de Felasco

And since you're up early, throw the mtn bike in the car and get to Gainesville.

Oct 1     Hailes Trails open to public for 1 day

Oct 2     Hailes Trails - mtn bike race. Goneriding FSC#3

Or ride Hailes one day and Withlacoochee Trail the next.

Oct 2     Rails to Trails Ride - Withlacoochee

Oct 8     John Holmes 50k and 16m run - Croom

Oct 8     Rocky Raccoon Revenge - 8 hours of Raccoon Mt - Chattanooga. Goneriding. (Wouldn't this be an even nicer finish to the 6 gap than Ft. Clinch?  The 6 gap, a few days camping at Tsali or Occoee, and then the Rocky Raccoon?)

Because it's not likely any of that will happen... more choices closer to home.

Oct 9     Ride 4 ABreast - Melbourne

Oct 9     Tour de Vero

Oct 15 Tour of KSC - Be nice to your space center friends. This one is invitation only.

Riding the runway at KSC, 2010.

Oct 15    Mt Dora Century and Metric Century

Oct 16    Stay over for the Mt Dora Assault on Sugarloaf, or pack both bikes again, and head to the west coast instead.

Oct 16    Alafia - mtn bike race - Goneriding FSC#4

Oct 22    Santa Fe Century - Gainesville

Uh oh. Way too many choices for a Santa Fe follow-up. Felasco, du, or Horsefarm, I'm taking the Superfly.  (A second century should be cushy.)

Oct 23    Horsefarm Hundred

Horsefarm Hundred 2010

More than just horses.

Oct 23    Felasco - mtn bike race - Goneriding FSC#5

Oct 23    Dirthead (off road) Tri and Du - Croom. Much as I love the water, if the gators are anywhere near the size they are at the Econ... Just sayin'.   Tri or du, it's up to you. I know what I'd du.

Oct 30    Intracoastal Waterway Century - Cocoa

Nov 6     XTerra Wildhorse Trail Run - 1/2 marathon, 10m, 10k, 4m

Nov 20   Horrible Hundred - Clermont  (West Orange Trail is a 60 mile alternative if you don't feel like riding with the roadies.)

Nov 20   XC marathon, 30k, half marathon, 5k - Alafia

Dec 1     Santos - mtn bike race - Goneriding FSC#5

Dec 9-11 Highland Bike Fest

Jan 14 Tour de Felasco

Feb (date tbd)  Croom Fifty

It's good to be back behind bars. My body's got some work to do to catch up with my head, though.   So many choices!

Right this minute the possibilities are nearly as endless.

Dishes. Laundry.  Bridge repeats.

Nap?

Confessions of a Mermaid's Mom

2011-09-06T13:11:00.000-07:00

Seaside (The Shadow Over Earth) (Kindle Edition)

By Lindsay and Trevor If

5 STARS to Lindsay and Trevor If for creating a truly original alternate universe. A universe where a decision as mundane as what to wear to school can mean life or death. Where unearthly magic and a history of human sacrifice are as close as the church on the corner. Where the ultimate drug is as near as the beach.  But all is not darkness and strife. Making friends at a new school, figuring out your best color, and asking a boy to the homecoming dance, are all perfectly blended into a slow reveal of magic and a hidden underwater world.  Ashley Dunlop, high school sophomore, must find and reveal her own true colors, not just in her wardrobe choices, but in her quest to make an imperfect world into a better place. The ending leaves one teetering on the shoreline of a secret alternate universe wondering, what's next? I can't possibly imagine, but I bet the Ifs can, and I am ready to plunge into the next book of this series the instant it comes out.

Wow, what a review! Five stars! A review so glowing it's like something your mother might write.

But hey, you can read it too, and write a glowing review of your own. Which can be really fun, especially if you know the author (or the author's mom).

To read the book, no need to own a Kindle. The Kindle app for iPhone, Android, or your PC, is free.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_pc_mkt_lnd?docId=1000426311

"Seaside" has gone up from .99 to $2.99 though, so get it now before it takes off for double digits. As it is surely bound to, with such glowing (and absolutely right-on) reviews.

I confess that I am un-savvy to the wily ways of computer linkage and ebooks. Anytime I access Amazon, it knows it's me. It looks from here, that if I put up a link for you from my computer, you will be "me".   I really do love this book, and hope you do too. But I would prefer you to buy your own copy, you know?  Besides, hey, $2.99!  5 stars! You really can not go wrong here.

Besides, admit it, you are dying to voice your own opinion by writing your own review.

So. Got to amazon.com and search for "Seaside Lindsay If" and it will take you to the gorgeously illustrated turquoise-with-mermaid cover and all the (glowing) reviews. Download to your Kindle or your phone or PC.

You will love this novel. Trust me. I'm someone's mother.

Irene - Over Easy.

2011-08-29T08:07:00.000-07:00

7 days without riding makes one weak.

30 days could make one outright crazy.

So I compromised.

Saturday morning. Day 11. Easy does it. I probably wouldn't have tried it but for the super cushy Superfly.

First stop - the beach.

OK, I admit I am starting to appreciate what all the early birds see in the dawn's early light.

Satellite Beach

7:30 (AM!!!)

8/27/11

Except for the obvious power and the occasional boom, the surf seemed almost subdued. And mesmerizing.

That five mile ride on Saturday wore me out, but it felt good. So of course, I was compelled to do it again on Sunday. Just a bit further.

Whoops. Too much. Ache deep in the gut for the rest of the day.

Note to self: Stay vigilent. Pay attention. It's not even September yet. Listen to the forecasters, but go with your gut.

My gut is saying it's back to walking for a couple of days.

And keeping an eye on the weather.

Good night Irene. A storm, a surgery, and a sea story.

2011-08-26T10:19:00.000-07:00

What do you call a girl with a wooden leg?

Ilene.

Ok then, so what do you call a Chinese girl with a wooden leg?

Hint - our latest hurricane...

Satellite Beach

8pm 8/25/11

Irene passing 200 miles offshore.

Oh, I shouldn't laugh, that's not nice.

Haha - ouch.

Karma. Hurts.

Especially if you had kidney surgery last week.

Looks like Irene is going to give us the brush off and go kiss some of the northern cousins instead.

We call Pie Man and Scout, just in case they've been having too much fun in the Chesapeake to watch the weather. Their cell phones were on, of course, and they have already found a mooring.  I laugh at myself, thinking even for a second that they might not be paying attention. Of course they are.

There are three kinds of sailors. Smart, lucky, or dead.

Planning ahead, thinking things through, being aware, can add a little layer of stress to cruising.  Much less stressful though, than dealing with the moment when all else has gone ka-blooy.

After hurting me sufficiently with his joke, Popeye pours coffee into a travel mug and leaves for work, promising to be back at 2 to take me to the doctor for the follow up. One week and one day, and no news on the biopsy. I get the feeling they are holding off to tell me in person.

After the 6 pronged assault to my abdomen, it hurts to laugh, or to sneeze. Heck. It hurts to breathe.

Pain, hurricanes, sailing. I check out my six new scars in the mirror, and suddenly notice all the old ones. Long, artful incicions of years past, instead of these new raggedy holes.  Old, old scars, still there. Just long forgotten.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Yes. No matter the method, it is exactly the same sort of pain. And, the same sort of prison created, keeping you from your freedom, dependent on others. I wait at home for 2 o'clock, while time runs back to a different day.

It is late summer in Vinalhaven. I forget the year. The breeze is light and capricious. Corsair has been dragging anchor back and forth past a huge “Underwater Cable - Do Not Anchor” sign for two days, ever since my release from the Penobscot Bay Medical Center.

The Mate is characteristically unconcerned about dragging, and I am in no shape to argue. I have a hard enough time just standing myself up in the cabin.

By the end of day two though, willing to risk rupture for a glimpse of daylight, I lurch my way up the ladder, and poke my head clear of the hatch.

The scene (think technicolor!) is of the cockpit looking aft. It is a brief moment, a still shot. There is an unreal, movie set quality about it. A sort of Indiana Jones comic moment.

The Mate in the scene is fully absorbed in a posture of delight, pulling a mackerel on a handline up into the cockpit.

Directly behind his head, on a spectacular background of ocean horizon, rises a huge bank of clouds, so black and so high, it might as well be a mountain range.  A mountain range moving right for us.

Spread east to west, horizon to horizon, it has already closed into the throat of the channel, ready to swallow us whole if we try for the exit.

The calm before the storm.

It’s amazing the effort it takes to get someones attention when standing mid-ladder on a 35’ sloop with a 7 inch incision in your belly.

Especially if they are preoccupied with yanking up a mackerel.

An instant later the still shot jumps to a movie in fast forward.

The mackerel splashed to freedom.  The Mate pelted for the bow. After the effort of sounding the alarm, getting myself back down the ladder and out of the way was all I could manage.

I feel a sickening drift backwards. Anchor line being paid out.

A handful of cockpit cushions and paraphernalia comes pelting down the hatch, followed by the Mate himself and the first hard spatter of rain.

(Deal well with the moment sailor, for all else has gone ka-blooy.)

The Mate stuffs me painfully into my wetsuit, not easy on either of us, but probably the most foresighted thing he has ever done, before or since. We settle in by the ports to keep a bearing on the point, as Corsair jerks and slips her way gradually, incessently sternward, closer and closer to the rocks.

50 feet.

40...

The Mate is on the second rung of the ladder with his hand on the latch when the bow snaps around and we fetch up hard into the wind.

And there we stay, heaving into the spindrift, while David churns in from the Atlantic at 65 knots.   The anchor? Dug in hard to the only good holding we'd found yet in Vinalhaven, the underwater cable.

Irene, our hurricane of the present, demands attention, spattering rain across the dining room windows, like a vagrant knocking, then suddenly backing off to try a different door.

We are back from the follow up at the surgeon's office.

The tumor wasn't cancer.

It was a low-fat mass of blood and muscle, according to an Internet search using the 9 syllable word on the lab report.

Treated like cancer until proven otherwise, hence removed.

So. Still here. Still alive.

But somehow, not feeling especially smart or lucky.

It still hurts to breathe, dammit.

Even sighs of relief.

Good night, Irene.

I'll see you in my dreams.

Dreamin' global. Ridin' local.

2011-08-10T11:54:00.000-07:00

There's a full moon coming up this weekend.

It's on the List again. Ride around Lake Okeechobee. It was on the list to go to Maine in August too. Yet another oh-well.

Been saying oh-well to a lot of opportunities so far this month.

Haven't been out of town once. Didn't make it to the Jacksonville Xterra. Or Tsali. Haven't even been to Hogsmeade for a butterbeer.

Doesn't mean we've been totally idle. Just operating within smaller parameters, that's all.

While Popeye rides the Palm Bay group hammerfest a couple times a week, I am on my own. Nope. I won't go into how goofy it seems to me that no one wants to ride any where but out in the full sun, on the road, in Florida, in August. I'll just say that I don't get it. I don't get it at all.

But on road or off, there's no escaping the fact that it is August. Any other time of year, riding alone includes the luxury of going whenever I happen to be ready. August is a special case though, and the last couple Saturdays I have been determined to get out aeap (as early as possible).

Saturday. 7:30 AM. Every possible ounce of Gatorade squeezed into the camelbak, full suspension locked out, tires stans'd and pumped to a street-ready 30 pounds...

Wow, early is nice.

It's been a while since I have been on my own in the airport trails.

The old trail is still there. It just comes out behind a different fence.

Whoops. Gotta take the road for a bit from here.

The Eau Gallie dam is still accessible, though. I love this spot. You'd never know you are right in the middle of a town.

No I didn't ride across. I've seen people try. Did you know that fat tires will pop a bike right back up to the surface after plunging off a dam into deep water? Kind of like the sub in The Hunt for Red October. Good to know, huh? Just the same, Keene spd bike sandals make perfect waders.

It is only after I'm across that I remember the second largest gator I ever saw. Melbourne Tillman Canal. Huge. He was stretched out under some falling water, very much like this spot, jaws wide open, waiting for something edible to wash over.

Oh well, the foot wash felt pretty good - once the heart rate went back down.

Even if you can't leave town, at least you can pretty much make any local ride about water.

A1A south toward the inlet has half a dozen beach parks. In August, any ride farther than the mailbox is going to be a soaker anyway. Might as well add a swim.

You just never know what you'll see along A1A... How about Cap'n Jack Sparrow holding a for sale sign?   I was by there again yesterday. He's still there. Still for sale.  Go figure.

Once every few weeks, there's more rolling around this town than just bikes.

How about those Molly Roger Roller Girls!

Saturday night. Roller derby at the Palm Bay Rec Center. A little bit Nascar (left turn, left turn, left turn), and a whole lotta bumper car. It's BYOB and BYOSC. Seat cushion, that is.

I did take one video that night just as the home team jammer went into the penalty box. 2 minutes of Dub City (West Palm) racking up points, the 109 to 40 scoreboard in the background. (I didn't spare you on purpose, it just didn't upload.) Then, the very next jam yielded a broken clavicle. Unphotographed, of course. At least by me.

Our seats, high in the bleachers, are good ones, but we've decided to get there earlier next time. The front row is where the action is.

Speaking of suicide seating...

Ever been hoisted up a mast in a bosun's chair?

Well, now Popeye has.

Pie Man and Scout are preparing Sunny Skies for departure. Popeye replaces a deck light, while Pie Man stands by near the winch.

Just a few more chores and ready to go.

Even catamarans only have so much room. You just can't take everything along - even if you do have brand new folding Dahon's. Once Popeye is back on deck, we are instructed on our next chore. Helping to clear Pie-Man's bar fridge of it's last few beers.

Somehow, this onerous task is only half completed, when Pie Man's new doo comes under discussion. It is a #1, in preparation for a month or two of cruising. Before you know it, the clippers are out. For Popeye, it's a whole new take on washing the gray away.

I put in the video. Then edited it back out. If anyone really wants to see, let me know. But seriously. Don't ask. Unless you have a weird sense of humor. (And a poor sense of fashion.) Some things just seem funnier in the moment, you know?

Yesterday's storms doused the temps and made a quick 25 miles out the front door feel refreshing, even in late afternoon. If I'd been on my road bike it might have been a little sketchy on Tropical Trail in the blustery west wind, but on Killer it was a breeze.

Yes, it stormed before I got back.

No problem. Killer traction.

Four or five miles north of Mathers Bridge, up toward the Pineda, I see Sunny Skies under full sail, way out in the channel, heading north, wearing a "for sale" sign on each rail. She is the only vessel out there.

Well done, Pie Man and Scout. An on-time departure. Finally underway for a late summer cruise of the Chesapeake, and eventually the boat show in Annapolis.

I'd say good luck in selling Sunny Skies at the boat show.

But they'd know I don't mean it.

Postscript: Here's the link to Scout's cruising blog. I haven't spent much time in the Chesapeake, so I'm really looking forward to hearing all about it. If you aren't a boat person, remember they've taken those brand new Dahon's, so I expect to see a few rides in the travel report as well.

http://www.sunnyskyadventures.com/sunnyskiesblog/

Roughin' it. Tribal Challenge in Wickham Park

2011-07-24T07:54:00.000-07:00

The biggest trouble with Xterra off road triathlons is that there just aren't enough of them. Not in Florida, anyway.

For a long time, TriLady, Popeye, and I have tossed around this question. Where could we stake out an Xterra course in our own neck of the woods?

Where were there enough miles of mountain bike trails and a quarter mile swim in the same location? Wickham Park? Nah. The XTerra people would probably laugh if they saw it.

How would you ever get anyone to pay for a race in little ole, sandy, flat, Wickham Park?

By thinking outside the box, that's how.

By swimming contestants across both lakes.

With a run in between.

By staking out an eight mile cyclocross/mountain-bike combo course, without repeating an inch.

And making sure the ride goes over (almost) every available root, log, stump, and lump in the park.

By ending the bike with a Death Spiral.

And the run with a waterslide.

That's how.

The TribeNMotion website has results, videos, and tons of photos of the hundred or so contestants riding the death spiral or sliding to their run finish.

Here's my favorite video - the spiral of death featuring a few riders you may recognize. http://contour.com/stories/spiral-of-death

Ride in and in and in.

Turn. Don't put your foot down!

Ride out and out and out again.

That’s Woody the Race Organizer in the mix, providing commentary and encouragement, from aboard his Pugsley.

Just look at all those photos.

And all those smiling faces.

Smiling, because they just splashed down after navigating 2 swims, 8 miles of biking - Wickham style, and a 3 mile sun-run.

Smiling, because the fun wasn't done. Not yet.

Just a few seconds beyond the official finish line, each of these happy athletes hands over a popsicle-stick place marker and heads to their third transition of the day.

The team portions of the sport are up next.

Eating. And drinking. With a hundred or so new best friends.

Often, by the time I finish a race, the food is all gone. Or if there is food, it's just junk. This time, not only was there food left, but it was really good-for-you-refueling food. What a great surprise to be handed a fresh-made-just-for-me sandwich from Tropical Smoothie. Chicken salad, mmm.

And then it's on to the very last, very important, transition of the day. Over to the Bob's Bike Shop tap for liquid replenishment.

But just in case no one believes this tribe of elated off-road junkies earned such an elaborate party just by riding little ole Wickham Park, I went back later and took a couple shots of the venue.

Poor old trails of Wickham Park. Burned down, and ploughed up. Then ploughed again. There are some pretty rough sections, but plenty of nice ones too.

2 ponds. Swim-run-swim.

Did you practice your dismount?

Oops. Roots.

Off the bike to push, or pedaling past the pushers - neither choice was easy – especially when the pack hit the Root Loops.

No matter what kind of bike you had, stopping to lift it over a downed tree, or slogging through sand and heavy grass as fast as you can slog, is a darn good workout.

But thanks to expert trail volunteers, the last few miles of well marked, tight, twisty, shady singletrack was its own reward.

So here’s the deal. Put Tribal Challenge on the calendar for next year. We have.

Because we would have raced this crazy course without awards or food.

We would have raced without door prizes, tribal drums, or a live band.

Heck, this course was so much fun, we would have done it, even without the beer.

Just don’t tell Woody, OK?

A few events we're looking forward to...

2011-07-15T10:02:00.000-07:00

Just a quick touch on events coming up fast.

Tomorrow, July 16, Tribal Challenge, in Wickham Park. The only off road tri in town.  Water slide finish! The biggest plus - it's Saturday afternoon. No alarm clock. Daylight start. A real party afterward instead of the usual ho hum bagel and nap from getting up too early.     http://tribenmotion.com/

Next weekend.  First Coast XTerra, Hanna Park. Sprint tri, off road. Short and sweet. Nice clean ocean swim, easy twisty mountain bike course, and a shady trail run. Well marked, well organized, well run.  And right up the road in JAX Beach.    http://xterrafirstcoast.com/Triathlon.html

Jumping ahead, just so you can't say we sprung it on you. Another favorite bike course. 8 Hours of Labor, San Felasco, Sept 4. Solo or grab some team members.  Only six weeks out. Two words: bridge repeats. (Just sayin'.)     http://www.goneriding.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=158&Itemid=201

When the going gets tough, the tough make egg pie.

2011-07-14T11:27:00.000-07:00

"Anyone can do any amount of work, provided it isn't the work he is supposed to be doing at that moment." ~Robert Benchley

A quick leaf through before take off and a two page article on a genius border collie satisfies my pre-flight check of the in-flight magazine. But just as I open the seat pocket to tuck the magazine in before it puts me to sleep, my favorite word, adventure, pops up from the page.

The article doesn't say much, but the truism speaks to me.

"It's not an adventure if everything goes right."

The trip to PHL was not an adventure.

The anniversary party and Popeye's impromptu family reunion was a huge success. The parents were pleased with their party, and their gift, the Drunkard's Path. (OK, so we didn't mention it had a name.)

Time to wrap it up.

We got in a run at Marsh Creek and a trip to Victory Brewing.

Kind of forgot how big the trees are here in Pa.,

even the dead ones.

Hop Devil, anyone?

Oh, all right, just one. Or two.

The flight was perfect and right on time.

Even the bus to the parking lot decided to pull back in, rather than leave us waiting for the next one. Sure looked as if we skated this trip without a bit of adventure.

Then again, nothing like an inch of water on the bedroom floor to wake you right up when you pull in late on a Sunday night.

Not a big leak sort of adventure, just a steady little one. Enough so that we mop it up and sop it up until we feel we can go to bed without being too underwater (literally) by morning.

Morning is when I find the wet closet wall and the wet closet floor. Morning is when Popeye has just enough time to knock a hole in the wall, and tear out a few chunks of soggy plaster before he leaves for work.

Empty the closet, do a bit of mopping. Dishes, a couple loads of vacation laundry, turn off the water at the street, finish the plaster scoop up, a little more mopping. Ah... what else to do while waiting for the plumber?

I could clean the pool or write up the summer solstice ride. But as every good procrastinator knows, there's nothing like putting off work when you could be eating instead.

There's nothing much in the fridge because we've been gone for a few days. Can't leave and go to the store.

And what's a Monday without a bonus challenge thrown in?

A stuck-in-the-house-waiting-for-the-plumber-with-no-running-water scenario should do nicely.

(Everything but the eggs, milk, and cheese is pretty much optional. You can even bake this directly in the pie pan without crust.)

Monday Morning Egg Pie

One Pillsbury pie crust. (Check the expiration date.)

3 eggs, plus 3/4 c. egg whites from carton (still good - yes!)

(or Eggbeaters, or 3 more eggs, or whatever you've got to equal 6 eggs)

1 3/4 c. shredded 2% cheddar

handful of grated parm

Onions, peppers, mushrooms, whatever veggies that aren't stuck to the bottom of the fridge.... chopped

Light olive oil

Frozen peas

3/4 c. skim milk (or canned if you've been gone longer than a weekend)

Salt, pepper, herbs (turmeric, sage, thyme, rosemary, or whatever you have on hand)

Turkey bacon, crisped, and crumbled.

Cook the bacon in the microwave while you're chopping the onions and pepper.

Unroll the pie crust into a pie plate and flute edges.

Brown onions peppers and mushrooms in some light olive oil. When almost done add a handful of peas and heat through.

Distribute cheeses over bottom of crust.

Spread the sauteed veggies and crumbled bacon on top of cheese.

Stir eggs and eggwhites and skim milk in a bowl.

Pour egg mixture into crust.

Bake at 350 for about 40 minutes. (When a sharp knife poked in the center comes out clean, it's done.)

Ok, so you can't do dishes right away. Use the same plate. Have a second helping. The plumber will get here soon enough.

Time Travel and the Summer Solstice Ride.

2011-07-11T13:02:00.000-07:00

When was the last time you had Lorna Doones? Or wondered who the heck was Lorna Doone, for that matter?

I might have been convinced of time travel, except for the niggling little fact that on this Southwest flight, the Lorna Doones come in a 100 calorie pack.

Surely, that's nothing Lorna ever cooked up.

I look at the ingredients and try to set them aside. Still, as the flight progresses, the feeling of time travel is as unavoidable as opening the pack and savoring every tiny bite of shortbread one at a time.

With ginger ale.

A glance to the watch and I wonder if, back home, Atlantis is right now rising from the pad, or if the anticipated tide of tourists is receding from a scrub.

Seems to me any nation willing to give up on space, is a nation one step closer to third world.

There is no sensation of motion hurling along at 29,000 feet in a bright blue 737. There is however, a blur of slippery notions, sliding from nostaglic past to possible future and back again.

Although it may seem as if calling off a big chunk of our space program is a sign of sliding backwards, there’s really no going back to a time before mankind knew space flight was possible.

Instead, it occurs to me that this launch finale may turn out to be a leap forward. A giant leap toward a future nation of Idiocracy.*  Toward the kind of society where everyone knows how to screw in a light bulb, but no one knows how to make one.

A hundred calories of Lorna Doone shortbread doesn’t last long. The FA asks if we would like more to drink, perpetuating the notion of a different decade.

Time may be relative when it’s inside your head, but in the real world we do our best to measure it. In sunlight travelling over the earth. In the angle of the sun. In planetary tilt. And in summer, the passing of the solstice.

Put in Idiocratic terms, the eve of the summer solstice gives you the most drinking time at Beef O Brady’s while waiting for the sun to set, at which time you can commence Semi’s Summer Solstice Ride.

Since we didn’t get it together for a June full moon circumnavigation of Lake Okeechobee, the invitation to join Semi on his Summer Solstice Ride, was particularly welcome.

It’s a Tuesday. Ride start - 8pm. I’m a little early. Popeye pulls in from the Palm Bay ride, switches bikes, and switches shoes. I hand over his lights and he is ready for his second ride of the evening. I don’t even recognize Sauce as he pulls in, in his new truck with the big new dent. Semi, Sauce, me, a total of 3 Matts including Popeye, plus a Dirty, and a Justin. We are 8. Not bad for a Tuesday turnout.

If you’ve been on a Melbourne safari in the daytime, I highly advise riding one in the dark. It’s a whole ‘nother world out there. Like a 50’s thriller, time travel to the dinosaur hour, or being on another planet.

Off road, in the dark, common Florida natives turn alien.

Five deer freeze in the glare of helmet lights. Ten eyes stare back at us, glowing green.

Sticks and vines take on a prehistoric twist, with shadows to fool the eye. In the flash of a camera, what I think is just a gnarly branch lying on a quick stretch of pavement, turns out to be a lounging snake.

I am happy that the spider webs stretching from tree to tree are mostly bisected by Semi, as the fearless leader.

The Early Bird may get the worms,

but the ride leader gets the spiders.

If you’ve gone out on your bike, seeking dirt to ride in Melbourne, then you’ve probably been on the Melbourne safari often enough to be bored with it. But if you're looking for the feel of being out of town (or maybe off planet), then give this route a go round at night. Bum Trails to Airport Trails to Melbourne Village. End it with a cruise through the spider kingdom alongside Hibiscus Blvd.

There’s bound to be a Map My Ride if you need electronic guidance.

But I recommend the guidance of Semi.

And the company of mountain bikers.

With a Beef O' Brady ending to wash the spiders away.

Were those 2 for $5 pitchers? Could that possibly be right?

Now there’s some awesome time travel.

PS Thanks, Gadget Guru, for giving us that copy of Idiocracy a few years back.

*Idiocracy: a 2006 American film, satirical science fiction comedy, directed by Mike Judge and starring Luke Wilson. The short story inspiration was "The Marching Morons", a science fiction short story written by Cyril M. Kornbluth, originally published in Galaxy, April, 1951. (Wikepedia)

Butterbeer according to Semi

2011-07-02T12:00:00.000-07:00

Semi has sent a very authentic looking Butterbeer recipe. He didn't say where he got it. I hope he gave some poor house elf a pair of old bike shorts or something equally valuable for it.

Just so you know - I have NO INTENTION of making this myself. But I'd love to hear how it turned out if anyone else tries it.

BUTTERBEER according to Semi:

Start to finish: 1 hour (10 minutes active)

Servings: 4

1 cup light or dark brown sugar

2 tablespoons water

6 tablespoon butter

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon cider vinegar

3/4 cup heavy cream, divided

1/2 teaspoon rum extract

Four 12-ounce bottles cream soda

In a small saucepan over medium, combine the brown sugar and water. Bring to a gentle boil and cook, stirring often, until the mixture reads 240 F on a candy thermometer.

Stir in the butter, salt, vinegar and 1/4 heavy cream. Set aside to cool to room temperature.

Once the mixture has cooled, stir in the rum extract.

In a medium bowl, combine 2 tablespoons of the brown sugar mixture and the remaining 1/2 cup of heavy cream. Use an electric mixer to beat until just thickened, but not completely whipped, about 2 to 3 minutes.

To serve, divide the brown sugar mixture between 4 tall glasses (about 1/4 cup for each glass). Add 1/4 cup of cream soda to each glass, then stir to combine. Fill each glass nearly to the top with additional cream soda, then spoon the whipped topping over each.

Gee, thanks a lot.

I mean, thanks Semi!

60 Miles to Butterbeer

2011-06-30T10:08:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago we bought annual passes to Universal. We’ve had ‘em before, but a couple years have gone by since. We haven’t seen The Wizarding World of Harry Potter yet, or tasted Butterbeer!

We get to the Econ often enough that as long as we are in the area and have passes, we can justify dropping by Islands of Adventure for a few hours after a mountain bike ride.

If we were paying for a one day ticket, we’d never go. We just can’t get up early enough, or withstand crowds long enough, to justify a single all day excursion. But give us a year and a few hours per weekend. That we can handle.

As usual, a good lunch is the magic formula for recovering from the early-up of the Saturday morning ride. By afternoon, we have run the search for satisfactory theme park outfits - quick dry shorts, and sandals that strap securely - and head for Universal.

(The sandals are especially important. Can you imagine how many flips flops they find under the roller coasters at the end of the day?)

By the time we pull into the last row of the King Kong lot, it's late, but there’s enough time to purchase our passes and get in for an hour or two. I am anxious to see the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.

It's not summer yet, but the skies are rehearsing for July. As we step up to leave our fingerprints at the gate, thunder rumbles, and the first big fat raindrops begin to fall.

Slipping expertly through the stream of exiting people we head for the back of the park, where the dragons fly and Butterbeer is served.

Only the dragons aren’t flying. They are shut down. As is every other roller coaster and outdoor ride in the park.

Now sometimes, just watching a Harry Potter movie can make me feel like I am back in upstate New York with the gray skies, and the snow that just keeps on coming even after your Easter candy is long gone. On the big screen in a dark theatre, a winter scene in a Harry Potter movie can set my teeth to chattering.

So real is the backdrop for this area of the park, and so gray is the sky, that disbelief is nearly suspended. Snow clings to the steep, slate rooftops of Hogsmeade. The Three Broomsticks is doing a booming business. Gringotts is right down that alley. It is the perfect illusion.

Or it would be, if it weren't for the multitude of drenched muggles in bad shorts.

Ok, so we were drenched muggles ourselves. Drenched and re-drenched as it turns out, as we people-watch our way through a 90 minute line for The Forbidden Journey, the only indoor ride.

The ride was pretty good, but it was the reward of a butterbeer afterwards that left an impression. We raved about it all the way home. What’s in it? How can we make some?

Butterbeer, draft or frozen.

Old habits die hard. We choose draft.

Another choice is Pumpkin Juice.

Thanksgiving in a bottle.

Back at home I go immediately online. It seems we are not the only ones with home brewing in mind. But no recipe (and there are many) looks even close.

My eyes wander from the screen in a potential sugar daze. Mmm, maybe that foam was butterscotch blended with whipped cream…

My gaze lands on a little black notebook next to the computer, a notebook I’d been keeping for a few weeks, since I started watching “Addicted to Food”.

Brewing Butterbeer for home consumption is a singularly bad idea.

Usually it takes some form of chocolate to make me forget all about how much I hate carrying around extra pounds. It’s taken a month just to lose five. Do I really want Butterbeer available in my own refrigerator?

I close the computer. It’s bad enough that it is available 60 miles away.

The Butterbeer has cast a powerful spell. If only I had Harry’s potions textbook right now, I'd look up a counter-curse.

I pick up my ink laden wand and open the little black notebook, reluctantly starting a new page, hoping that a self-intervention will work some magic of its own.

Can the curse be reversed?

Sure hope so. There’re a lot of weekends in an annual pass. And we’ve got some dragon riding to do.

A Day at the Park: Wickham Park Marathon, 50, 100, and 200 Mile Fun Run

2011-06-23T08:57:00.000-07:00

Boom BOOM!

"What the... ?"

Oh yeah, ok. Endeavour's back.

Might just be the last time the sonic boom of a returning shuttle ever knocks me out of bed.

So, once again, the first words of the month were not "rabbit, rabbit". But then, it is always a wish fulfilled whenever a space shuttle returns home, safe and sound.

It's amazing how soundly one can sleep even three days after the longest run of the year.

There was a time when I considered "just a marathon" to be a short race. But rocks happen, menisci shred, and age groups sneak by, chipping away at the old gung ho. Which leaves me in a strange place. In my mind, a marathon is a completely doable, ho hum distance.

In the real world, you probably should train.

Popeye's longest runs since the last time we did Wickham Park (2 years ago) were his one 11.7 mile training loop of the Econ, and running the 10 mile Claw. My longest run in the last two years was the result of missing a course arrow at the Richmond XTerra in 2009 for a 7+.

Yep, a tad undertrained.

Ok, I'm speaking for myself.

Popeye was obviously trained just right. He flew around his seven loops of the Wickham course, with no problem and no stopping, except to snag Gatorades from the cooler we left at the car.

Wickham is the most convenient marathon ever.

Not only is it local, it starts at a decent hour (for a marathon).

Plus there are real bathrooms.

The distance is done in 3.75 mile loops, allowing participants to be self supplied with sustenance of their choosing. Knowing I can swing by for a drink, dry shoes, or even a sit in the shade if necessary, is a huge mental bonus.

We arrive 20 minutes before start. Plenty of time to find a parking spot under a big oak, close to the top of the 3.75 mile loop.

Setting up home base.

Then we mosey over to sign in. The wait is short, the runners jovial, and the line moves quickly.

The Race Instigator - I mean, Director - has placed a clipboard on the hood of his car. His watch is next to it. Write your name on the sheet, go run a loop, run back by his car, and write down your loop time according to the watch. No fuss. No muss. (And no fee.)

Everyone hustles to sign in. An on-time start is crucial for the fifty milers to be done before the cut off time of 8pm. Latecomers are welcome to sign in at the end of their first loop.

Precisely at 7:30, The Director leads out, carrying a huge sack of white flour. He drops it by the handful to mark the trail the first time around. After that, we are on our own.

My inner tortoise was happy enough to stand to the side, taking pictures of the other 77 people lined up for the 7:30am start.

7:30 seems plenty early enough to me.

I take a few pictures tagging along behind, until I come even with our car under its oak tree. Tossing the camera into the front seat, I click the lock, and trot myself back to the starting line where I began again, just to make my distance official. Wouldn’t want to short change myself on mileage.

So, it’s a typical start for me. A few minutes late, padding down the road after the stragglers, and dead last by the time we turn onto the trail.

I love the conversations of the ultra distance crowd. I love that there is conversation. I think of the serious starting-line faces at the dozens of triathlons I have done, and eavesdrop shamelessly.

See the guy on the left, in the yellow shirt? He is chatting, in full paragraphs, with the fellow next to him:

"Oh hey, was it still dark when you left your house? But you remembered everything all right. Well, almost everything. Let’s see. Hat, camelbak, shirt… Oh, whoops, you forgot your shoes.”

Shoeless Runner comes back with, “Yeah, it was pretty early. I didn’t want to wake the kids, so I sneaked out barefoot.”

A little later, settling into my slow, steady, I-hope-I-can-hold-this-for-a-while pace, I pass a tall young man obviously steadied into an actual all-day pace. He asks, “Going for the fifty?”

“The fifteen maybe.”

"All right! Fifty or until we drop, whichever comes first.”

Fifteen. Fifty. Sounds alike, I guess.

“Yep,” I say, thinking distance is relative anyway. "Until we drop. The next guy will just have to roll the bodies off the trail and keep going.”

“Nah,” says another guy, catching up to the conversation, “The Director says to leave any dead bodies we find on the trail. They make good obstacles.”

Popeye and I have run Wickham Park before, so I try to call people back on trail whenever I see them heading off. This happens pretty much every loop. There is a lot of joking among the pack about bonus miles. At first, anyway.

“Thanks, you probably saved my life,” says one man when I tell him he’s about to go the opposite direction from the one and only water fountain on course. I laugh as if he’s joking, but it’s quite possible he isn't.

A lot of runners listen to music. I have no room for extra noise in my head. There is a mental checklist in there long enough to last all day.

I take notice of spots that might make good pictures for a loop once I'm walking. (Hopefully at least 12 or 15 miles from now.)

Then there’s stuff to remember that is absolutely essential.

As in: Do not forget to drink, it’s always hotter than you think.

Plus the stuff that simply makes the journey a lot more comfortable.

Prep is important. There are no bottle hand-offs here at Wickham. There is no smorgasbord every mile like an ironman event or a road marathon. At Wickham you are on your own. And even though marathon distance is considered short by this ultra crowd, it’s not every day for Popeye or me, so we came well supplied.

Back at the car there’s a cooler with sushi rice bars, PB and J’s, grapes, water frozen in bottles, and Gatorade.

I have a second pair of dry shorts and another shirt on standby. And a spare pair of run shoes, more cushioned than the Nike Free’s I start out in.

I must remember to drink, and eventually eat, and keep the load of sand I am carting around to a minimum.

So. Here we are. This is it. The long awaited Wickham Park Marathon, 50, 100, and 200 Mile Fun Run. And ha! I am still running. And, by golly, I am going to last as long as I can.

It's my second loop and hallelujah, the Nike Free’s are still dry. Not for much longer though, so I sit down on a log to dump out the first round of sand while it's still dry enough to pour out of my shoes.

On the next loop, I happen to be trotting around the end of this same log, when a young fellow swoops in from behind and leaps up and over rather than slow his pace or crowd me off the path. Wow. Nice! I am guessing from the speed (and the leap), that this is probably not a fifty mile guy.

We did this race two years ago, in 2009. Wickham Park was Popeye’s first marathon. He flew by me then, on his final loop, like I was standing still. Only I wasn’t standing still, dammit. I was one mile from the end of my fourth loop and walking just as fast as I could.

In 2009, Popeye finished his 26.2 miles of trail with a time of 4:07. I finished 15 miles in 4:17. It was considered a cool year, in the mid 80's, I think. I remember there was a free foot wash (very warm standing water), so it must have been a wet year as well.

My main goal for this toasty, dry 2011 race, is to finish 15 miles in less time than it takes Popeye to run his 26. Any mileage I can manage beyond that will be gravy. I expect to have to walk some, but that's ok. When it comes to that, I'll take my pictures.

Perhaps it was a mistake to make my notes mental. I probably should have had a visible check list at the cooler for the essentials.

Dump the shoes once a loop. Drink a Gatorade. Bring one with me. Eat a sushi-rice bar after two hours. Change shoes after three.

It was all good until early along loop 3.

Near the top of my third loop, a photographer was taking pictures. This is the link to my photo, but I expect you can view all of them if you want to. (Hey, it says free.)

http://www.yourphotosnow.com/Sports/Wickham-Park-Marathon-And-50/17289678_MV5fJc#1312230921_qFmzDMv

That's me, in blue. Smiling. Soaked in sweat. Typical Wickham run.

About a quarter mile later, at the bottom of the soccer ridge all-sand descent, I trip and do a body roll in the sand.

A runner right behind me stops and offers a hand up, but when I yank my hands out from their wrist deep holes in the Wickham dirt, and lift one up to him, I withdraw it quickly.

"Thanks, but I really don’t think you want to touch me,” I say.

I stand up. I am plastered.

I am one great big Sugar Cookie.

So distracted am I by the flapping wet, sandy shorts and shirt, and my sugarcoated legs and arms and face, that the mental checklist goes all to hell.

There is only one thought left, and it takes on a rhythm of its own.

Dry Shorts. Dry Shorts. Dry Shorts.

Long runs can sometimes be made or broken with a single turn of events. And sometimes that turn is as simple and quick as a sprawl in the sand.

And so, what I appreciate most about Wickham, the short loops, and a well stocked car, leads eventually to an unintentional, premature ending.

If this had been an ordinary single-loop run of 26 miles, I would have had to get over it and get on with it. But seeing as I had a dry outfit in the car…

I flap my way around the rest of the loop and back to the car.

Dry shirt. Dry shorts. Dry shoes. It feels Awesome!

I run out for loop number four, thinking only of the incredible lightness of dry shorts.

What I do not think of is Gatorade. Or the sushi rice bar I was supposed to eat to prevent an hour-three bonk.

A mile down the trail, my right calf fires it's first warning shot, and I realize my mistake. But I am a mile down the trail. Turning around isn’t appealing. There’s a water fountain in a couple miles. I’ll be fine.

But long before the water fountain, I give in to the calf’s request for a bit of walking.

And suddenly, it is over.

I try repeatedly, but I cannot get back the rhythm of my slow, steady trot.

All my run has run out.

Passing the 2 mile marker (a paper-plate on a stick) for the fourth time, I walk as fast as I dare. The calves are mooing. The water fountain isn’t far, it just feels like forever.

A few more lost souls head off for bonus miles. The effort of a loud shout brings them back on trail, and I get a start on my list for next year by wishing I had my hash whistle.

I near the fountain. Looking back from the turn I see a man, running with his arms out, flying, like a kid playing airplane.

Or Superman.

Bonk or no, I am so glad to be here.

And it looks like I’m not the only one.

Post Script:

I meet my goal. Popeye comes in from his marathon about ten minutes after I manage my fifteen miles. In first place! He beats everyone else’s full marathon time with a 4:10.

Of the 78 starters, 44 do the marathon and 13 go on to finish 50 miles, thereby becoming eligible to go on to the 100 on Monday.

Full results for all four days:
http://mattmahoney.net/wickham/11wpmar.txt

I end my 15 miles in 3:58, by signing in my time, then walking straight from the Director's car into the lake.

Post, Post Script:

We both feel like slackers, hanging out in the shade, having only spent four hours on trail.

Ah.

So, what to put on the mental list for next year?

A bit more training, for sure. Popeye might even give the fifty a try.

And for me? A hash whistle. An actual checklist. A new goal.

OK, I am not likely to ever make 50 miles by nightfall. 50k, maybe?

Oh yeah. Add bandaides to that list.

In case Popeye gets another marathon-toe.

Tristan Jones and the Blog Neglected. Richmond XTerra 2011.

2011-06-21T12:02:00.000-07:00

In a simpler time I had three possessions. A guitar, a typewriter, and the boat I lived on.

I manage my shyness a little better now. But I still remember fighting the fear, the pounding of my heart, as I worked my way through the crowd gathered around him after his speech at the local college.

How I managed to introduce myself to Tristan Jones, sailor, story teller, author, I will never know.  But this man had sailed the world and told the tales I read each night by lanternlight, in calm and in storm.  I had to say something or forever regret the opportunity.

I don't remember exactly what I asked, but I remember exactly what he answered.

"Writing is the easy part. It's deciding what to leave out that's hard."

According to WendiLore, Bike Eat Sleep Repeat blog posts are just too long. I'm sure a lot of folks agree.

Personally, I have an appetite for reading up on other people's lives. Super short posts are just plain unsatisfying.  Crackers without the cheese.

Like a good meal, a good story has some meat to it. I don’t like to be left with bare bones and no details. I want to know all about it - and all about you - whatever you’re writing.

My only explanation for a long posting absence is that I have been treading a Drunkard's Path. This Drunkard's Path. Over and over. Trying to get it right.  I'm on the wagon now though, at least until it comes back to me from Irene The Quilter, for binding, gift wrapping, and the flight to Philidelphia.

But excuses are for weenies.

So, if you are curious about the Wickham Park Marathon, Butterbeer, or the scariest looking roller coaster ever, know that there are four or five posts still in the queue, waiting to be deboned for publishing and a more palatable consumption.

Because Tristan was right.  Writing is easy. Deciding what to leave out is hard.

So.

Here's the bare bones on Richmond.

The trip was short, too short.

My attempt at the XTerra East Championship there - even shorter.

Any triathlete will tell you it is foolish to expend too much energy in the day or two right before a key race.

But to race off road without pre-riding the bike course is just begging to have your hat handed to you. There is nothing to be gained by saving a day of energy only to be blindsided by big surprises on trail.

I admit it. This bike course kicked my butt.

The narrow ledges kicked my butt on Friday, with Popeye returning again and again to see where I was.

The hairpin turns and no-restart climbs kicked my butt on Saturday when I rode it with Scrub Jay.

One loop (the race would be two) had me more red-lined than, oh, fifty loops of Graham's Swamp.

And that's just the bike.

The swim depends mostly on how well you guage your mile of current and submerged rocks. Then, it's 20 edgey-ledgey miles on the bike, and out for 10k of urban, deep woods, rock-hopping trail run.

The cut off time for finishing the bike portion is noon. As I wobbled to the end of our 10 mile pre-ride on Saturday, some dizzy calculating tells me I might have fifteen minutes, maybe a half hour, to spare before being pulled from the course on Sunday.

The tipping point for a back of the pack'r like me, was this year's change in the bike course. It went from a single 18 mile loop to 2, 10 mile loops.  Not only could I expect to spend a good chunk of my first loop moving aside for every experienced pro, but it was likely I'd have to jump off trail completely for plenty of the more excitable amateurs too.

I had a decision to make.

I knew in my churning gut, I should go straight to the registration tent and beg to switch to the half distance sport race. But old Coach Griffen always has his say inside my head.

"You can always do more than you think you can."

The trouble was, I probably couldn't.  Not this time.

What it came down to was, which form of DNF to choose? Not finish the XTerra East Championship by defaulting to the shorter sport race? Or not finish by failing to make the bike cut off?

If you don't try, there's no chance at all, argues the Coach.

I pedal on past the registration tent, whipped for the day, but resolved for the morning.

In the end Popeye (in the Championship race) and Scrub Jay (in the sport race) both did well, their runs enviably complete before I finish my bike.

Although I don't make it in time for the noon cut off, it was close enough that the XTerra transition staff gave me my choice.

"Do you want to go ahead and do the run?"

The Coach started to speak up, even as my legs buckled in the dismount. He was, for once, squelched by a louder, wiser voice.  Mine.

"No thanks, I don't think so."

A peek at the swim start under the tracks.

Crab the current, and don't bang your knees.

The big 8 flight stair climb is gone,

but there are still a few steps to get up.

Popeye has no trouble.

The bike route takes a bridge back across the river.

Guess what - the run doesn't.

There is a smooth section right before the end.

And everywhere you go in Richmond, a train...

some sort of bridge...

or a tunnel.

Looks like I'll soon have another scar for my collection.

If only there were a way to practice for the fast guys coming through.

I know. Go faster, right?

Control Issues - Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookies

2011-05-27T14:35:00.000-07:00

There are a couple things I like to have in the freezer with a holiday weekend coming up. A good loaf of banana or cranberry bread, sliced and wrapped, ready to go camping, to a picnic, or serve as a smoothie companion for houseguest breakfasts.

The other freezer item is a batch of cookies, all baked, and stowed away in ziploc bags. If someone drops by as you're rolling out the grill, you don't have to worry about producing a dessert as well as dinner.

Toll House cookies are perfect. They're my all time favorite standby. A bit humble as desserts go, but what guest doesn't love seeing a big platter piled high with chocolate chip cookies, no matter how much dinner they've eaten?

(Just don't add a scoop of vanilla ice cream, or they'll never go home.)

It's hard to imagine a cookie better than the traditional Toll House.

I think I've found one, though. Didn't have to go far, either.

Toll House cookies, but all chocolate. With chocolate chips.

Uh oh. Trouble.

It was all there but the walnuts. We can take care of that.

The only real issue is how to eat just one, and not the whole darned plateful.

Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookies with Walnuts

(aka, "Double-Chocolate Dream Cookies" on the Nestle bag.)

2 1/4 c. flour

1/2 cup Nestle Baking Cocoa

(As an equal opportunity choclaholic, I felt free to use Hershey's Cocoa.)

1 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

1 cup butter (Allow butter to soften a few minutes, cold doesn't work as well.)

1 cup packed brown sugar

3/4 cup granulated sugar

1 tsp vanilla

2 large eggs

2 cups Nestle semi-sweet chocolate morsels

1-2 cups walnuts

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

(Or, if you want to follow directions, go for 375. Truthfully, I didn't see that 375 until just now as I was referring back to the recipe. Oops! I've been baking the Toll House cookie recipe at 350 since the sixth grade, when my mother first let me start using the oven. Maybe next time I will try it using the directions. I have a feeling either way works fine.)

Combine flour, cocoa, soda and salt in a small bowl. Set aside.

Beat butter, brown sugar, white sugar, and vanilla in a large bowl until creamy.

Beat in eggs, until light and fluffy.

Gradually beat in flour mixture.

Stir in chocolate chips and a cup of walnuts. (Or two cups if you like them as much as we do.)

Here the recipe says to drop by rounded tablespoonful onto ungreased cookie sheet. Do that if you like small, meager, stingy looking cookies. But if you like big, generous, rich looking cookies, double the amount of dough for each cookie. At least. So it ends up about six cookies to a standard sized cookie sheet.

Bake at 375 degrees for 8-10 minutes. (Or 350 for 10-11 minutes.)

Until cookies are puffed. Or, if you like them to come out a little crispy, until they lose their shine.

Cool on cookie sheet for a minute then remove and let some of them cool completely. (Eat some of them warm, of course.)

Pop whatever's left into ziploc bags and stash them way in the back of the freezer.

Now go ride your bike or something. Just do your best to forget they are there, until the guests drop by.

World Turtle Day - Respect Your Inner Tortoise

2011-05-24T10:48:00.000-07:00

The purpose of World Turtle Day, May 23, sponsored yearly since 2000 by American Tortoise Rescue, is to bring attention to, and increase knowledge of and respect for, turtles and tortoises, and encourage human action to help them survive and thrive.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_Turtle_Day

Turtles.

The symbol of slow.

Born with all that weight to carry around. Yet such determination to get where they need to go.

Not everyone appreciates that.  But I do. I love that turtle-urgency to be on the other side of the road, no matter how many lanes there are to cross. No matter if it takes all day.

I have always been a slow runner. A sucky runner, actually.

Before Jane Fonda wore leg warmers, before Jamie Lee Curtis became Perfect, jogging was in vogue.

A 3 mile jog every day up Tropical Trail from the marina was my staple exercise. Even into pregnancy, in those days of just-sit-still advice. Living on a sailboat was becoming more and more cumbersome. But the morning jog was, by far, the hardest 40 minutes of every day.

That summer, in Boothbay Harbor, when my new doctor got his first look at my ponderous pregnancy, the first words out of his mouth were not “what do you eat” but, "What do you do for exercise?"

Huh? A doctor who wasn’t determined to make me quit running? A doctor who believed in exercise? Now here was a doctor I could like.

I answered up immediately. "I run three miles a day."

(I had even learned that no one called it jogging anymore, it was running.)

"That's not running", he scoffed.

Oh.

I was crushed. But when he turned around, the nurse whispered, "Don't mind him. He's just mad because his sister's a better runner than he is."

It turns out that my new doctor was a marathoner. And his nurse was right. His sister was better.  The best in the world actually, winning Olympic gold the next summer.

So believe me when I say, I have been dissed by the best of them.

Lesson number one for the slow. Keep any personal elation close to the vest.

A dogged shuffle is the stuff of scoff to real runners.  I learned to confide my times guardedly, and only to trusted friends.

Once, at a Melbourne Art Fest 5k, out of 23 runners in my age group, I managed to take a third place.

TriLady, always truthful, blurted out, "That's because nobody good was there!" She needn't have worried. I was in no danger of imagining myself fast.

Of dozens and dozens of race medals since, there are only 3 in my keeper shoebox: The medal from my first-ever marathon finish.  An Ironman finisher medal. And that little bronze bobble on a flamingo-pink ribbon from the Melbourne Art Fest the year nobody good was there.

2011. Still jogging along.   Sometimes walking if that's what it takes.

No more pavement. Soft trails are scarce near Cement-a-lot Beach.   It’s a 20 minute drive (or forty minute bike) in order to get to the park to run. Just another part of the picture, like remembering your waterbottle, or tying on your shoes.

Sometimes in the midst of struggling - Keep running! Don’t walk! - it’s good to remember the hardest 40 minutes. To recall the hours, the steps, the years. Don't forget the occasional pain. And the occasional elation.

Take it all to the struggle with you.  Distill it all down into one single moment. This moment, this step you're taking right now.

This Sunday. Wickham Park Marathon, 50, 100, and 200 Mile Fun Run.

I’ll be lucky to run a dozen of those miles, though I’ll be trying for fifteen. While also trying to stay invisible among the many, truly amazing people who run it.

“It’s OK, you’ve got all day,” Popeye reminds me.

I know. And I’d aim for a nice quiet walking finish of 26, or even a midnight 50, if I didn’t need my knees again next week.

But I’m going to need them.

Next week.

And the week after that.

Because this is the shell I live in.

And I have so far left to go.

Going Buggy, But Not At Graham's Swamp

2011-05-18T16:40:00.000-07:00

There's nothing lovable about love bugs.

They blossom here over pavement whenever the temps are just right, mostly in May. They hover in tandem, unwittingly awaiting messy deaths on bumpers and windshields.

Geesh. Get a room.

At least mountain bikers can smile. Poor roadies!

It is so worth getting out on the road this time of year, though. Especially if you are heading to a trail in a Honda Elephant with your mountain bikes on the inside. (And the bugs on the outside.)

You'd think these grossest of bugs would be found in a place named for a swamp.

But no. They were all out on the road.

We did our best to take out our share.

After a night of rain, the best trail around is Graham's Swamp.

The dozen or more climbing challenges are pretty evenly interspersed along the 6 and a half mile course. With lots of twists and turns, rock options, bridges, and on dryer days, plenty of sand.

By Sunday afternoon though, the rain had cleared out. Clouds puffed white in a suddenly blue sky. Temps landed somewhere in the high 70's. And best of all, the sand was damped down.

Graham's Swamp.

80% easy, winding singletrack.

20% hard, sweaty climbing.

100% non stop fun.

Because, of course, what goes up must come down.

Taking the bailouts is a no-brainer for me.

Not everyone does, though.

A big fresh gouge in the trail at the bottom shows where somebody landed less than gracefully.

Impressive.

I take a picture.

A disturbance in the force.

At the end of the loop, I catch up with Popeye and Krafty, surprised to see them at the trailhead when I get back.

So.

Krafty.

Going for the gusto and gaining a gouge.

That endo was probably spectacular. Sorry I missed it.

Checking for cracks.

Yep, he hit hard. Needs replacing.

The helmet, not his head. :)

Bloody knee, maybe a cracked rib or two. But no permanent damage (readily apparent, anyway).

Whew. So much cheaper to replace a helmet than your head. And way less messy.

By the time we leave Krafty getting into his car, and get ourselves back out for loop #2, the sand is starting to dry.

I'm not making all the climbs I made the first time around.

Popeye is out of sight in no time.

Loop #3. I am eyeing a narrow, wooden bridge over a sinkhole maybe eight or ten feet deep.

Thank the trail-builders, it's easy enough to bypass completely.

As a matter of fact, one might even wonder why it's there at all. To boost helmet sales at the local bike shop?

Then I remember seeing the trail crew putting it to good use when we were here in February.

Perfect for lunch break.

Now in my book, that's a useful bridge.

Home sweet home. Get out the hose. The splatter of a thousand Love Bugs is a nasty sight.

But at the end of the day, that's the only splatter we've seen.

And we're good with that.

XTerra Trail Run - The Claw. Embarking upon the Drunkard's Path.

2011-05-10T08:11:00.000-07:00

Another day, another project.

A drunkard's path, which somehow needs to lead to wedding rings...

What sort of quilt pattern would you choose for a 50th wedding anniversary present? Drunkard's Path? OK, so it needs some golden rings worked in somewhere...

Next question. What do you name a ten mile foot race course, completely off road? Too easy. That's an XTerra Trail Run.

But what if it's 10 miles, held on nearly 100% unused trail, and in some spots no trail at all? What if it includes a bit of swamp swimming for those of less than average height? And bush whacking up and down the sides of an old phosphate mine? Sides so steep that you have to claw your way up and slide your way back down? What do you name that one?

The XTerra Claw, of course.

Sounds like a blast, doesn't it?

Makes me sad I didn't enter.

But I have learned not to waste an entry fee when there's no swim or bike ride first to even things up a bit.

Popeye, on the other hand...

May 1, 8AM. The Claw 10-miler start.

Who knew there would be so many trail runners up for 10 miles of bush whacking? 135 men, 82 women.

There was a five mile distance as well. 91 men, 90 women.

The trail goes off the side of a berm.

See the vines hanging?

Most people end up swinging down.

Plenty of orange ribbons marking the way.

Just so no one misses out on the free foot wash/creek run.

Better the foot wash on the creek side of that berm

than the other side, the swamp side.

Popeye does well. First in his age group, 7th overall.

I'm saying he's ready for Wickham Park Marathon at the end of this month, and the Richmond Xterra in June. (Wish I could say the same for myself.)

"Mugging" for the camera.

All the 10 mile finishers get a mug. Thank you, XTerra and TampaRaces. After beer glasses, mugs are always the best prizes. Can't drink out of a medal!

Then we get to ride.

Someday I promise to stop and take a photo of the North Creek bike section. It's on the other side of that green swampy stuff in the picture above, with narrow edgy trails built up to follow the contours of the berms.

Uh, narrow edges. Swamp directly below. Gators. My all-time favorite Florida combination. Please excuse me this time for not stopping.

The only pictures I took this trip were of the pretty, flat sections, where you can stand and hold a camera without danger of sliding off an edge. There isn't one of the tougher stuff that Alafia offers. Although, there were two unicyclists about to tackle Rock Garden, speaking of tough.

About thirty five miles of trail riding for the weekend, plus ten miles of running (and clawing) for Popeye. Then it's time to break camp and head home....

....where I have special permission to use the extra large, Claw coffee mug.

And for somehow turning a queen size Drunkard's Path into a golden anniversary quilt - I'm probably going to need it.

Right after I go for a run.

A good sign is hard to find.

2011-04-29T09:57:00.000-07:00

Where were you when the shuttle went up?

I remember the last one precisely. Although I didn't know it at the time, it was to be the very last day I would work at Adventure Cycles.

February 24, 2011.

Discovery on her way.

They are expecting the biggest traffic jam yet for Endeavour's launch today. (750,000!) I will be well out of it this time, and grateful to be so.

As a matter of fact I have a lot to be grateful for, now that I'm no longer at the bike shop.

First and foremost, grateful for a husband who cheerfully continutes to feed me.

Grateful for not driving up to Merritt Island in over a month.

Grateful for the extra tomatoes the owner of the vegetable stand stuck in my bag when I mentioned I was riding through my unemployment. Seems he took up swimming himself. And vegetables.

One door closes. Another door opens. Always has so far.

The bike is helping, for sure. At first I panicked. What if I can never afford another bike? What if I taco a wheel? Or the new XT brakes wig out like the Elixers did?

Oh well. Then, back to work it will be.

No problem. The signs are out there.

Just today I saw a sign at the pool store, "Now Hiring."

If you're into cutesy bright colored do-dads and selling strangely shaped and sized bits and pieces to people who have no idea how to describe them, and smelling weird chemicals floating out from the back... oh wait, that's rather like the bike shop.

Well, what isn't like the bike shop when you think about it?

A job is a job is a job. Like books? Work at the book store. Like planes that bounce like rubber balls? Go fly for a regional airline. Like food? Mmmm, food... OK, so some people like food too much. Don't work with food.

I drove the car four miles yesterday. A savings of about 31 miles over most Thursday's of the past five years.

A good chunk of the mileage savings was due to the discovery of a donation box at the Association for the Blind, a block from my house.

Apparently the blind see their way to accepting cast off clothing and shoes, as well as does our usual donation destination, the SPCA thrift store in Cocoa.

When cleaning out closets and drawers at the methodical, yet sedate, rate of one a day, it accumulates to about a trip a week.

I figure I can alternate between the plight of homeless dogs and cats 15 miles away, and the ultra-convenient, box-next-door for the blind.

How many times have I passed that building and never seen the quiet, white donation box? Thousands? Proving that sighted people can be nearly blind when it comes to a quiet sign. The real estate sign next door has been demanding all the attention, scrolling along in red letters, flashing the prices of Tortoise Island homes gone to market.

Speaking of the blind, and trips up US 1...

The sign at Blinds of All Kinds, on US 1.

Another favorite last week was at a little dry cleaner in Melbourne. Who would even notice the place if the sign said "10% off dry cleaning"? Not me.  But then they put up, "Drop your pants here!"

If I had any dirty pants to drop I would certainly choose to drop them there from now on. I bet they'll be hiring soon.

So far today my favorite is an "It Should Have Been Me" tee shirt on a pouty 20-something.

OK. I will ask. Where were you this morning when Kate and William tied the knot?

Did you get up early?  Without a proper hat, getting up at four seemed an uncivilized tribute.  Eggs and coffee in the morning are one thing. Tea and feathers? I admit to being ill prepared.

So. That brings us to this afternoon's launch. Where will you be at 3:47?

Working? Home?

Or maybe on a bike, pedaling along somewhere in between, keeping further look out for good signs.

PS As I finished writing this last Friday a bunch of fighter jets went roaring over and I realized probably air force one was arriving in the area. Time to turn on the local channel and check on the launch.

It's a scrub.

750,000 people.

But, what a beautiful day for the beach.

It's April. Clean Something Every Day. Eat Your Vegetables. And Don't Forget to Ride your Bike.

2011-04-25T15:33:00.000-07:00

Under the influence of The Happiness Project, this month of April started with a vow. To clean something every day.

Specifically, to clean out something every day - like a closet or a drawer. Some area that has been neglected for awhile. I could start anywhere, pick anything.

It seemed daunting to start with the main, walk-in clothes closet, so the medicine cabinet worked for a starter. Then the hall closet. Some dresser drawers. The book case. My purse.

The very worst part about cleaning stuff out is finding Valuable Stuff. I wish everything I found was junk so I would have no qualms about simply throwing it away.

But no. Valuable Stuff can not be thrown away simply.

Stuff like original Star Wars toys.

Now what? I can barely make myself stay inside on a nice day and clean a closet. I am certainly not the type to go figure out EBay.

(If anyone is, there's a commission in it for you.)

It's been a long month. Can that really have been the first of April that I started the cleaning quest? It feels a lot longer than three weeks.

Was it really already April, when we went to Graham's Swamp? And ran the hiking trail times two. Then rode the bike loop, times two?

Could we already have been to the Econ twice this month? Or was it three times?

Watch Your Knees!

One Sunday, Popeye ran the first loop, eleven miles. He seemed disappointed with his time. I went along on Killer, doing my best to keep up over the technical stuff and riding hard to catch up on the flats. We finished together. It was my best bike time ever.

I don't know if he'd agree, but I'm saying he is ready for "The Claw", the 10 mile XTerra trail run in Alafia on May 1st.

Then we do the loop again, me trying to keep up to him and Inspector Gadget on the bikes. And then that becomes my fastest loop ever.

The Stand Up Paddleboard craze has hit the Econ.

At least a dozen last Sunday.

I get to Wickham Park and Tropical Trail too many times to count, but still not enough. I really need to run more if I am going to meet my goal of 15 miles in the time it takes Popeye to finish 26 on Wickham Park Marathon Day.

I admit to being discouraged in Wickham Park. The ploughed up trails limit access to my comfortable, premeasured loops. And to the only water fountain en route.

The soft sandy new firebreaks make some sections a tough slog. There's trail left, but just the same, it's kind of depressing.

The view on Tropical Trail hasn't changed though. And neither have I. I still can't resist the veggie stand on the way home, even when I don't think to bring the bike rack.

This day I ask for a second bag.

"Why?" says the owner, "so you won't go 'round in circles?"

Yes. Exactly.

And there is the danger of the new pothole in the bike lane on the way home.

Sometimes it's a good thing, not to be a roadie anymore.

Then one week, there was some art appreciation.

First the Native Plant Tour.

Amid the cool, green plantings, the mulberry tree in old Melbourne had to be my favorite. (The Professor, Merry Ann, and I sneak free samples - yum.) Even as another old favorite, an MD-88, roared on take-off overhead, ruining the allure of the shady, older neighborhood.

But the modern windmills and rooftop grass were what really wow'd me at this green home in Indiatlantic.

The 2 windmills were works of art in themselves. Between the windmills and the new solar panels, the owner expects to be selling power back to the grid next month.

Later in the week, Merry Ann invited me to see the "Little Black Dress" exhibit at the Ruth Funk Center for Textile Arts at Florida Tech.

Opera gown, circa late1800's

And lunch. Almost as cool as an Oscar De La Renta, the new cafeteria at the university is it's own work of art.

The big highlight this month was a full moon hash...

...ending under a bridge. Awesome! We ride clear to the end, even though we have already decided to broach good hash ettiquette and skip circle in lieu of an early-up the next morning. But when next morning comes... Oh well, it was awfully darned windy for a century anyway. And the Econ wins out again.

Later, we end up paying a tad more than hash bucks for our beers.

A pint a pound, the world around.

At Coasters, it's a pound a round for us weight prone types.

Good week, careful eating, lots of riding. Down five.

Two pints at Coasters. Up two. In two hours.

Which would have been OK... but for you know what holiday.

And I was doing so well.

Hey, but there's a whole week of April left. And Alafia too.

LSD and the Munchies

2011-04-17T06:22:00.000-07:00

-

Lysergic acid diethylamide, abbreviated LSD or LSD-25, also known as lysergide and colloquially as acid, is a semisynthetic psychedelic drug of the ergoline family, well known for its psychological effects which can include altered thinking processes, closed and open eye visuals, synaesthesia, an altered sense of time and spiritual experiences, as well as for its key role in 1960s counterculture. [sic] LSD is non-addictive, is not known to cause brain damage, and has extremely low toxicity relative to dose, although adverse psychiatric reactions such as anxiety or delusions are possible even at low doses. (Wikipedia)

There used to be a commercial:

"I can't believe I ate the whole thing".

It comes to mind because I just spent a bunch of hours at the computer. And I am now saying, "I can't believe I erased the whole thing".

**it happens. Especially on this editing program. Not the first time.

But maybe this one time, it's just as well. A little time travel can be entertaining, but I'm over it. The psychedelic 60's can wait for another day. I like the title though. I think I'll leave it.

Every week or so we get an email newsletter from active.com.

"How to Lose Weight to Train" catches my eye.

Five easy steps. 1 - 4.  Been there, knew that.

But, Ooo! Check out #5. Who doesn't love a Quick Start on weight loss?

And LSD!

For a moment, flashbacks to the LSD years seduce me. I have forgotten a lot of things, but not the mind bending highs, the altered state of consciousness, the spiritual awakening. Those, I remember.

The thought of doing LSD again momentarily offsets any memory of the bad-trip Twiggy years.

Excited, I read on.

"#5 Fasting Workouts - a long easy run undertaken in a glycogen deprived state. That means you don't eat before you start and you don't take in any carbs along the way. This forces your body to rely on fat to fuel the workout, making it a great fat burning session."

(The advice is to do this once a week for a month of quick start weight loss.)

Here, check it out for yourself.

http://www.active.com/running/Articles/How-to-Lose-Weight-to-Train.htm?&int=29-12

See, right there on page 2.

LSD.

Long Slow Distance. (What were you thinking?)

No Gu. No sushi rice bars to make. No bananas. No Gatorade.

Well, that's just too easy. I haven't had lunch yet. I could go right now!

So go I did. Not running, unfortunately.  But a few easy hours on the bike? No problem.

Only... it was a problem. The water bottle got refilled twice. But the 4 hours since breakfast added to the 2 hours I was out riding...   Oh yeah, it was a problem.

Slow, it was. Distance? The ride could have been hours/miles longer with some Gatorade along. Or a peanut butter sandwich.

Light headed by three. Glad to be home early. The only route left to navigate? A spinning hallway, leading to a change of dry clothes.

Whoa. Bad trip.

Reel back out to the desk.

OK, where's that article?

I check back in.

OK, Active.com, I did your miserable Long Starving Distance, so what's next?

What should I eat for my overdue lunch?

I need to know. I need to know now.

What’s the use of burning it off, if you eat the wrong thing when you get back and put it right back on?

Was it a fat burning workout? No clue.  The glucose is gone, though. Even in my mind-altered state, that's one thing my buzzing brain is sure about.

It's good to have a plan for STARVATION mode. Without a plan, bad things happen.

So I reread #5. No plan.

I reread the whole article. No plan.

What's this? No words of wisdom about following up on this latest incarnation of LSD, Long Starving Distance?

Hey. I rode the ride. I starved.

What do I do now?

I could search for the book and read the whole thing. Make sure there's follow-up advice. A Step B for every Step A. But right this minute the room is spinning, and I am not going anywhere.

Glaring omissions like that one could drive a habitual always-carrying-a-few-extra-pounds-type, like me, straight into candidate-for-Biggest-Loser-mode.

Let's just hope it was due to the brevity requirements for active.com articles, and not that refueling requirements are ignored by the author. That would be too bad.

Meanwhile I try to derail the starvation by doing what a "real runner" would do. Avoid "I can't believe I ate the whole thing", and eat a normal lunch. Leftover chicken from the fridge, salad, some grapes.

Regardless, I am up two pounds the next day.

Call me old fashioned. I still like LSD.

I love trippin', especially on the bike.

But to sustain the high, and the ride, I'm taking calories along.

Because, doing LSD means you've come a long way baby.

No plan for coming down? Whoa, bummer.

PS:
I wrote this a while back, like February. Maybe I was too bonked to click on "publish"?

But it comes to mind because it's Saturday night. There's a Full Moon Hash tonight, maybe 6 hours rest, and an early up for the century tomorrow. My PB&J is already in the fridge.

PPS:
Sunday morning. Oops. We didn't make it up in time for the century. I know. Unprecedented, right? But a late start doesn't mean that PB&J won't get put to good use.

After all, we've got bikes. And we've got all day.

LSD, non-addictive? I beg to differ.