The Inner Weasel Strikes Back. (Or How to Kill a Phone.)

Except for the iPhone that took a dive into the ladies room toilet at The Mansion, all my phones have been killed in the line of duty.  On the trail.  In the river.  No phone of mine has died a natural death.

Early on I found that Ziplocs work fine for a quick rain, but they are insufficient for total immersion.  Along for the ride when the kayak turns over, for instance. 

My phones have not been allowed to go kayaking since.  Although someone told me the new case I just bought works so well for him that he swims with it. 

Hmmm, still a little unwilling to test that on a brand new bazillion dollar phone.  But it's young yet.      

For a long time, after I tripped on a root trail running and put my thumb through the screen of the last of the Star Trek Communicator type Nokia's, my phones were banned from running too. 

Then they came up with smart phones and those darned run applications.  Keeping track of mileage is just too irresistible.  Pace, elevation, a map of my route.  For some reason it is particularly satisfying to see a winding trail route mapped out with the miles neatly labeled.

So the phone was invited back to trail running. 

On the bike it's pretty easy to stash a phone.  Jerseys come with pockets.  There is always the camelbak or trusty Bento.  But running.  That's trouble.  For me, anyway.  And it's not just the only-one-pocket-the-size-of-a-key outfit, either.

First of all.  I suck at running.  Running is hard work.  The first few miles are always awful, and always have been.  It takes determination to hang in there until the heart and lungs can agree on a harmony.

Second.  There's a Weasel in my head.  I wish she would go away.  When things get tough, the Weasel, that inner spoiled brat, starts looking for a way out. 

Or at least a pit stop. 

The Weasel is one superb bargainer.  Very hard to ignore.  She really should be in sales.  Maybe at a flea market.

Weasel:

"These shoes are too tight!  Oww.  Better stop and retie them." 

"This waistband is rubbing!  Stop and adjust the drawstring.  It'll only take a second." 

"And these sunglasses!  (Too dark/too big/too tight/too dopey-looking...)  You know, it would only take a few minutes to go back to the car for a hat instead." 

Now there's the phone to help the Weasel out with a whole new list of distractions. 

Weasel:

"Hey, it sure would be nice to have music."  (Adjust ear bud.) 

"This ear bud is bugging me!"  (Put ear bud in pocket.) 

"Is that the three mile mark?  Or is it around the next bend?  Hey.  I know.  You could get the phone out and check!"   

Assuming experience has taught you to resist the siren song of constantly checking the run app, or say, taking pictures of every gopher tortoise on trail.  There is always the physical irritation of actually carrying the thing.

I was just so tired of listening to the brat, though. 

Stinkin' Weasel!  Wah, wah, wah'ing about how the brand new armband was bothering her and maybe I should stop and adjust something.  Anything.  Just one little stop, right? 

So I reached to adjust, and flip!  The armband sprung off and landed in the dirt.  On impact the clear faceplate came unglued and popped out.  Much sand was scooped into the previously sealed off portion with the phone in it.  

I am not so naïve as to trust an armband to keep a phone dry.  This one was inside a Ziploc, inside the armband.  So it was just a matter of dusting off the outside of the Ziploc.  No harm done.  Except to the armband.  And my run pace - not that it was good to start with.

Seconds tick by.  The brat is momentarily happy.  But I am not.  I've had it with the stupid arm band.  I already switch a bottle from one hand to the other.   I don't want to juggle the arm band and the phone too. 

I hang the bright pink armband in a tree where I will be sure to see it on the way back.  I stick my phone into my waistband, cinch it up tight, and resume running.     

Stinking Weasel!  What now?  

Weasel:  "Wah.  It rubs.  The edges of the Ziploc tickle." 

Me:  "It tickles?  Really?  So what!  Let it.  I am absolutely NOT going to stop again." 

And I didn't. 

I.  Practiced.  Resistance. 

Said NO to the inner brat for the next four miles.  Which, in my world of sand and roots and fellow tortoises, translates to oh, about 45 more minutes.  Without stopping. 

Hallelujah!  Success!  Defied the Weasel. 

I head back to the tree to pick up the torn armband.  Only then do I give in to the urge to check my pace, and pull the Ziploc'd phone out of my waistband.

Uh oh. 

The heavy duty, 1 quart, Smart Zip Plus freezer bag is full of sweat.  Not just some damp mist, either.  The bag is squishing. 

Two days in a bowl of rice.  The poor phone never does come to.  

The new one has finally been persuaded into consciousness and encased in it's pricey new waterproof cocoon.  I ask the clerk at Best Buy for a phone cover to take deep sea diving.  I settle for one that claims to be good to six feet.

Just the same.  The battle is on.  The inner brat may have been defied once, but it would be silly to think she is gone for all time.  

Should the new phone be along for the next run?

Truthfully, I am not sure.  

One thing is certain though. 

It's always a whole lot harder to leave the Weasel behind.

National Honesty Day and Faking a (really good!) Chocolate Shake.

Honesty Day is celebrated on April 30 in the United States. It was invented by M. Hirsh Goldberg, who chose the last day of April since the first day of that month, which is April Fools' Day, celebrates falsehoods.  -Wikipedia


Did you know there was a National Honesty Day?  Since the early 90's.  April 30.  
  
One day, though.  That's just silly.  How about complete honesty all month?  Heck, maybe all year!  (Unless you have political aspirations, of course.)

I set a few goals for May.  Not too many.  Just a few.  I wrote them down.  Yes, on paper.

Once down in writing, it is easy to see that the number of goals really doesn't matter.  Or the reasons.  Or for how long.   Because every goal comes back to just one theme - honesty.  A goal is useless if you allow for fooling yourself.

OK, here's an example.  Two of my goals that might seem completely different.  But they are not, not really.

Goal #1)  Catch The Creep.  Log all food. 
Goal #2)  Wickham Park Marathon 

More about those later.  Because, as I sit with my coffee, writing about honesty, Popeye was reading and saw a recipe for a chocolate "shake".   To be honest, I've seen this one before, but avoided it.  That, and all the other fake-treat recipes floating around the Internet, promising to taste just like "the real thing".   Yuck.

Popeye reads the ingredients out loud.  OK, sure, all good stuff.  But I say again.  Yuck!  

Banana, cocoa, honey, avocado, and almond milk.  No almond milk around here but we have cow's milk.  Organic and nonfat, of course. 

I am willing to make it, if Popeye is willing to drink it.  

Although these are good nutrients, this shake is NOT going to be low in calories, so I know going in I will have to give it an honest resistance. 

I figure that won't be hard to do. 

Not bad!  I take a taste of Popeye's, which is as close to the original recipe as we can get with the ingredients in house on a Sunday morning. 

Surprise!  Very chocolaty.  More creamy than shakes made of ice cream.  Honest.

I tweak a second one because I think the first one is actually TOO rich and TOO chocolaty.

Thankfully, after a tablespoon each for taste testing, the ever-hungry Popeye drinks them both.   Saves me from writing some big numbers in my food log.


Sunday Morning Chocolate Shake 

Blend:
1 c. non fat milk 
2 T. cocoa powder
1 banana
1 T. honey
1/2 avocado

A little tweaking helps, in my opinion. 


Second Try Chocolate Shake

Blend:

1 c. nonfat milk
1 T. cocoa powder
1 banana
1 T. honey
1/4 avocado
drop of vanilla extract

Better. 

Just the same, give me ice cream any day.  

Except today.  I really don't want to have to write that down.

Caloosahatchie Regional Park. The Sampler Trail.

The first quilt I ever made was a Sampler Quilt. It seemed the logical choice for a beginner.  There's something of everything to try with a Sampler. 

I know better now, but back then, what was to know?  You bought some fabric, you grabbed your scissors, you went to work.  

It never occurred to me how much more time and effort it would take to make the patterns for 20 different blocks rather than simply manufacturing the same block over and over. 

But that is the value of a sampler.  20 individual opportunities to learn to put together what amounts to 20 different mini-quilts.  Choosing your colors, where to place them, when to blend them, and where to use contrast. 

A quilter must practice creating balance and contrast within each block.  Then comes the big picture, balancing each of those blocks among all the others.  

When it's right, the finished quilt turns out to be interesting and beautiful.  If it's not, then you've got yourself just another boring blanket. 

But there's something else you should know about a sampler quilt. 

With twenty blocks, all different, you are bound to absolutely love some of them. 

But you probably won't love them all.
 

A gift for The Chick in 1984.

A limited palette compared to what I would do now,

and faded with the years.

But still hanging together!

We didn't get out of town to ride much in April.  I look back at my photos, sorted by date.  Except for a ride at Caloosahatchie, we stuck pretty close to home in April.  

Southwest Florida sure has the weather.

Before I am half way around the 11 mile loop, it occurs to me that Alva is the perfect sampler quilt of a trail, if ever there was one. 

The Mudcutters have put in something for everyone.  The different sections of this trail are as different as the blocks of a well planned sampler quilt.  And they appear to be just as artistically deliberate, with contrast and balance in all the right places.  

Just like a sampler quilt though, some blocks you just love.  And a few you will probably never do again.

It's hard not to love warming up

on the sweeping turns of the meadow.

(That's Popeye way ahead of me, in red.)

 

 

 

Low, narrow bridges

allow for practicing sharp turns

  with low consequences.

 

 

There's some rocky stuff...

 

 

Some easy, wide open riding...

 

 

And lots of technical shade.

 

 

For those who love a challenge there are optional sections.

Where shade is deep, and climbs are steep. 

Enter the dark side, you do, when you enter The Far East.

 

 

My least favorite section is a short series of man made (mostly wooden) obstacles called Techno-ville.  I told myself I'd stop for a photo there on my next loop through.  But, as with every well thought out trail, there was a by-pass.  Thank you, Mudcutters.  And no thanks to a repeat of Techno-ville. 

(And sorry - no photos either.)

 

But my favorite section is the Ridgeline toward the end.  Some swooping, some roots, some shade, some sun.  And every blessed bit of it, swooping, whooping fun.

 

Down low on the Ridgeline.

 

 

But some of the best (and the worst) sights I saw all day weren't the cut of this trail.  It was the sight of riders cut up by this trail. 

 

Holy 29r, Batman, there are some super amazing females riding here!  Quite a few of them.  In just a little over 20 miles, I came across 3 fairly spectacular crashes.  

 

All of them girls. 

 

Which is great to see. 

 

Because if you never crash you aren't riding hard enough, right?  

  

One girl's head injury was an actual concern.  At the first drop off the Ridgeline, nearly blind in instantly deep shade, I suddenly realized there was a girl laying under a bike next to a busted up palmetto by the trail.  

 

I picked up her bike and held it while she got herself up.  Without a word, or even an ouch, she took off her bright pink jersey and wrapped it around her head to stop the blood from running into her eyes.  I thought we should walk out, but she somehow jammed her cracked helmet back on over the matted jersey, got it buckled, and rode herself to the end of the trail.  Now that's a tough cookie. 

 

On the second loop I have more confidence.  I thought I was really haulin', anyway.  But I was a snail compared to the girl who flew by toward the end of that very same Ridgeline section. 

 

Recognizing futility when I see it, I didn't even attempt to chase.  A couple dips later, there she was, rolling on the ground, next to a nasty stump.  Darn it, I miss all the good endo's!  

 

Her banged up knee, all bruised and bloody, was pretty spectacular.  Probably even more so the next day, if I know my bruises.  (And I like to think that I do.) 

 

Later, back at the picnic tables she was taking selfies and laughing at the gouges in her knee.  "Yeah, I knew I'd go down today - just feeling reckless, ya know?"   Oh yeah.  I know.  Well, sort of.

 

Popeye comes tearing back in with some new found fast friends, dirt on their shirts, and smiles all around. 

 

Next, a girl with beautiful black hair rolls in, unbruised and unblemished, having sampled mountain biking for the very first time.   I remembered her crash from my first loop through.  She had done a slow forward roll off the side of a berm and popped up laughing.

 

Caloosa.  It's rare to find such alluring contrast all in one trail.  Flat and steep.  Soft and hard.  Shade and sun.  Blood and laughter.

 

Sometimes it takes the eye of an artist or a master quilter to craft a work of art. 

 

And sometimes it just takes a dedicated bike club.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Popular

I am reading a book by an eighth grader, and I think it's going to help me.

I am just so tired of riding alone so much of the time. 

The last couple weeks I've been hyper-conscious of being a loner.  I know, it's mostly a choice.  And once or twice a week I do have company, really good company.  But it would be nice to have more on the other five days, right?

Enter the Today Show. 

Now, the Today Show has gone downhill - way downhill - this year.  There is no world news to speak of.  Unless you count a plane down, or the Royals travelling.  Syria or the Ukraine may as well not exist.  Real chefs have disappeared from the cooking segments, in favor of celebrities who can manage to boil pasta.  Instead of news, there are whole segments about what's trending on Twitter, or how to be Popular.

I reach for the remote. 

Oh, wait a minute.  How to be Popular?

I tune back in.

The interviewee is a pretty young girl in a pretty spring dress.  She is talking about the book she has written, and her inspiration, an old advice book from the fifties.  Is this for real?  Eighth graders are writing advice books now? 

The Kindle makes it too easy.  I go straight to "Popular, Vintage Wisdom For a Modern Geek"  by Maya Van Wagenen.  With a touch to the screen, I buy myself some eighth grade advice.

OK, so let's back up.  Why am I feeling a need to be Popular at this (fairly advanced) stage of life?  

Hmm, all I can come up with is, why wouldn't I?   

The desire for lots of friends doesn't go away.  I had a few in eighth grade and wished then that I knew the secret of how to make more. 

I am lately conscious of having even fewer friends all the time.  Much busier friends.  Friends who are moving away.  Or sadly, friends suddenly gone from life itself. 

Who wouldn't be wishing for a way to find more? 

I ride down Riverside Drive, where there is a bike path.  I meet a dozen or so other people riding bikes.  All but two of them are riding alone.  I am not alone in riding alone.  So why do I feel like a loser?  I don't know.  I just do.

I go for a walk on the beach.  It's windy, so I walk upwind into the sting of blowing sand, thinking how much nicer it will feel on the walk back.  This - toward condos instead of the desolate shoreline of the air force base - is not my usual direction.  I note that most of the people out walking in this wind are also alone.  

Just as I reach 30 minutes, my turnaround point, I see a lone man with a cane.  I have seen him once before, from a distance. 

Because I have just read a book by an eighth grader, I suck in a deep breath, and slog up to the dune line to speak to him.  

He seems happy that I stopped to say hello.

I ask about his creation, a throne-like structure, made of piled up coquina rocks, and decorated with the flotsam and jetsam one only finds at the beach.   He says he built it because he broke his leg and it's easier to get up from than a beach chair, or sitting in the sand.  This rock solid chair is far more than a simple seat, it is a work of art.  It is a throne. 

Because of a book by an eighth grader, I am even brave enough to ask if he minds if I take a picture.

I get rained on walking back.  But I don't mind.  I spoke to someone!  A stranger, even.

I wish I had this book last week.

There were so many people at the memorial for Rick this weekend that I would have liked to talk to.  To get their perspective.  To hear their stories.  To know how they knew Rick and Lita, to perhaps hear about some of the adventures they had together. 

But I blew it.  I let my shyness have its way.  I felt it would be an intrusion if I spoke up.  Actually I feel that way about all people I don't know.  I don't want to intrude.  

But I think now, that I was wrong about that.  People want to be spoken to.  And often, they want to talk.  Even to me.

My Kindle tells me that I am 93% finished with "Popular, Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek". 

There's some major cleaning to do around here with Popeye's parents visiting this weekend.  There are windows to wash, groceries to get, and a boil order to boot (don't ask).  Not to speak of making up workout time for missing out on the Tuesday ride because of the goofy storm.  

But hey, it's only 7%.  And, it's about to rain again.

Thanks Maya Van Wagenen, for sharing your research, and your wisdom. 

It's never too late, right?

Besides,  I really need to know how it goes at the Prom.

Our friend Rick, gone one week.  I went through and sorted out some pictures.  At a loss for words.  

Now, at three weeks, words still have not come.  But here are the pictures, at least.  No particular order.

Alva, Nov 2013

 

 

 

Touring Ft Myers

Thanksgiving 2013

Rick and Matt with Thomas Alva Edison

 

 

 

The perfect tour guides know the perfect tour ending. 

Lita and Rick

Ft Myers, 2013 

 

 

 

 

Bike's lined up at the Cassita Bike shop

It took Rick and Matt 2 hours to coax the pedal back together

when I whacked it on a rock at the Croom 50..

Perseverance plus!

 

 

 

packed up for departure

Withlacoochee

Feb 2012

 

 

If you have to break a chain, Rick was the guy to have along.

Field repair.  Croom 2011

 

 

 

Arrival at Withlacoochee for the Croom 50, 2011

 

 

 

What a boy scout, huh?

Bike Patrol. 

Assignment: Riding Sweep

Caloosahatchie XTerra, 2010 

 

 

 

Jack Rabbit, 2012

 

 

 

Rick Jendrysik.

Gone,
never forgotten.

 
 

 

Croom 50. Where Never is Heard a Discouraging Word.

Sunday, February 9, 2014.  Withlacoochee Rail Trail

Ding! Ding!  Someone on the rail trail wants to pass Scout and I as we ride side by side.

I glance back.  Unexpectedly, on this wide and roomy pavement, a helmet free man, riding a road bike in tan khaki pants, is tight on my wheel. 

The option to drop back and to the right is out, at least not without taking him with me.  He is obviously not interested in going by in the 3 feet of space to our left.  So I pull to the left, leaving a 6 foot gap on the pavement between Scout's bike and mine. 

The man follows my move to the far left, staying right on my wheel. 

Ding!  Ding!

I motion to the 6 foot gap and say, "Come on through.  Plenty of room!"

A lightweight voice with a heavyweight accent (European, German, maybe?) finally replaces the bell. 

"No, no.  Passing must be on the left.  Single file.  It is the rules."  

Really?

Silly me.  It never even occurred to me that a 46 mile long, ten foot wide, straight shot of absolutely flat pavement, through nearly deserted woods, needed rules.  

It is the day after the Croom 50.  Our day to relax with an easy ride on the Withlacoochee Rail Trail.  The weather has done a one eighty overnight.  From miserable, cold, Saturday rain, to beautiful, Sunday sunshine.  

Our group of six riders expands and contracts as we double up to chat, or casually string out single file (well, mostly single file) to pass or be passed.  

Popeye and I, Sailor and Cap'n Bligh, Pie Man and Scout.  I am giddy with the sunshine and having so many good friends to ride with for a second day in a row. 

We pedal leisurely northward from the campground to a trailside bakery.  The rest of us find seats out front while the ever-hungry Pie Man goes in to buy a half dozen oatmeal cookies. 

Later, we stop by the Withlacoochee to admire the giant cypress trees. 

Sailor, relaxing.

On the way back south, we roll in to River Ratz, a favorite beer and burger stop on the river. 

Five kayaks are hauled up next to the bike rack, which is 20 feet from a row of at least twenty Harleys.  Beyond the Harleys is a parking lot full of cars, and beyond the cars are four horses tied in the shade.  Definitely something for everyone along the Withlacoochee on a sunny Sunday in February.

 

As we decide on our orders, I try not to think of the arrogant European man and his dinging.  It doesn't work.  I stew about it until suddenly I realize that I am the one who is probably a little arrogant.  Not everyone is lucky enough to spend half the weekend riding mountain bikes on singletrack, after all.   

In the words of Gary Fisher, anyone on two wheels is a friend of mine.  (It's just that some make it tougher than others.) 

The six of us raise our bottles, clinking all around.  I decide that it is my obligation as a mountain biker to forgive the poor, annoying helmet-free man, and get on with appreciating this day for the gem that it is. 

Saturday, February 8, 2014.  The Croom 50.

Singletrack.  Twisty, winding, swoops, drops...

And no rules!  OK, guidelines maybe.  Care, consideration, a little loyalty, a lot of helpfulness.  But no rules.

What have you heard so far about this year's Croom 50?  That it was cold?  Raining?  Muddy?  Sloppy, even? 

Yep, all true.  What you won't hear, though, is a single complaint.

Because a ride like that will just plain spoil you for anything else.

We arrive a little early, about dawn.  The temperature comes up to  50 and stays there.  Rain starts as mist and quickly builds until it's coming down hard.  

In the parking lot, riders are scrambling through their gear.  Jacket?  Vest?  Toe warmers?  Tights? 

Deciding exactly what to wear until it warms up or quits raining is a cyclist's art form.  The only thing that can help you is a lot of experience.  Or a crystal ball.    

A guy on a white Lefty rides by with a shower cap over his helmet.

(Darn.  Wish I'd thought of that.)

Popeye heads for the parking lot across the road to find Blownfuse and his other fast friends.  I wait with a hot coffee and a cold bagel in the relative luxury of the breakfast tent. 

It's a while before my ride buddies show up.  

A cheerful girl at the next table, waiting out the rain, tells me that being here today isn't her idea.  But this ride is her friend's birthday request, so she's game.  The rain lets up a bit and she takes off with her group.  I go get more coffee.

Ah, here they are at last.  I must remember to thank them for being  late.  The rain has let up a bit and we've missed the misery of being completely drenched right from the start.

The trail mud is etched with the passage of all the riders who have started before us.  We pass our first rider. 

"One down," I say.  "Only 249 to go!"  

Riders chat and speak to each other as they pass and are passed.  They ask, "Do you need to get by?"  Or say, "Coming around on your left!" 

Slower riders try to move over a few inches, or as much as they can, to allow passage.  They move to whichever side is convenient, as long as everyone is on the same page.  No need for bells. Speaking up is the key.

We pass the chatty girl from the breakfast tent and her three friends.

"Happy birthday,"  I say back over my shoulder as I recognize them.

"245," says Gobbler.  
 
The counting game keeps us amused for a while, but eventually we get tangled up in the subtracting of the numbers we pass, while adding back the number of times we say, "Come on through, plenty of room!"

When we get to the really muddy sections, the trail turns into one long, black Slip'N Slide.  Especially down into the sinkholes and back up.  

Some try riding.  Some are walking.  I ride.  Or try to. 

OK, so the low profile tires may have been a bit of a mistake.  I don't know why, but I am taken completely by surprise when both wheels slide out from under me, shooting straight sideways.  There is just enough time to put a foot down.  Instantly my foot goes out from under me too, and I do a full body plant into 8 inch deep, cold, brown slop.   Getting back up is truly comical. 

Things get just plain silly from there.  Trying to walk in the stuff goes no better than trying to ride in it.  A few full body plops later, Mike comes back to see if I'm OK.  He is just in time to pull the bike off me again. 

I give up.  Acquiring a nice collection of stickers for my hair, I walk to the side through the bushes until we get to higher ground and the muck becomes more rideable. 

And boy, does it ever become more rideable!  Wet sand.  Pine flats.  Swooping curves.  The low profile tires are suddenly the perfect choice.  So what if it's raining and cold?  Rain is a Good Thing, and Big Wheels Keep on Turning.  Like Bobby McGee, we sing up all the rainy day songs we know.

The sags at the Croom 50 are a sight to behold.  Even in pouring rain.  Especially in pouring rain.  Which is really too bad, because my phone really didn't want to come out of it's mud covered Ziploc for photos.    

Later when Mike breaks a chain though, we do get a little break.  It doesn't last long, but makes it a bit nicer for making repairs.   Gobbler has a chain tool and link.  So do I.   So do at least a dozen other people who offer to help as they go by.

It is Gobbler, though, who also has the expertise to help Mike in what turns out to be a four handed operation, getting the gloppy, muddy chain to cooperate with the link. 

I am not much good, except to hold the bikes and the packs.  I get to take off my gloves and wring them out though, and wipe enough mud off that I can get my phone out for a picture.  

  

Those tires look pretty clean, don't they?  That's what a few miles of pine needles will do, I guess.  Too bad the chain wasn't as mud free.

 

   

There was an extra moment to get this shot, while Gary was standing still.  I really like the contrast with his yellow frame, don't you?

At the first sag we eat bananas with all the Silly Animals.  At the second we get applause and high-fives from the Peace-niks. 

It is cold, and we are drenched.  But somehow we are all riding the high of a truly good time.  

By the time it comes to choose whether to take the 35 mile bail out or do another 15, the vote is unanimous. 

Onward for the fifty!

 

By the last sag though, the damp and cold are sinking in.  The trail is so easy and perfect that I am not tired at all.  But my feet and hands have been numb for awhile. 

Just as my fingers reach the stage where they refuse to work any more, we hit the last sag.  It is The Land of Oz.  There is applause and cheering.  The Cowardly Lion hangs a Badge of Courage around each rider's neck. 

Dorothy and crew are extraordinarily cheerful for folks who have been standing out in the cold rain for hours.  Then I spot the two punch bowls and know why. 

Rum and vodka may call to the guys, but next to the big green punch bowl is a tray of the ultimate girl-contraband. 

Oreos!

It has been nearly a year and a half since I have had an Oreo.  Like the addict I am, I remember it clearly.  2012.  Halloween Oreos.  Halloween Oreos with orange double-stuff. 

I turn my gaze to the pretty blue vodka concoction.  But it does no good.  I have an Oreo.  Then I pop another.   Suddenly, my hands work fine and my feet are no longer numb.

Unfortunately, I know in my heart that even an Oreo euphoria won't last for long. 

Instead of warming up, the day has gotten colder.  I wring rainwater out of my headband and gloves.  I pluck at the stickers in my hair.  It is probably past noon.  I have not removed one single layer, and have no intention of doing so.  As a matter of fact, I can't help wishing I had a couple more to put on. 

There is only 12 miles to go but for the first time all day I tell the guys that I am considering the next bail out. 

With 2 Oreos and a cup of blue vodka punch under my waistband, there is really nothing left but to get on with it. 

Gary and I get under way.  A glance back over my shoulder leaves me with a vision of The Cowardly Lion pouring shots straight from the rum bottle for Gobbler and Mike.   

By the time Gary and I reach the last bail out point, we realize the shorter choice isn't necessarily better.  Taking the road will require at least a couple more miles - miles on washboard gravel.  Versus only 8 miles more on swoopy, fast trail. 

Seems a no brainer to me.  On-on for the fifty!

I have no idea what time it is when I sign out at the finish.  The long sleeve shirt for swag seems appropriate, though.  

The last time we were at Croom, I won a wool hat in a duathlon.  It was 80 degrees that December day.  Hard to imagine ever getting a chance to wear it. 

But I wear it today.  And I am very glad to have it.  

OK, so the hat's too big, and for sure not pretty. 

But it's warm. 

Oh yeah.  Dry clothes, at last.  Sweat pants, wool hat.  True luxury.  

Through the thin nylon walls of the changing tent I can hear Gobbler and Mike arrive, saying hi to Popeye, who is waiting outside. 

Everyone accounted for, and 50 miles for everyone. 

No rules.  No lessons.  And absolutely no complaints.

Plan B and the Art of Thrifty Cycling.

Mother's Chicken Barley Soup.

1 pound cooked chicken.
Carrots, celery, onion, peas, corn, barley.
Chicken broth, and/or chicken bullion and water.
Sage, cumin, thyme, bay leaf.

Saute vegetables in a little olive oil.  Combine with chicken and broth.  Pour in barley. Add herbs. Simmer until vegetables are tender, and barley is plump.

(And nothing wiggles.)


 OK, so how thrifty are you?

Would you throw away an entire kettle of chicken barley soup, if say, after you poured the barley in, you picked up the box to put it away and there were weevils swarming the counter?

Now, you'd think growing up on a farm with thrifty parents during thrifty times, I would have been acquainted with weevils at an early age.  But no, never.  Maybe the old upstate New York farmhouse was always plenty cold enough to deter them.  Maybe it was because my mother was a fastidious cleaner.  Or maybe we just ate everything up as soon as we got it. 

But no, no weevils that I ever knew about.  At least no one ever screamed "Eeeewww!" and began frantically cleaning shelves. 

Now that I think about it though, thrifty pretty much always trumped sensitivity on the farm.  

I picture my ultra neat and tidy mother in front of the stove.  What would she have done if she discovered she had just poured half a box of weevil'ly barley into her soup? 

Would she have simply reached over and turned up the heat under the pot for a few extra minutes?  

Was "eeewww" even a word back then?  (Not that it's one now.)      


Unfortunately, thrifty times are here again.  Not the dire sort of thrifty where life hangs on the choice between weevil-barley soup or no soup at all.  (Thank goodness.  Because extreme cheapskating is just plain gross.) 

But doesn't the word budget - like the word diet - just make you want to go out and splurge? 

Personally, I require a more subtle sort of shift. 

A shift to thrift.  An artful, crafty sort of shift to thrift.  But, where to start?

Periodic competition is still the best motivator for staying fit, so we never once considered nixing all weekend races, just the really expensive greedy-promoter sort of events.  

For the last couple years we've been making a game of seeking out the less expensive and the free.  And if it's something we really want to do, we don't mind cutting a few travel corners, or skipping a few comforts.  As long as we don't have to skip the event.     

A couple weeks ago, we got up at 3:45 on a Saturday morning and drove to the Tour De Felasco.  This cut our usual two night hotel stay, and dining out costs, down to one night.  

Mike (no stranger to pre-dawn event driving), appeared in the driveway right on time.  Bikes loaded, travel mugs in hand, we piled in for the 3 hour predawn drive directly to the 8am start in Alachua.   

I kind of liked having the extra time. 

And the extra caffeine. 

Besides, the real fun of Felasco is staying at The Lodge and swapping stories after the rigors of  the Tour.  Hot showers, free cocktails by the fireplace, eating whatever we want for dinner.  And Sunday morning - no alarm.  Now that is true luxury.

This year we added a stop at Santos on the way home for a bonus freebie.  Test riding Niners and 'tweeners at Greenway Bicycles.  Something every mountain biker should check out for himself before investing in the next bike. 

The Croom 50 is coming up.  Here's a mountain bike event where you can really get your money's worth. 

Bring lights for bonus miles - there's a night ride on Friday. 

Then, on Saturday morning, say hi to The Oatmeal Man and chow down on the free breakfast.  You'll need it to fortify your 50 miles of famous Croom singletrack.  A full stomach isn't a bad thing either, since you can knock off as many jello shots and beers as you dare at the sags.

Top that off with a full lunch after the ride, and don't forget to pick up your SWAMP pint glass or tee shirt.  All for 50 smackers. 

But wait.  Don't leave yet.  

Since you're already right there at Croom, stay at the park campground for $20. 

Then on Sunday, get back out on your bike and ride the Withlacoochee Rail Trail.  The longest paved trail in Florida - absolutely free.  Even with stops for the bakery, lunch, or beers along the way, you'll still come out ahead.  Ahead on the money, anyway.  The calories are up to you. 

Last year, though, the temperature dipped to 30 degrees and we opted for a hotel.  I felt cheated.  Although Popeye and I each had some bonus miles on the ride, we went straight home afterward. 

The weather report is looking warmer this year, though.  If not, I see there's a chili cook-off in Orlando on the way home.  

Looking ahead for spring, I check up on a few old favorites and put them on the list. 

The Hammerhead 100 at Santos.  A nice morning drive.  Sign up for 25, 50, or 100 miles.  But you get the most for your money if you ride the full hundred. 

And right up there with $5 bike hashing, two of the best deals anywhere are right here at home in Melbourne. 

The 3.75 mile Bridge to Bridge Swim.   All splash, no cash.  (Plus pina coladas at the other end.) 

The Wickham Park Marathon, 50, 100, and 200 Mile Fun Run. One price fits all.  Whatever distance you choose - absolutely free. 

So - no free events around to suit you?  Start your own.  The B2B and the WPM have grown like crazy the last few years.  But they started with just a handful of folks getting together.

My advice is to offer something free.  Like free beer.  How about a  Beer Can Scramble?  Get your friends together for a local ride one night a week.  Everybody brings a beer.  Last one in gets last choice.  (Be nice.  The beer you get could be your own.)

Someday I think home grown events will be huge.  Did you know that ironman distance triathlon was born from a bet in a bar?  (At least, that's how I like to picture it.)

But meanwhile, I still have the original question to answer...

How thrifty are you, really?

Because I've got an awfully large pot of chicken barley soup here on the stove...