Do you feel lucky?

I bought a lotto ticket yesterday.  I have been buying one at the grocery store every week for a couple months now.  It started out as a joke gift for Popeye when he changed departments and started working six and seven days a week. Now it's got a permanent slot on the grocery list.  

I attempt to guess-timate the odds.  48 million to one, maybe?  Higher than my calculator can count, let alone me with my Jethro Bodine ciphering skills. 

Not much of a Plan B, is it?

When we got our college degrees, my friends went off to their Careers.  I couldn't wait to get a Job.

To me, Job spelled freedom.  A Job was something you could quit anytime.  Sail to the Bahamas.  Come back when the money runs out.  Get another Job.

"Those were the days, my friend.  We thought they'd never end..."  

My current Job is not exactly hard work, talking to people about bikes all day.  But I do have to show up.  And if I leave for a few months there are no other Jobs to come back to.  Of course, my current pay wouldn't support Tiger's 9-Lives habit, let alone Pepper, and Gypsy, but it does enable the cycling problem.

Tiger - somewhere between 1st breakfast and 2nd breakfast.

Speaking of a cycling problem, there's a club for that! 

A Drinking Club with a Cycling Problem.  

We do like a good hash. No, not corned beef, and definitely not drugs. The hashes we like are bike hashes, of course!

Most of the bike hashes here are Sunday afternoon rides. But once in a blue moon, someone steps up to hare who's not afraid of the dark.

A couple weeks ago, while running in Wickham Park, I came face to front wheel with Mr. E and Mr. B on trail. (Hash names are usually given on one's fifth hash, and in grand British tradition, most are unprintable.)


I was grateful I'd just changed out of my Vibrams and back into my normal, glamorous, size ten Nikes. When you're wearing unconventional footwear a chance conversation focuses on the shoes, and you hardly ever get to nose into what the other guy is up to, you know? 

And when you see hashers out on a Wednesday, you definitely want to know what they are up to! 

Scouting trail for a full moon hash.  Hooray!


A quick chat and I volunteer to head off the other direction. A hash trail is secret or the game wouldn't be any fun. 

Good thing the reminder comes with a few days left to untangle and charge the light batteries.  There are no street lights on trails.  To ride a mtn bike at night, you need LIGHTS, not lights.  With 2 lights each (one on handlebar, one on helmet), and batteries that take 12 hours each to charge, plus (what the heck, we got 'em, might as well charge 'em) one extra batt apiece, it can take a couple days to get organized.

  ultra organized light storage

But any extra effort is worth it.  Night hashing is an experience in itself.  

In the twilight, there's a sort of tailgate atmosphere.  Mr. D. has made a stencil, and is busy spraying T-shirts with glowpaint. 

Some riders have gone to the same dollar store as me!  4 for a dollar glowsticks sprout from helmets, dangle from wrists, wrap handlebars.

At sunset, the hares depart.  About twenty minutes later, it's "On-On!  Hounds Away!"  We hounds hit our lights and begin the chase.
 

Trails can go anywhere, streets, back alleys, off road.  Hounds range at "which ways" to scout out "true trail".  There can be count backs and YBF's, (you've been fooled.)
  

Often there's a half way stop with beer, to further tempt and delay the hounds - and huh, they don't seem to mind! 

The half way at this hash is a little unconventional, a few pitchers set up on the bar at LongDoggers.   Bikes lay all over the bushes and landscaping, and we stop to admire some of the more unconventional bikes, like Tranny's with the superfat tires.  (And no.  Kick kick kicking myself I did not think to take a picture!)
   

Then it's On-On again, hound's away, to track down the BN mark (Beer Near), the On-After, and the keg.  Or in this case, the coolers.

So.  Do you feel lucky?

Oh yeah.  So lucky to live in midcoast Mel-boring, Florida, where a hash can end under a bridge and still be beautiful.

From under the Eau Gallie Causeway

For a history on hashing, check out Hash House Harriers on Wikipedia. 

And if you're ever in the Melbourne area, bring your mtn bike and come On-On down to work up a thirst with the Lost Hares. (bikehash.com)

Who needs lotto, anyway?
  

Losing the Monkey.

Long ago and far away...

Master Chung required of his first degree black belt candidates:

a written test,

the demonstration of every color belt form, both tae guek and pal gay,

a 3 on 1 sparring session against the instructors,

and a hammerfist break of one brick.

When those requirements were accomplished, along with demonstrating perseverance and courtesy and indomitable spirit under every grueling condition MC could concoct for all those many years of practice, the black belt was awarded.

(At last!  Your black belt!) 

Which you got to wear for the first time at the belt ceremony, when you presented your black belt speech in front of the entire school and all their attending families and friends. 

No doubt the speech terrified more candidates than simply putting their fist through a brick for the approval of Grand Master. 

But all that was the easy stuff. 

Master Chung also required several hours of meditation before a student was allowed to test. 

I know.  Several hours of sitting, after years of training.  

So what's the big deal, right? 

That darned monkey mind.  More difficult to tame than a 7 year old white belt on a Halloween sugar high.  

Occasionally, a book or a memory or that Master Mental Artist, the desire for change, will beckon you off your easy street and nudge you into the narrow back alleys of personal challenge.   

Sometimes you can even make the challenging path a habit. 

But there's a secret to it.  A secret everyone knows.

"Make effort."

C'mon, grasshopper, you didn't think you were going to just sit there and the quiet mind of meditation would just happen, did you?

  

Sorry, no post last week.  I was at the beach.  The beach sucked up my time.  And for a few tiny encouraging moments it sucked up the monkey mind as well.

To get out early enough in the summer so as to avoid broiling the brain you are attempting to sooth, one must first detach from all the little waking chores of the morning.  One must leave the bed unmade, the dishes in the sink, the last of the coffee undrunk, and simply GO. 

The mind does not accept this easily, nor does it want you to just GO until you have exactly the right cool comfortable outfit (when you no longer wear a bikini, this is not automatic), the one hat in the house that doesn't sit crooked on your head, the correct sunglasses, a drink of juice before leaving, on and on. 

The brain resists getting out that door, even for a daily soothing.  "But what about...?" it cries, and off you go in search of those other sandals.

Make effort.

Leave the dishes, do not read email.   

GO.

Walk one hour. 

Feel the shift of morning breeze on your skin.  Breathe the ocean's thick air.  Hear the low growl of a thousand mile wave crash in a slow summer roll. 

Be aware of everything.  Think about nothing.  If you can.

It could just be the most memorable hour of the day.

And the toughest.

I decided I would visit the beach every morning for five days. 

On Monday the water was (surprise!) numbingly cold.  Warm summer air puffed up in a thin magical haze over cold breakers.  Dropping into rythmic breath was quick and otherworldly.  Wow, (surprise!) That was easy. 

For one day, anyway.

By Thursday the house was a wreck, blog unwritten, emails unanswered, laundry undone.  The morning workout hour was sucked away.  There was a ride planned for Friday.  The grill stopped working.  (No grill for the Fourth of July?  No way!)  Monkey, monkey, monkey...  One run, two rides, five stores, and a cookout later, the beach so close, seems so far away.  

But that's the hard part, right? 

And the answer is no secret.

Make more effort.
 

There's a line in the sand and it moves by the minute.  I didn't draw it.  But it seems I must walk it.  Monkey mind needs subduing, true.  But it seems the more time spent in direct assault, the more the monkey runs amok. 

I'm going to have to be sneaky about this.

So yesterday the beach.  And maybe tomorrow.

Today the computer. 

I can breathe and not-think sometime before leaving for work later this morning.

Probably while folding the laundry.

Nature Deficit Disorder

Deficit:  An excess of liabilities over assets, of losses over profits, or of expenditure over income.

The author, Richard Louv, in an interview on the Today show, was the first that I know of, to pair "nature" and "deficit" with "disorder".   

Nature Deficit Disorder.

We have it and we hate it.

Around here we strive to make one day a week an off road day, and once in a great while we camp out near some groomed single track, on an Elephant accessible campsite. 

(In some towns you can't even go to the beach and be free of traffic.)  

New Smyrna Beach
Sunday after Sugarmill
(Taken hanging out the window of a beachside burger joint.) 

I'm finally on the bandwagon, reading "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert, in which the author travels to Italy, India, and Indonesia in an attempt to put behind a bad divorce. 

I just started so I'm still on the "eat" portion of the book (Italy).  What is the fascination with tourists in Italy and gelato?  Nobody's immune, it seems.  Not even mountain bikers.

After one loop of Sugarmill, riders rolled around us as we stood at the trailhead saying goodbye to Krafty (no doubt relieved to be heading for a family father's day, poolside.)  

Puffing riders, complaining about the heat, slog their way out.  A couple guys quietly roll by heading for the loop.  After a few minutes, Popeye and I head in after them.

I pass them before the overlook, but decided I just had to wait and ask the owner if I could have a picture of his bike. 

White Trash Cannondale

When a rider names his bike, there's usually a story.

This one had gone off a car at 70 mph, bounced once, and landed in the median.  It was given to it's current owner as a hopeless case.  He went to work fixing it up.  Six months later, finishing it off with a new white paint job, he found it irresistible to add the name. 

Chatting a few minutes led to discovering that the Trashmaster lives in our neck of the pavement, and we exchange our (unprintable) hash names. 

Clipping back in to leave, I ask if it's OK to put the White Trash picture on my blog, BikeEatSleepRepeat.

"I guess Eat, Pray, Love was taken, huh?" 

Ha. Ha.  

But I am too amazed that two grown men even know such a book exists to be offended for long at any implied unoriginality. 

I stop and put my foot back down.  

I owned a copy but so far hadn't been drawn to read it yet.

"It took some searching, but we found her favorite gelato stand when we were in Rome.  Just a hole in the wall, but really good."

OK, so back at home I finally pick up the book.

Like gelato itself, an infinite variety of flavors can be infused into prose.  From the dead weight of melancholy to the simple joy of discovering a dripping, moss-covered fountain, there's a richness to this lean writing.  It's quietly healing; like a good meal or a stroll on a summer evening while spooning gelato.

I look up gelato recipes. 

Nah.  Too much trouble. 

So, on to downloading Sunday's photos.  Suddenly I am yanked away from thoughts of evening strolls and cool desserts.

  New Smyrna Beach

Rows of cars park along a streaming bumper to bumper two lane highway of sand.  

Nature Deficit Disorder as far as the eye can see. 

I imagine these same people a few months from now being the first to complain when tar balls stick to their tires....

... and for some reason, I go back for a second look at those gelato recipes. 

     

  

A Mile in My Shoes.

While Krafty and JediJosh battled the ticks of the Econ, Popeye's  Honda Elephant carried us southbound down the old I-95 trail to ride at Crossroads, where we were treated to a typical Ft. Pierce Sky. 

Everywhere else in Florida, summer rain arrives in late afternoon, like a gigantic and perfectly programmed sprinkler system.  Not Ft. Pierce.  

About two miles shy of our exit, sure enough...

But it waited until we were on the bikes, departing the trailhead, to really let loose.  

It's a whole different trail in a deluge. 

TriLady waited up for me under one of the overpasses, but honestly we were soaked anyway, and with rivers running down the center of the singletrack, the novelty was just too much fun to pass up, and we continued our loop in a pouring crashing flashing thunder booming storm.    

You know what they say about Florida.  If you don't like the weather, wait ten minutes.  It'll change. 

OK, so it took twenty.

The rain pounded.  Temps were soothing and cool.  And just as we gave up on the bikes and pulled on the run shoes, the sun came out full force. 

In the time it took to change to my new "toe shoes" (and apply a second layer of Deep Woods Off), the flowing trail had drained completely, with a thin surface of dry to hide the slidey stuff.  

In other words, the bike loops were a pounding wonderous whoop and hollor joyride, but moments later the trail became a hot, steamy, slippey, slidey, bear-of-a-loop to run.

The new Toe Shoes - pretty glam, huh?

As predicted by the happy clerk at Happy Feet, the little toes were first to feel the acute separation anxiety, necessitating a return for the tried and true Nikes somewhere around mile one. 

Nikes, which were every bit as slippery on trail as the unhappy Toe Shoes, but with a whole lot more sole.  So much sole that I caught one on a chunk of carpet and did a face plant in totally dry sand underneath the overpass, the exact spot where my only bike crash had occurred as well.  Proving once again that you don't need no stinkin' rain to crash!

So.  Big shoes.  Gallons of sweat.  Dry sand. 

(Try running as a big fat sugar cookie sometime.  Yuck.)

Just so you know there's more to Crossroads than gray sand and grayer sky...

Taken before the fall:

Headed for the overpass.

Carpet covered ridges - great for the bikes - not so great for the Nikes.

Under water one loop, drained the next.

One reason why short people love mtn biking.

Ahh, a couple of well washed bike loops, a sugar cookie run, a big lunch with TriLady and Popeye... 

A nap back home would have made it the perfect day.

But, as everyone knows who's been to Ft. Pierce;

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep...

... with bikes to clean before I sleep.

Vibram FiveFingers

All us barefooters know that the surest way to become sure-footed has always been to go barefoot. 

And trail runners know the best way to avoid a twisted ankle is to strengthen your lateral muscles by running on rough terrain.  

So barefoot running on rough terrain seems the next logical step toward being the best possible trail runner you can be.

Except for...

OUCH!

Enter Vibram FiveFingers.

My new Vibram FiveFingers

They've got sole.  

   
OK, I don't get it either.  Why is a running shoe, made for the health of  your feet, named "FiveFingers"?  I have no explanation for that.

These have been around awhile.  My boss, Wild Bill, first noticed the young man from Idaho wear them into the store yesterday, and it jogged a memory.  I'd seen the five toed prints on trail at the park.  Wild Bill probably thought it was mighty peculiar footwear, but I was all over it 'like white on rice', as my friend Mrs. Peanut would say.  It was the first time I had seen the actual shoe, and peculiar they were!  But cool, very cool. 

So cool, that I set myself out today to acquire some.  

Shopping is about the most annoying activity ever invented, but this trip turned out to be as painless as a pair of bunny slippers.  Imagine expecting to have to go half way to Idaho, but finding that these dainty little hoof covers are sold exactly four miles from my house, in Indian Harbour Beach! 

Not so sure about the spread out feel of "yoga toes", but hey.

My size, trail friendly color....  Sold!

Anyone for a run tomorrow?

There Might be Flies on Some of You Guys

Why is it that a horse fly bite from Sunday itches more on Tuesday than it did on Monday?

You gotta hand it to the little meanies, they make the transfer from horses to cyclists with ease, and in daring style.  

Horse flies are pros at the art of drafting, and not just behind horses either.  Hikers are easy targets.  Bikers and runners are a little harder to catch, but catch us they do.  They fly behind in your draft, and the sting comes as a surprise from behind, a little like Mark Cavandish in a stage race.  

The name of the game at Santos on Sunday was Keep Moving!

Sorry, no chance of this bug magnet stopping for photos. Two hours and forty five minutes on trail.  Stop time: about 30 seconds.

The phone did ring once, and thinking I was in the clear because I was in the vortex and out in the open sun, I dug it out and answered.  In the seconds that it took to get the phone out of it's ziploc, a four fly attack registered from my backside to my brain and off I rode like a startled mustang, phone in one hand, handlebar in the other, and none leftover to swat with.  

Pedaling around the open vortex, phone in hand,  provided fly-by opportunity to shoot stationary targets.  

Gadget Guru, Tomcat, Northstar

Although no one was riding the drops, some kids were there working on a new one.  

Wooden ramps at the top of cliffs surrounding the Vortex send riders soaring to land on contoured piles of dirt.  When I asked what the plan was for this one, there was something about turning mid air and landing 90 degrees from the take off angle.  I'm not sure.  I was  pedaling; made for a spotty interview.

As usual, the camera reduces the scare factor to look about a tenth

as death defying as it looks in person.  It will take another visit on a day with no horse flies, for me to take the slow-go trail to the top of the cliff to see what the camera can reduce that view to!

*******************

By committing to the horsefly hell of Santos on Sunday, we missed out on the Wickham Park Marathon, the kookiest, all time best Marathon, 50, 100, and 200 Mile Fun Run, anywhere, ever! 

This off road run is a stage race consisting of four consecutive days, 50 miles per day.  Anyone not making the twelve hour cut off time each day is ineligible to continue the next day.

Wednesday's run in the park after work provided a bonus sighting of Matt Mahoney accompanying the one and only Joe Ninke, now the only human to have ever completed the 200 Mile Fun Run twice. 

Joe was at about his 198th mile of the 200 when I saw him.  He looked fresh and chatty, way better off than me at my 20 minute mark!  

The WPM,50,100,200MFR started 4 days ago, the morning we were swatting horseflies in Santos. 

It went on through Memorial Day while Popeye dug up pool plumbing, and we had a relaxing cocktail hour on Scout and PieMan's boat. 

It continued through Tuesday, back to work day,

through all of Wednesday,

until Wednesday evening, when we drove to the park after work for our usual mid week trail run.

Talk about staying in motion every moment! 

Not only did Joe Ninke stay in motion all day, every day, for 4 consecutive days, but he did it entirely without horse fly motivation! 

Wow.

To see photos of the marathon, and Joe holding his prize for 1st place (a fake rock), check out:

http://mattmahoney.net/wickham/2010/   

200 miles.  43 hours, 10 minutes, 30 seconds, no horse flies.

Wow.

The Fourth B is... Breakfast!

Around here, most days revolve around the holy trinity of exercise, eating, and sleeping. 

No particular order, except the humans of the household have to fit work in too.  

The cats have had the whole thing down from birth, of course.  

For instance, Gypsy has never read a Runners World Magazine or a single article on sports nutrition (although she may have sat on a few.)  But she does know that a generous portion of lean protein immediately following a vigorous workout is just plain purrfect! 

Working Out - Gypsy style

She also gets plenty of sleep.

Since Gypsy's "job" is to rid us of vermin, she manages to not only combine her work, her workout, and a restorative meal, but also have an extremely good time doing it. 

Definitely something to strive for!

Today the tree guy is taking down our beautiful but way-too-close-to-the-house queen palm.

With a little down time and the background buzz of a chainsaw, it's easy to dream up some great new workouts. 

But trying to fit work, workout, and meal into one giddy hour of over the top fun - that's hard! 

The workout part is easy.  There's always something you can do within an hour of the front door.   

Like a "B B & B" ride. 

Beach

Bridge

Bleachers

A mile or two along the beach is pure sightseeing, but it's a good warm up.

I know.  

We don't need no stinkin' mountains here in Florida! 

Bridge and bleacher repeats are our local hill substitutes.  At least there's a view! 

I leave the bike at the base of the bleachers, but next time I think I will hop off and carry it on my shoulder, ala the famous Richmond Xterra with 8 flights of stairs in the middle of the bike course.  (Only 3 weeks away!) 

Check out this video of Richmond:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UzfapAhBO4

I probably won't practice riding down the bleacher steps though. Yikes!

The BB&B is one of my favorite workouts.  

But I still haven't thought up a way to work, work out, and prep a meal at the same time, like my little at-home expert, Gypsy!

There are people who come close, though.

Often there is a group of women grunting out a boot camp in the park by the bleachers. 

Whenever I see them, I always make sure to ride nearby, smile, and wave, of course.  No one has ever waved back yet.  (Not even a little "salute".)  I try not to take it to heart.  I'm sure they would if they had a free hand...

The very next day after my last BBB&Boot Camp Flyby,  I happened to be included in an email invite to join in by the Hash Harriet who conducts the camp.  Now there is someone who has figured out how to combine her work and her workout!

Ah, if only I had time, I'd join you, Harriet! 

(Well, no, I probably wouldn't.)  

I am too busy trying to arrange my time according to my unique requirements - like a mad bout of bleacher running in bike shoes and helmet with a 29r on my shoulder. 

But it makes one pause as the chainsaw buzzes away...

Hey!  All it would take is to find people willing to pay money to join me!

Uh, right.  

Maybe if I threw in a Fourth B?

Mango Smoothie?  Guinness Apple Bread?

Anyone?  Anyone?  (Bueller?  Bueller?)  Breakfast?  Anyone? 

Electro-Orange Mango Smoothie

In Blender: 

(Or for more exercise, whip it up yourself, like Gypsy.)

A scoop (20 grams) of protein powder

1/2 tsp apple cider vinegar

1/2 tsp lemon juice

1/2 tsp honey

A shake of salt

8 oz fresh or frozen cubed mango

1 cup OJ

1/2 cup plain yogurt - optional

(If you aren't about to do a lot of sweating you can leave out the vinegar, honey, lemon, and salt.  Those are enhancers for electrolye transport.  Believe me though, if you are sweating buckets, they will taste great!)