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...

Happy 2014. Talking Tough to the Inner Weasel.

I talk to myself all the time.  

And just so you know, I have made no resolution to stop. 

Talking to myself is far better than listening to myself.

Because if I listened to myself all year the way I did in December...  

Well, it wouldn't be pretty.

Some people say that fitness begins in the kitchen.  Some say the gym.  Nope, not true.  Fitness begins in your head. 

Because let's face it, your head will listen to just about anything you tell it.

Last week, for instance.  

The first Tuesday night ride of 2014. 

Killer started it.  At the Econ last weekend.  He complained all 23 miles.  Click, click, click.  (Bike-speak for wah, wah, wah.)  Oh no.  Not another bearing.    

Which left me Bruiser.  Again. 

For lumpy-bumpy Turkey Creek. 

At night. 

In the cold. 

(Wouldn't you just sooner have a lobotomy?) 

OK, so it wasn't actually cold, but 40-something.  Cold for here. 

And windy. A nasty, 25 knot, north-wind sort of windy. 

And did I mention dark?  Really, really dark.  And damp.

Immediately the inner voice (that weasel!) speaks up.  "Well, no one says you have to go."

Uh oh.  When the Weasel speaks, my brain listens.  

Someone else needs to speak up, and fast.  And the only one here, besides the Weasel, happens to be me. 

Weasel:  "But it's sooo cold."

Me:  "There are no cold rides, only inadequate clothing."    

Immediately my brain switches sides, and I believe Me.   

I go and hike the box of cold weather clothes down from the closet shelf and dump it out on the bed.  

It's true! 

Headbands to toe warmers, it's all there.  Everything needed to balance between sweat and hypothermia on a windy, chilly, night ride. 

Weasel:  "Well, ok, but it's still really, really dark out there."

Me:  "There's a spare light on the charger. Just take it along." 

Sure enough - 6pm - standing over the bike - ready to go.  My helmet light (which apparently hates cold even more than I do) refuses to go on.  It means making the guys wait an extra minute for a swap out.  But at least my ride is not over before it starts.

Weasel:  "But you always get sucked in to going too fast.  You don't want to crash with Felasco coming up."

The Weasel drives her point home by reviewing some bike math. 

Cold wind + sweat = evaporation = brain freeze.  

Cold + crashing = more easily pulled muscles = the possibility of missing out on Felasco on Saturday.  

Missing Felasco = not an option.

Me:  "It's Ok to take it easy.  Just don't get sucked in, that's all."   It's all about talking myself out the door.  Once out, the dreaded low-temp night ride turns into yet another high-with-lights ride.  

Except, here's what I forgot.  There's another half to the fitness equation.  Just getting the ride done isn't enough.  You gotta keep right on talking. 

OK, so the night was a little colder than usual for the Beer Can Scramble.  Does that really mean that stinkin' little Weasel was right when she said it was ok to have a second beer?  And what about dinner?  Was that second serving she egged me into really necessary?   

And just because I made myself go to a cold, dark ride, on a heavy, hardtail bike...  Was it really OK to listen to the leftover Hershey's Kisses calling from their pretty glass bowl on the table?      

So.  Morning. 

First things first - while the Weasel is still asleep.   

Say goodbye, Kisses!

I get out some mints for the pretty glass bowl.  I like mints but they don't call to me.  And I know from experience it is much easier to have some candy around than no candy.  

No, it's not what you think.  I don't have the fortitude to talk myself into actually throwing away candy.  What if the apocalypse happens tomorrow and I can't get to Publix before the shelves are bare?    

No, all the lovely, shiny, Christmas Kisses (and Lindors, and Promises) go into a Ziploc. 

When I go to drop the bag on the pantry shelf - in behind the lentils and quinoa - I find another Ziploc.  Kit Kats from Halloween.  

Hopefully the Christmas Ziploc will soon be forgotten too.  At least until Easter, when shiny reds and greens will have no more appeal than a frosty iced tea in January, a hot toddy in July, or well, Halloween Kit Kats at New Years.

So, all I really have to remember is to be the first to speak up.  

The rest should be cake, right?  

Weasel:  "Mmm, cake!"

Oh wait, no, no, no.  No cake.  Who woke you up?   

I meant easy!   The rest should be easy.

2013. Missing in Action.

So much for that post. 

Dirthead Duathlon 2013: A Good Bush is Hard to Find. 

I know.  Terrible title, right?  But still, dear BlogSpot, no reason to erase the whole thing on me.  Only about four hours into it, but I resent the loss.

The Dirthead was just one of many missing posts this year, though. 

Deletion happens.

And, there is the distraction of actually living all the stories first. 

But most of all, there is the sheer amount of butt-time it takes to get even a short story to a publishable state.  Especially when one is simultaneously trying to lose more than an ounce a week.  

So, for the record, as a year end review, here's some BikeEatSleepRepeat stuff you didn't read about in 2013.

January:  Felasco is the big event, of course.  We also took the Florida concealed weapons class - plus archery lessons.  You know, in case of the zombie apocalypse.

Did I ever write about Jason and Josh opening their very own bike shop in Cocoa Village last January?  Nope, don't think I did.  But I should have!

Jason Kraft

Village Cycle Shoppe

Cocoa Village

February, 2013

 

In March we went to FATS and Ft Pierce and learned to grill pizza.  We also had a remarkably large crowd for an Econ ride one Saturday.

 

Some even had enough staying power for WOB after.  Beware boiled Cajun peanuts bought off a truck on state road 520.  Just sayin.

In April I actually took 3rd female overall and some decent loot at the Hammerhead at Santos.  I was going to write about that one too.  Another lesson learned.  Lost the middle chain ring early on, and did better because of it.  

So what happened to writing about the Hammerhead 100?  Oh yeah.  Popeye got slammed to the pavement by a boat trailer in a hit and run the next day, so I wrote about that instead.

I think it was May that Kurt and Mike and I started our Beer Can Scramble.  But somehow there aren't a lot of BCS bike pictures in the file.  Busy riding, I guess.  

Popeye and I missed the Wickham Park Marathon as well.  But I think it's because that was the day we went up to Cocoa to sail home our new - ok, 1982 - Catalina.

Did I write about the century in Tallahassee in June?  No probably not.  Just more super-amazing-roadie stuff.

Helping to hare the Summer Solstice Full Moon Hash last June was an honor and a privilege.   And a total blast!  Thank you, Semi and Cross.

Full Moon Hash

Half Way Hill

Well lit, and well provisioned, if we do say so ourselves.

 

 

July...   Hmm, I did take a trip to North Carolina in July - but to meet up with some old college friends, not to ride.  On that trip I gained back FIVE very hard won pounds in five days, which had to be some sort of record, even for me.  Gain 5 = five days.  Lose 5 = five weeks.

 

Did I have time to write anything in July? 

 

(Have I mentioned we now own a boat?) 

 

Scraping barnacles.

He took port, I took starboard.

Even with the both of us, it took all day.

   

And then you have the moments

- however brief -

that it was all worth the effort.

 

August.  OMG.  There was just no amount of time or space to do it justice.  I didn't even try.     

 

Maine.  Boothbay.  The perfect harbor.  The perfect cottage.  The perfect mix of newly transplanted relatives and old sailing friends from long ago.  29rs for the roots.  My very own Sherpa for hiking back to the boat with a growler in the pack.  Too spectacular for words, even if I had all year to write it.

 

Robinson's Wharf

 

 

  

Monhegan

 

 

Sailing with Captain Arford on board the Friendship sloop, Bay Lady.

Just like old times!

 

 

Ocean Point

    

A tiny bit further Down East...  Camden Harbor.

And way, way in the distance, Spruce Head and White Head,

where my little Chick's great-great-grandfather kept the light.  

 

 

September - wow.  Actually covered the highlights, I think.  Beginning with the joy of 8 Hours of Labor, and ending with the sorrow of losing Mr. Shadow, one of the best pets ever.

 

October -  I did write about the Horsefarm 100, but it self deleted.  Grr.

 

Dear go-fast roadie friends,

Yes, there were horses to be seen on the Horsefarm 100.

Sometimes it takes a mountain bike.

 

 



A new brewery opened in town in Oct - that's always exciting.

 

 

November:  This is Abby.  She is helping us rake leaves at Matt's parent's house in  Pennsylvania. 

 

Fastest road trip ever.  Drive northward for 14 hours, rake leaves, go to Victory Brewing, sleep.  Buy closed-toe shoes, limo to Philadelphia, attend most spectacular wedding ever, sleep.  Drive southward for 14 hours, weirdly unable to sleep.   

 

Abby

 

 

 

Which brings us around to December...

 

And the Dirthead Duathlon at Croom.  Croom - where it is indeed difficult to find a decently secluded Ladies Bush when there's a hundred other runners on the trail.  

 

I am very sorry that post went and deleted itself.  We had fun with that race and we definitely intend to go back.  For one thing, as third male and second female overall, we each won...  hats? 

 

 

Well, ok, hats are good, right?  You can't wear a trophy.  And I got one of those too.  I almost didn't, but one of the organizers followed me into the bike corral.  "Excuse me, but how old are you?  I think there's a mistake on your entry form."  

 

Ha ha.  I wish it were a mistake - but thank you very much.  First Female Master.  Ok, this one is unique enough to keep for a while.    

 

Many, many people blitzed me on the run.

Here I am with one of them. 

The one that counted - first female overall.

  

 

As many hours as it takes to put together a blog post, multiply it by I don't know, a bazillion, to get it together for inviting 50 or 60 friends to come watch the boat parade. 

 

Why do we do this, you ask?   I don't know.  It's just such a cool thing to have right in your back yard on the night of the winter solstice.

 

 

   

Much, much more went unposted in December. 

 

The Beer Can Scramble under a full moon. 

 

Jump On The Bus, Christmas Day 2013 - with The Chick and her Hubby, and all those foster kids.  Most awesome Christmas ever.  Count us in for next year, guys. 

 

Trips to Ft Pierce and to Santos.. 

 

...Right down to tonight's Solar Bears game and the New Years Eve Beer Can Scramble tomorrow night - which will probably also go unposted. 

 

So... 

 

So much for 2013. 

 

Thanks for reading! 

 

And see you next year.

 

 

 

The Vomit Quilt

 

 

Officially it's the Jungle Quilt (because Tiia, the Chick's friend with the new baby, worked at the zoo.) 

 

But here at home it is affectionately known as The Vomit Quilt. 

 

When I first started putting those colors together,  Popeye came in and said, "So whatcha makin'?  A baby quilt?"   

"Yup, a baby quilt." 

"Oh.  That's good." 

"Uh, why is that good?" 

"Because if the kid throws up on it, no one will notice." 

I think he was joking, but I'm really not sure. 

 

Oh well, in the event that Tiia thinks it's hideous, at least Pepper likes it. 

 

And I could always hang it in the dining room - for Popeye to enjoy during meals, right?  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Passing of Shadow.

 

 

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed....

                                                

I made the bed alone today.  I didn't time myself, but it was very efficient.  And no fun at all. 

My best little buddy is no longer here to help.  

Bed making was Shadow's specialty.  He would bat, and pull, and roll until the covers were exactly right.  For him. 

I would tug, and slide, and try to glide the sheets from under him while he grabbed all the covers he could hold and made himself heavy. 

Only when the quilt placement was satisfactory and smooth (as if it were his idea), would he settle back down on top for an after-second-breakfast nap. 

There were many mornings I would fondly recite My Shadow for him. Especially the first two lines.



One night at Turkey Creek, I thought I heard someone on another trail yelling for help. 

"No, I think it's those people who were looking for their dog," said Mike.  Oh yeah, I forgot about them.  

We rode on.  The yelling faded away.  When we came back through, all was quiet.  

It occurred to me then that if you really do ever need help from another human, you should yell if you possibly can.  But not just once or twice.  You should yell until you can't yell any more.  Don't rest.  Don't wait quietly for help.  Start crawling.  And don't, whatever you do, pass out.

Because human brains have an amazing capacity to invent some plausible explanation and then go right on with what they were doing.  

I heard the oddly pitched sound from the vicinity of the cat door, and I did get up to look - once my emails were finished and sent.  

"Shadow?  Pepper?"  Pepper came strutting out of the bedroom alone. 

I poked my head out the back door, called Shadow, then went to the front door and did the same.  I came back, popped the cat door and sent it swinging, suspecting the low cross between a groan and a creaking noise had somehow come from it.  No.  

"Probably some animal that got away," was Popeye's suggestion.  

Shadow loved the yard at dusk and often ignored my calls, even for dinner.  Lizards, dragonflies, and the occasional frog or rodent got dragged in through that cat door nightly.  So yeah, maybe some animal.  It never even occurred to me that it could be our animal.

It was a couple more hours before we found him in the darkest corner of the closet, back in under the hanging clothes.  I slid him out carefully, his glossy black fur offering no resistance over the smooth and shiny laminate.  He wasn't moving, and barely breathing.  

No, no, no, no, no.  No, please, not Shadow.

Popeye and I left the emergency animal care clinic a little after midnight.  The vet opened the oxygen case for a moment so we could give our Shadow a good night pat before we left.  On oxygen and pain meds, his eyes fluttered open, just for a moment.  Then closed again. 

And true to my human nature of disbelief, we went home, fully expecting to pick him up in the morning with maybe a splint on his leg.  My brain allowed for no other scenario.  And certainly not the 2 a.m. call to tell me he was gone.

I've had a hard time getting myself to write about this.  It's been two weeks since I fetched his body home to the back yard pet cemetery.   

Whether our own car was the murder weapon, backing out of our own garage, or whether it was someone else's car out on the street, the truth is that taking life for granted is what we humans do.  Life.  And well-being.  And especially tomorrow.  

Shadow had us all completely charmed.  He was a gifted hunter.  He chirped like a Tribble.  He even got sour old Pepper to chase and play.  (Play!)  And yes, I loved him for his spirited assistance with all the household chores.  I miss him every day.

Cats may have secret lives, but there is one thing I know for a certainty about him, and it helps to stop the tears.   

Shadow loved every minute of his life here with us.  

And we loved every moment of his life here with us too.   

 

.... One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

 

(My Shadow.  Robert Louis Stevenson.) 

Sometimes everything goes right.

Although it turned out differently, there were no hints going in that last week might be any good at all.

It rained for days. 

The county commissioners were all set to sell off the "unused land" (i.e., the off-road bike trails) in Wickham Park. 

And although it was a car this time and not a boat trailer, Popeye acquired another smack down on his bike.  The second one in six months. 

Mondays around here are usually rest days.  Which is not a bad thing, considering the rest of the week just took off and ran away with us. 

If it's Tuesday, there's a ride.  For the roadies, there's the Hospital Ride.  For holdouts on the Dark Side, there's the Beer Can Scramble. 

For me, it's a triple feature.  A quick trail run, then the ride, then the scramble.  (Which is actually all quite politely done, but it makes for a snappy moniker.)
 
In spite of all the rain, or maybe because of it, Turkey Creek has been just plain awesome all summer long.  When it rains, Turkey Creek trails only get faster.  (If only I did too.)

The bridges dry quickly. 

The sand stays wet.

Perfect!

By Wednesday though, the rain was pretty steady all day.  Bad for the street ride, but good for making progress on that baby quilt I've been meaning to finish. 

I like to hang each quilt top for a backlit picture before it gets quilted.  Even when it's gray outside, there's a stained glass effect.   

 

 

Rain, rain go away... 

 

Because the rain cleared up a bit by Wednesday night, we both went ahead with our planned rides. 

Popeye's commute home turned out much shorter than expected.

I was probably just arriving at the start of the Full Moon ride as he was being slammed to the pavement by the car behind him at the light on Palm Bay road.  His back wheel took all the damage, though.  Whew!  

 

I always feel safer off road.

Even with this bunch.

 

 

 

Don't look back!  

Ouch.

 

  
Friday morning we take a quick loop up Tropical Trail.  Popeye rides his Fuel, since the commuter bike is non-functional.  I instantly fall off the back.  As usual.  No matter what bike he rides.  At least we got in a bit of a workout.  (Well, I did anyway.) 

Because the afternoon was pure, over-the-top fun. 

Tree Top Trek!  

More like Tree Top Time Travel. 

Wanna be a kid again?  Here's your ticket.  First of all it's at the zoo.  Then you get to wear a bad ass climbing harness.  A few pointers from the guide, and up you go, into the trees. 

Rope challenges throughout the canopy. 20-60 feet up.  Over the heads of zoo animals.  Interspersed with zip lines.  

An Ewok's dream come true.   

 First (and easiest) challenge.

 

Nice landing! 

Yes, the final zip does go right over the alligators.

 

 

There's one now.

Right about the middle of the photo - see it's head?

 

Saturday is another full day.

Long ride in the morning.  Sailing all afternoon.  

And a  check of the new local Intracoastal Brewery Saturday night. 

Thumbs up on every single beer we tried.

4 down...   ??? to go?

Sleep in on Sunday.  Much coffee.  Econ Sunday afternoon.   No stopping - for photos or anything else.  One fast loop around and arrival at the car just before the first spatters of rain come back. 

So, it was 7 straight days of over the top, 100% fun.  I don't know if Popeye forgot all about his near death experience, but I'm pretty glad I did.  And so very grateful for how lucky he was.

(And grateful the Florida texting-while-driving law goes into effect Oct 1st.)

And then even more good news, right before the Beer Can Scramble started the new week off  all over again.

Yes!   The new college did the right thing, even if the county commissioners probably wouldn't have.  The Wickham Park trails are safe - for the time being anyway.

http://www.floridatoday.com/article/20130924/NEWS01/309240022/Eastern-Florida-State-College-drops-park-purchase

 

 

Saved, not paved. 

For now....