Yeeeehawwww!!!

Saddle up, pardner!

Saddle up yer bike, that is.  Today was the city’s annual “bike safety rodeo”, an event that we have hosted for the last ten years.  As a commissioner on the bicycle safety advisory committee, I have had the privilege of helping to organize and staff the event most of the past ten years.  While there is no calf roping or bull riding, it’s still a fun event that is usually well attended.  Last year we had nearly 225 children who attended, which may not seem like much, but for an event like our rodeo, that is a really good turn out.

One of the activities at the bike rodeo is the safety and skills course.  Our course is intended to give riders challenges that improve balance and bike handling, as well as teaching safety skills such as riding in a straight line while checking over your shoulder, a necessity for riding busy streets.  The course this year started with weaving through cones, spaced 5-6 feet, a simple challenge that was a favorite for many of the new riders.  It moved on to a spanning station, where the rider was required to call out the number of fingers the station marshall was holding up, both while the rider was riding away and towards the marshall.

Next was a station that I call ‘sobriety test’, a 30 foot straight line that each cyclist had to negotiate without putting a foot down.  The cyclist also could not go past the end of the 30 foot line in less than ten seconds.  If the rider crossed the line too soon or veered off of the line more that five times, they had to try the skill station again.

From that station, each cyclist had to pass a volunteer who posed as a train.  If the train came into their path, the cyclist had to stop.  Once through, the next station was a figure eight — also one of the popular stations on the course.  Part of the figure eight went around a drain grate and the grade leaned towards the grate, making that part of the figure eight like a banked turn.

The final station was a ‘rock dodge’, intended to teach the skill of looking over your shoulder while going around a car.  Each cyclist finished at a certification station, where they received a personalized certificate and had their picture taken with our mayor.  Our mayor is a cyclist, who created our bike commission as one of his first tasks as mayor.  He knew me from seeing me on my daily bike commutes and recruited me as one of the original members of the commission.  Mayor loves the rodeo, volunteers for and helps with set up at every rodeo, never misses a second of each event.  After receiving their certificate and picture, each rider gets their bicycle registered with a city sticker, issued through our police explorer volunteers.

I had the privilege of planning and putting together the bicycle safety/skills course for this event.  It was fun not only laying out the course, but training and supervising the volunteers who marshalled each station on the course.  Most of our volunteers were from our high school key club, great kids who worked hard, enjoyed interacting with the kids who came through the course.  Two of the girls who volunteered were part of the middle school flute choir that my daughter was in charge of while she was in high school, so I was excited to send pictures of them to my daughter — and she loved seeing them.

There are two big draws to our bicycle rodeo.  One is that our city includes money in our commission budget for 20 new bicycles and a large number of helmets that we give away at the event.  A DJ walks around the event, interviewing volunteers and participants, calling out the winners of the bicycle drawing every few minutes.  The other draw is three professional bicycle mechanics who donate their time as well as new materials for a bicycle safety check.  They repair brakes, chains, make saddle height adjustments, replace tubes, inflate tires to the proper pressure, lubricate the bikes — and make sure bikes are safe to ride.  Usually they find a way to make sure a needy child’s ticket gets drawn in the bike drawing.  They also inspect all the new bicycles before they are given away.  This year, they also assembled the majority of the bicycles that were given away.

There is also an area where people can drop off their tired or unused bicycle, where an organization  called Working Bikes Cooperative collects them for repurposing.  It’s funny to see those bikes being taken away at the end of our event.  The Coop volunteer carefully stacks them into the back of the tiny Toyota pickup truck, the sight of the tall stack of bicycles reminiscent of something you would see in a third world country!

After it’s all done, we’re treated to a nice meal of Potbelly sub sandwiches.  It’s such a great event to be a part of.  I love it!

 

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Sometimes You Have To Force Yourself

Tags

bicycle, life, mountain biking

The title says just about everything.  Truly, absolutely, if you want to benefit, then you need to force you to do things you do not feel like doing.

Anyone who rides a bicycle or runs or trains understands what that means.

Springtime means that I am going to have an allergy induced cold.  I have one now, a cold I felt coming on yesterday morning when my nose started to run.  My mother and I both are afflicted at the moment, an affliction we genetically share.  Yesterday afternoon, after my office manager and I attended a trade show together in the morning, she came into my office to discover me with my head back against the head rest on my office chair, asleep.  That has never, ever happened.  But the oncoming cold had kicked my butt and I could not resist.  I managed to make it through the afternoon at work, hoped to come home and load up my bike for a trip around the trails.  Instead, I occupied the couch in my living room, fell asleep for over two hours.

I should have forced myself to ride.  It was a picture perfect day.  Had I avoided the couch, I likely would have felt 100% better after the blood started flowing.

Maybe.  Maybe not.  Just maybe I needed the rest.  I know that I slept soundly through the night.

However, I was not going to let one more day pass without riding.  After all, it has rained 11 out of the last 14 days, limiting my riding opportunities.  It is a good thing that the trail system that I ride dries out very quickly.  So I loaded up my bicycle and ride clothing in my car before work, the idea being that I would drive out to the trails from the office.

It worked.  I did just that this evening.  My head was three feet thick from the cold, but I rode.  My plan was to ride the full 7 miles of trail, then stop.  However, when I was just about finished, I met my friend Greg on the trail.  Greg is 15 years younger, a much more experienced rider than I am.  Greg asked me if I wanted to ride with him, so I kept riding, adding another 30 minutes to my ride.  Not only that, but following Greg always teaches me something.  I watched him navigate a section of trail that I have never, ever been able to conquer.. until tonight.  I watched how Greg navigated that section and rode straight through without stopping.  Win.  Win. Win.

For those curious, that section starts at the top of a very tall berm, turns sharply left over several nasty roots and drops straight down.  To navigate that section, one has to ride up a steep banked turn and then left the front wheel before dropping down.  Watching someone do it gave me the knowledge and the confidence to do it.

I still feel like dirt, but at least I got dirty.

And dang, the baked chicken and brussels sprouts I cooked when I got home took an edge off, as did the hot shower.

Sniffle.

 

May the Fourth be with you

Tags

alyssa, daughter, fatherhood, life

I sent a text to daughter this morning — “May the fourth be with you “.

Her response was a picture that put a smile on my face.

 

No, The Cat Did Not Poop In The Sink

Tags

family, fatherhood, life

“This is really good!”  My 16 year old son stuffed another bite of lasagna into his mouth, then popped out of his chair and filled his plate with more.  Before he was finished with his dinner, half of the pan of lasagna was gone.

Miracles never cease.  The kid is more finicky than Morris the cat.  More often than not, he snubs his nose at whatever I have cooked for dinner, instead bawling for fast food.  He isn’t accustomed to having regular meals cooked for dinner, at least not until this year.  At the beginning of this year, I decided that I would cook more, do the grocery shopping more often with the hope of saving some money.  While that plan has not been a total win, it’s beginning to succeed more often.  I have figured out meals that my boy likes, such as chicken parmesan.  He is eating more often, with less of a fight.

And tonight’s compliment was a first.  The only other time I have heard something similar is when I make the cheese potato casserole for our family get togethers.

Of course, even when he likes something he is still finicky.  When I looked in the sink, I thought the cat had decided the sink would be a good litter box substitute.  The boy decided that he didn’t want so much sausage in his lasagna.

Next meal is a crustless quiche.  We’ll see if he says the same thing about that meal….

Car air freshener

I  just made a new discovery.  Put a fresh chocolate chip cookie on the dash of my car.  I came back a few hours later to the scent of fresh baked cookie!

Killing Me Softly

Tags

life, memories, nostalgia

My right shoulder stung from the slap Brenda Deweese had just rendered, her thick lips pursed with an annoyed reprimand.  I suppose that I deserved the slap.  She had grabbed me from the throng that teemed around the dance floor, insisted that as a freshman representative of student council, I was obliged to dance and get others to dance.  Dancing was no problem for me, uninhibited as I was.  The apparent problem was that she expected me to dance with her.  I wanted to dance with everyone around us, pulled a few friends out on the floor with us.. thus the slap.  Brenda was a senior, president of the Rochester High School student council, and she expected me to defer to her, something I had continued to resist during my tenure on the student council.  I’m pretty sure it was Brenda who eventually proposed that only one freshman was necessary to represent our class, instead of two, the result being that I was voted off of the council.  Honestly, I deserved it.

Everyone went to the dances at our high school those days, even if it meant merely sitting in the bleachers or milling around the edge of the dance floor.  Most of the guys were too afraid of looking foolish to get out on the dance floor, the girls usually dancing with each other.  The guys would wait for the slow dance, the easy dance and a chance to get close.  I was the opposite — fast dances were my favorite and I was too shy for the slow dances.

Brenda had started something for me at that particular dance.  Suddenly I became a favorite for the junior and senior girls, one of the few guys who liked to dance.  The whole evening I barely got a chance to rest.  Every time I tried to make it to the bleachers, someone else pulled me back out on the floor.  As a 14 year old boy, I enjoyed the attention.  Funny thing was that, as a freshman boy, my popularity waned when the slow dances came, as did my confidence.  Like I said, I was too shy.

It was during a slow dance that I made it to the bleachers to catch my breath.  I sat and watched as the couples swayed in the dim light, wishing just a little that I could find a girl who wanted to slow dance with me.

And there she was.  Barbara Burdzilauskas.  Her friends were dancing with their boyfriends, but for some reason no one had asked her to dance.  Barb was a freshman, one of those petite sweet faced late bloomers who was just beginning to come out of that awkward 14 year old stage.  I had a bit of a crush on her, had thought for a while that she was a bit too pretty for me.  But dancing will all the upper classman girls had boosted my confidence a bit.  I caught Barb glancing over her shoulder at me, a hint of interest tossed my way.  Even the freshman boy that I was could pick that up.  As I stood up, an exhale passed my lips, my confidence sinking into my chest.  Brenda had turned and was looking my way.  I had better get moving before Brenda pulled me back out onto the floor.

I don’t remember what I said as I approached Barb, but I can still feel the burn of the blush on my cheeks.  All I know is that she said yes when I asked her to dance and that she told me that I was a good dancer as we began to dance.  Barb was my first slow dance, ever.  Not only that, but she didn’t seem to be nervous with me at all, something that almost instantly cured that blush and prompted me to hold her tight as we danced.  Our slow dance was not one of those awkward hands-on-her-hips-hands-on-his-shoulders dances.  We moved well together.   14 year old me was feeling pretty good about that.

The song ended, but we didn’t leave the dance floor.  For the rest of the evening, Barb was my dance partner.  When it came time for the last dance of the night, the dance competition, we stayed on the floor.  We were having fun, our eyes never leaving the other as we bounced around the floor for the fast dance.  Then the competition moved to the slow dance as Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly” filled the air, our hips moving in sync as we held each other tight.

We won the dance contest.  My prize was a Revell model kit of a ’57 Chevy.

The only other thing I remember from that night is the kiss on the cheek that Barb gave to me as she left.

When Monday came, I returned to my awkward self.  I never managed to ask Barb out, but we did stay friends throughout high school.  She always reserved one dance for me.  Barb bloomed rather nicely, doing some modeling during our high school years, a bit of a minor celebrity when she and a friend modeled Sedgefield jeans in a local television ad.  At our 25 year high school reunion, a reunion that I organized, Barb and her husband sat next to Miriam and I during the dinner.  She got me into hot water with Mir when she came up to me, a bit tipsy, hugged me around the neck.  When we got into the car to leave that night, a jealous Mir asked me what that was all about.

It was just a memory.  That was it.