Burg versus Bung

Tags

divorce, friends, personal

One of the benefits of the divorce journey is finding (and keeping) new friends.  Now, there are friends lost during the same journey, some not so much of a loss, some a real sad disappointment.  The majority of the lost friends were mutual friends of my ex and myself, many just simply not sure what to say when they see me, so they find it easier to not see me.  Then there are those friends who decided it was best to come beside me, stick with me and add their support, bringing along with them their friends.  Suddenly, I am Social Stevie, the single guy who is always available for a beer or a meal or a ride or to carry heavy furniture.

I haven’t really changed except I wasn’t always single.

Kurt, Ed and Frank are examples of guys who appeared on the scene 2018 AD (After Divorce).  Ed is someone I have known for quite a while — I have known his wife for over 25 years.  We performed sketch comedy together as well as being cast in a few plays together.  It just so happens that he and his wife live in the same small burg as I.

I like using the word ‘burg’.  Do not get it confused with the word ‘bung’.  The two words have totally different meanings… most of the time.  I may have lived in a place or two that could be adequately described as bung.

Last summer, Kurt Ed Frank started inviting me to lunch or dinner, apparently under the guise of supporting this soul mired in the pit of divorce.

Their support really wasn’t asked for.  Strangely, I felt like I was supporting them by giving them a purpose.  They were divorce survivors, each with their own tale of terror.  We would get together and the stories/advice would start flying, my head nodding in acknowledgement, a smile of thanks with each tidbit.  Truthfully, the hell my friends experienced through their divorce was not the hell I was experiencing.  My divorce was not an easy time, but neither was it the ordeal my friends made it out to be.  Their ex wives made my ex seem like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.

Along the way, I made three solid trustworthy friends that I can count on when I need them.  We don’t share the horror stories so much any more.  They got them out of their system.

They are getting to know me better now.  We have reached the point where we are getting beyond the divorce stories, sharing out lives, sometimes they are shocked from what they hear from me.  I come across as gentle mannered, Christian, a straight shooter who has lived a calm life (except for the divorce).  Last week at lunch, I decided to regale them with stories from my motorcycle riding days, as well as answering their question of “Have you ever been in jail?”.

Yes.  2 days in the pokey.  Bailed out by my church pastor.  Why was I in jail?  I got into a brouhaha with an old lady.

Chew on that for a while.  My friends Kurt, Ed and Frank are doing just that.

There are more friends, more old friends than new, but new in the sense that I didn’t hang with them until 2018 AD.  I have breakfast every Friday with a bunch of guys from church.  They have been great, supportive in a better way than telling divorce stories.  They have lifted me up, studied with me, and along the way my old self has emerged, the guy that studied the bible and was raised with it.  What do those guys call me now?  The Teacher.  Perhaps more than anything else, I needed the esteem that comes from being able to share what I know from knowing God.  It’s pretty cool finding that part of me again.

It’s been a journey.  It continues.  It will continue to continue until I die.. hopefully on a bicycle.  I don’t want to die in my sleep.

Here’s a question — how do you want to die?  (I know… yuck, Steve)

 

Back In Pad

Tags

bicycle, bicycling, friends, life, mountain biking

♫Back in pad
I hit the saddle
I’ve been too long I’m glad to be back
Yes, I’m let loose
From the noose
That’s kept me hanging about
I’ve been looking at the sky
‘Cause it’s gettin’ me high
Forget the hearse ’cause I never die
I got nine lives
Cat’s eyes
Cruisin’ every one of them and running wild

‘Cause I’m back
Yes, I’m back
Well, I’m back
Yes, I’m back
Well, I’m back, back
Well, I’m back in pad
Yes, I’m back in pad

Back in the back
Of a mountain bike
Number one with a bullet, I’m a power pack
Yes, I’m in a bang
With a gang
They’ve got to catch me if they want me to hang
‘Cause I’m back on the track
And I’m beatin’ the flack
Nobody’s gonna get me on another rap
So look at me now
I’m just makin’ my play
Don’t try to push your luck, just get out of my way

‘Cause I’m back
Yes,… ♫

Four weeks with very little turn of the pedals and when I did, I had to spend an hour or two with ice on my calf muscle, elevated above my heart.  Every time I did even a mild spin, my leg and foot swelled to Big Trouble In Little China proportions.

I rode Saturday, 30 something miles with several friends, testing out the route for an upcoming taco ride (Rando de Taco).  We rode a real comfortable pace from taco stand to taco stand, rating the tacos and deciding if that taco stand was worthy to be on this year’s route.  Six riders having a blast.  Mir and Nate went out to the city for the evening, leaving me open to socialize some more, so I joined my taco riding friends for a brew at a craft brewery (Solemn Oath in Naperville, Illinois), then dinner.

It really wasn’t what I had in mind for a Saturday ride, but Friday night and Saturday morning was a consistent heavy rain.  Much to my chagrin, I could not ride singletrack.  I rode with friends instead.

Sunday was gorgeous — and over an hour on singletrack at 75% effort.  I nearly held my usual average of 12.3 mph for the ride, but I chose not to push it too hard.  My injured calf responded favorably, did not swell when the ride was finished.

I’m back in pad(ded shorts).

Down The Hatch or Down the Drano

Tags

family, friends, God, humor, life, memories, parenting, parents

This may be a story that I have told here before.  If I have and you remember it, sorry.  Good thing is that I tell this story a little differently each time, although the specific details are the same.

My mother was good about teaching my brothers and I to be responsible for ourselves.  We cleaned our own room, made our beds, cleaned our bathroom, washed our clothes (and folded them, put them away), vacuumed the rugs, picked up after ourselves.  I am the oldest of three boys and, once I reached an age where I was able to put gas in a push mower and negotiate our yard with the mower, care of the lawn became my job.  Dad still likes to mention that he never had to mow after I was 8 years old, except for when he just wanted to do it.  My brothers and I also were responsible for waking up in time for school, dressing ourselves, and getting ourselves either to the bus stop or walking to school.  That also meant that we prepared our own brown bag lunch.  Mom made sure there was bread and fixings, as well as chips or whatever else we needed — as long as we put in the request for what we needed for our lunches when she prepared her weekly grocery list.

Lunch got me in trouble.  The high school that I attended was fairly small, roughly 400 students for freshman through senior grade levels.  Our building consisted of two long hallways lined with lockers, with a commons area in between that opened into a courtyard.  Across the courtyard was the shop area where trade classes were taught, as well as the main gym and lunch room building.  My locker was located at the end of the long hallway, next to the main doors that led outside to the courtyard, the doors that many students took to and from the gym or lunch or shop class.  It was also next to the band room, the reason my locker was at the end, since I was a band student (trumpet players are the best kissers, as I have been told by more than one young lady).

My locker was in a perfect spot for those less than honest students, who were inclined to steal.  Three days in a row, my lunch was stolen out of my locker, a big deal to me since it was during track season.  I needed my nutrition for after school practices and meets.  For my lunch, I started keeping it with my band instrument in the band room — not always convenient as the band room often was locked for my lunch period.  My teen mind did not want to report the thefts to the school principal, the most logical thing to do.

So, one morning I decided that the solution would be to make two lunches — one that I would eat and one that was doctored.  In typical teen fashion, I was trying to work this out quickly and at the last minute before I had to leave for school, while I was making my lunch.  I spread one piece of bread with a thick layer of peanut butter, the other with an equally thick layer of grape jelly (Mom always lamented how fast we went through jars of peanut butter and grape jelly).  Hmmmmm… what else needed to go on the sandwich?

“Mom, do we have any ExLax?”  Mom furrowed her brows at me with an expression of mild confusion, an expression she gave to me frequently.  Funny thing is that she knew better than to ask why, which she should have done.  She just said no and carried on with her own task.

I took the task of finding a way to doctor that sandwich into my own hands, utilizing the do it yourself and take responsibility my mother had instilled in me.  What to use?  I searched the bathroom medicine cabinet, the logical place since maybe Mom had just forgotten about the ExLax.  None.  In the vanity under the bathroom sink, I found what seemed to be the solution.  I didn’t think about the solution being potentially criminal.  I just thought that the lunch perpetrators would see this substance and be deterred.  That should work, right?  I carried that can of crystal Drano (that’s drain cleaner) to the kitchen, poured a layer of the large blue crystals on top of the peanut butter, slopped some more peanut butter over the Drano, slapped the jelly laden slice of grape jelly on top, wrapped the PBDranoJ sandwich, and put it into a paper bag.

Voila.

I find out part of the result by third class period.  In between classes, I was slammed up against my locker by an angry Gary Ayers, a fellow senior who had discovered the benefits of weighlifting, one of the largest guys in the school.

“What did you put in your lunch?” he yelled, fists balled in a threat.

I know I was grinning.  “I have no idea what you are talking about, Gary.”

Gary’s girlfriend, Janet, had eaten my lunch before gym class, according to Gary’s story.

“How did she get my lunch?”  Once again, I know that there was a wide grin on my face.

Gary raised a large fist, intended to punch that grin off of my face.  Before he could deliver, a few of my friends stepped in between, allowing me to escape and get to class.  This would not be over, I knew, but at least the mayhem was delayed.  It wasn’t that I was afraid of Gary, but I didn’t want to be suspended from school for fighting.  There was only one track meet left in the season, it was my senior year and I did not want to miss that meet.

Fifth period.  Principal Bill Hinrichs appeared at the classroom door, motioned for me to join him out in the hall.  He was shaking his head with an expression that was between amusement and disbelief.  Mister Hinrichs was that type of person, a math teacher before becoming school principal, one of my favorite teachers.  I had done very well in his classes, had also done well a few years before when I played basketball for the team he assisted as coach.  As he escorted me to his office, he continued to shake his head every time he glanced at me.  When we arrived at his office, he offered me a seat across from his desk, next to the school nurse who was waiting for us.

He went straight to the point.  “Steve, what did you put on your sandwich?”

I looked him straight in the eye, told him exactly what was on the sandwich.

The school nurse gasped.  Mister Hinrichs simply rested his forehead on his hand while shaking his head some more and muttering Henrikson over and over.

Three girls stole my lunch on their way out the door to gym class.  They had a master key to the lockers, so they were able to get to it easily.  As they waited for roll call before gym class, they split the sandwich.  They didn’t see the crystal Drano.  I had done too good of a job concealing it in the thick layers of peanut butter and grape jelly.  They never had a chance to swallow their bite of sandwich, their mouths instantly foaming and slight burns on their tongues as they spit the sandwich out.

I am fortunate that I attended a small school where teachers and administrators had the chance to know their students and their families.  There was no police involved, just a school nurse gasping in shock and a relieved/amused/amazed school administrator.

“You do know, Steve, that this could have been much worse.”  Mister Hinrichs told me the names of the three girls, “Every one of those girls has a big boyfriend.  These girls stole your lunch, so essentially they got what they deserved but GEEEEEEEEZ couldn’t you have used something else?  ExLax maybe?”

Mister Hinrichs actually laughed when I calmly responded with the obvious answer — we didn’t have any ExLax.  I had checked.

“Really, I wouldn’t do anything to you at all since this was a case of theft, but I also don’t want a fight to deal with.  I have called your mom and she knows that you are coming home right now.  You are going to be suspended for three days.”

That meant I would miss the last regular season track meet.  That hurt, but I didn’t argue.  I knew I was lucky that was all that I was missing.

My parents responded in the same fair, reasonable, sensible manner that they always had when I got in trouble.  By my senior year of high school, they had a lot of experience.  They were both shocked, both relieved, both understood that I had luckily survived a very stupid event in my life.  They said that I would also be punished, basically was being grounded those two days of suspension.  My parents called up the parents of each girl, took me that evening to each of their houses, and I had to personally apologize to each girl.

There were a lot of events in my young life that I survived with little or no damage to my life or reputation.  Some might call that survival simple good fortune, some might call it an over qualified guardian angel, some might call it a God thing.  I call it being raised by two loving, common sense, committed parents who always have and will have my back — and that itself could be a God thing.  I have needed and always will need them.

 

It’s Never Easy

Tags

family, friends, life, memories, Nick, sheltie

This week, the world said good bye to a renowned book critic, a gifted evaluator known for his coveted Dookie award, last awarded to some guy who writes from some place in Oregon.  It is often said that the world could always use one less critic, but I disagree.  This one will be sorely missed.

Attempted humor aside, I am struggling to write down what I feel right now because it really did happen.  There really is one less canine book critic in this world.  Miriam and I took our loyal companion, Nick, to our veterinarian to have him euthanized.  That is a decision that is never easy, no matter how common it is and no matter if one has made the same decision for another family pet before.  Even though it has been obvious for months that our dog’s health had been rapidly declining, we put off the final decision until now.  A tumor on his lungs had caused his breathing to become labored as it grew.  Seizures, until recently reasonably controlled by medication, suddenly returned and took on new forms, affecting him in different ways, some seizures coming on gradually and gripping Nick with fear of what was about to happen to him.  Voracious hunger turned Nick into a senile pig who wanted to eat constantly, so much that he often laid next to his food bowl for long periods of time, licking it.  Often, he lost control of his bowels inside the house, a humiliation to our fastidious dog, a dog who never did his thing inside the house.  More often than not, Nick required our help to stand up.  Usually eager to greet everyone at the door, more often than not he wouldn’t stir from where he rested in the downstairs hall or dining room.  I found myself checking to see if he was breathing.  His mane was matted from seizure induced drool most of the time, a brushing required daily just to remove those mats.

Most telling was the dull look in his eyes, resignation that showed that life had become a struggle for him.

Nick was a dog who required a lot of affection, one of the characteristics that may have endeared him to me more than any other dog that we have had.  Our first dog, a welsh terrier, was.. a terrier.  Anyone who has lived with a terrier knows what I am talking about.  Terriers live more for themselves, affection doled out seemingly when it’s convenient for them, a singular mind that often borders stubborn defiance.  Shelties, which is Nick’s breed, live to please with a loyalty that I have yet to find elsewhere.  Nick lived on affection, our routine each day required several snuggles with his head against my chest, usually the first thing I did each day when I got home from work.  He also held steadfastly to his job of guarding the family, never leaving his upstairs post each morning until Miriam was out of bed and through with her shower.  Somehow, even with the difficulties of walking, he still managed to make it up the stairs for that duty each morning.  He also came to me for those snuggles, tried to get up on the couch with me.  I either helped him up on the couch or I sat on the floor with him.

Last weekend was bad for Nick.  That’s when the resigned look reappeared and stayed.  We knew it was time.  After some discussion on Sunday night, it was decided that Miriam would call our veterinarian the next morning about having Nick put to sleep, which she did.  I got a text from Miriam on Monday morning, asking when I was available on Tuesday.  Our appointment was for 9 AM on Tuesday.

Monday night was spent saying good byes.  Miriam caught me sobbing as I held Nick on the kitchen floor, Nick licking my hand in an attempt to comfort me.  I felt like calling off the appointment, try to find a way that we could make Nick’s life more comfortable.  But I knew it was time.  So did Nick.  The resignation came over me as well, filling me with the gratitude of being able to properly say good bye to my friend and companion, a gift from God for many years, his warmth something to be remembered for the rest of my life.

Tuesday morning came and it was time to take Nick to the vet.  After our cat, Chester, said his good byes, we carried Nick to my car, loaded him into the back seat, our tears flowing.  I turned on the radio as we pulled away from the house, hoping for a distraction but (I am not making this up), Elton John’s “Funeral For A Friend” was playing on the station.  I turned the radio off.

We have a very good vet, who greeted us at the door to escort us to the room where the injections would be administered.  Nancy made sure that we had as much time as we wanted with Nick.  She reminded us of what he was like when we first brought him into our home, a nervous pup who had been passed between two different households, and how he had changed into a confident dog who had been given a secure home and purpose.  Once again, she assured us that we were doing the right thing, confirming by listening to his heart and lungs that he was struggling to hang on.  She hugged Miriam several times, giving her the comfort that Miriam needed.  Then the vet took Nick away to add an injection port to his leg and to give him a sedative.  A few minutes later, she brought him back where I laid next to him as Miriam sat close by.  A pain killer shot was administered, which made Nick lower his chin to the floor cushion, then the lethal injection was given to him.  He barely gave a sigh as his heart and lungs ceased to function.  We said our final good byes and stood up to leave.  It was eerie to look at Nick one last time, his bicolored blue and brown eyes showing only the brown, lifeless.

It hasn’t been a week of tears, but boy does it seem different in our house, especially as Nick’s things have gone out to the garage.  There are times when I swear that I hear his nails clicking on the laminate in our hallway.  The last two nights, I have gone to the kitchen after 8 to get Nick’s pills ready, our normal routine.  When I finished my dinner, I put my plate on the ground, waiting for Nick to perform his dishwashing task.  It’s going to take a while to get used to not having him around.

Dogs are a great gift to their owners.  We all know that there is likely going to come the time when we have to say good bye to them, but we almost never are ready to do that.  I can honestly say that there was a lot of joy mixed with the sorrow of saying good bye this week, the joy of celebrating a true friend.

“Licky Nicky” always needs to communicate with me with a lick of the hand. The guy is so loving.

Patient Nick waits for the game to start.

De Muir

Tags

bicycle, friends, memories, mountain biking

Every moment spent on a bicycle is sublime.  It can be a bit like giving birth, I suppose, as much as I can imagine that feels like, in that it’s not the pain that you remember as much as the sheer joy of what the experience reveals to you.  What I take away from each and every ride will stay with me forever.

Thanks, Jim, for reminding me of that.  You’re pretty smart, for a roadie.

Yesterday was a nearly 30 mile day — 28.99 miles to be precise.  Singletrack.  Rocky, sandy, steep climbs, roots, twisty turns, screaming descents.  Through woods and meadow, groves of cedar.  The Kettle Moraine area of southern Wisconsin is exquisite.  A treat.  And barely two hours drive from my front door.  My third time riding there, it is now cemented on my ‘must do’ list every riding season.

My friend, Ben, sent me a message last Thursday — Kettle Saturday at 10 am?  Full monty.  Some faster riders will be there.

I already was thinking about going on my own.  Ben’s invite just helped me make up my mind — Of course.  I could go for that.  See you then!

And so I went.  Ben and I met his friends, Melissa and Scott, as well as Eric (his job is to drive Specialized demos from trail to trail for demo days), at the John Muir trailhead in Lagrange, Wisconsin.  The plan was to do the full monty, which means that we were going to ride both the John Muir trail system as well as the connector to the Emma Carlin trail system.  On my own, I would have no problem riding the 30 miles.  However, I did not know if I could hang with Ben’s group all day.  Melissa and Scott are racers, Melissa a former roadie turned mountain biker (when I asked her about riding road, she says she has no desire to go back to riding road — it’s too boring), and both skilled, fast riders.

I shouldn’t have been worried.  No one cared.  All we cared about was riding and riding in a beautiful place.  I hung on, but it was work for me, and the faster riders did nothing but encourage me all day, even complimented me as I conquered some fairly hairy rock gardens and a skinny with a tall drop.  When we stopped to catch our breath, it was a blast, the comraderie of riding bringing us together.  I was tired and at the mid way point felt like I didn’t have much left in my tank, but I pushed on and was glad that I did.  Had I stopped, I would have missed a lot, including the time spent winding down at the end of the ride, cold beer and the talk about what we had done that day.

Like when Ben and I were riding through the connector trail that wound through a meadow, surrounded by tall grass.  Ben was about 50 yards ahead of me when I saw his red helmet disappear into the weeds.  The trail was deep with fine sand as it took a sharp turn, Ben’s front wheel digging in and throwing him into the tall grass.

That reminds me, I need to look up what those little prairie dog like animals were in the field next to the parking lot.  They popped out of their holes and stood up to check out the surroundings, all together.

Here’s a selfie taken by Melissa somewhere around the 20 mile mark, when we stopped to cool off and take in the view from an overlook.  I am the guy in the orange with the blue/white head sweat.  Melissa kicks butt — she was up front all day.  Scott was right on her tail the whole time.  They both are such good riders, I felt a bit out of place, but you might be able to tell from the picture that I fit right in.

 

Hog Wallow Friends and other stories

Tags

bicycle, friends, life, mountain biking

As far as I know, there is not a novel with the title of Hog Wallow Friends.  If there is, I bet it stinks.

Ha!  Ha ha ha!

Hog Wallow Friends might be the best title for the story of my July, at least so far.  Friday afternoon, my boss decided that we both were taking a half day vacation.  So at noon, I was gone, a flash out the door before he could change his mind.  I zipped home, changed into my cycling clothes, and loaded the mountain bike up on my VW for a trip to a Chicagoland mountain bike that I don’t visit as much as I would like to — Palos forest preserve.  I was on the trail by 1:30.

The trails at Palos don’t dry fast, one of the reasons I don’t go there often, but the trails were dry and in great shape.  Palos, however, always has a few large spots on a few trails that hold water, a perpetual mud pit.  One of the first connectors that I took, a trail called Hickory Smoke as it runs through a grove of Hickory, as well as being a fairly fast trail.  At one point on that trail, there is a sharp bend around a large Hickory, a spot where quite a few large roots cross the entire trail.  In between those roots, the water collects, turning the trail into a mud bog.  I crossed the roots close to the tree, a bit precarious as the roots close to the tree are large and, to ride that close to the tree, you have to be comfortable leaning a bit away from the tree as you ride over the roots.  That ended up being the best line, with no issue as I rolled over the roots.

Remember those roots and the mud that exists between them.

Palos has a lot of trail with a lot of climbing, a different ride that the constant little 10-20 feet up and down trails that I normally ride.  It’s a workout.  I rode a good 2 hours or more, returned to the parking lot with a pleasant fatigue, stripped my sweat soaked shirt off and perched underneath the opened hatch of my car to recover with a bottle of water.

“Steeeeeevvvvvvvve!!!!  Is that you?”  It was my friend, Gina, someone I met last year on a group bike path ride, then again as part of the group I rode with during a ride called Rando de Taco.  Gina rolled to a stop in front of me, a big smile on her face, happy to see me.  Likewise.  I enjoyed the rides last year, Gina and her boyfriend Glenn instantly becoming friends.

“Did you just finish a ride?  If you want to ride some more, we have a group ride starting up in a few minutes.”  I might have declined, but I felt like I still had something left in the Steve tank.  Besides, I have never seen Gina ride dirt singletrack.  The two rides I did with her last year were flat path rides and not on mountain bikes.  Rumor was that Gina was a very fast and gifted mountain biker, a former racer who had quite a bit of success.  She is petite and fiercely competitive, a consistently fast rider who led our group on both rides I had been on with her, latching onto my back wheel or riding next to me when either of us were not pulling the group.  I had to see her ride dirt.

So I put my shirt and shoes back on, jumped back on my bike.  The ride was a coed ride, promised to be a medium paced ride.  All except Gina were people I didn’t know — Price, Steve, Chrisrine, Nancy, Don.  As seems to be the case when a bike is involved, three hours later I would have five new friends.

We rolled out onto the connector trail that I had started on a few hours earlier, Hickory Smoke.  The first section went quickly, with Price and Gina leading out, and with me right on their tail.  We stopped for the rest of the group, then Gina encouraged me to lead out.  I did just that.

Remember that I said that Gina is fiercely competitive.  I intentionally lead out fast, hoping to shake her off of my tail, but failing at that.  Quickly, we were out ahead of everyone but Price.

That is until we came to that bend around the tree with the roots and mud.  I took the same line, cleared the roots even faster than I had before.  After I cleared those roots, a few seconds later I heard a loud “Argggggghhhh!” followed by a splash.  Gina had leaned too far over as she crossed that roots, tried to put her foot down to steady her but found out it was too far down to the ground.

Gina was very personally acquainted with the hog wallow-like mud between the roots, covered from head to toe with thick mud as she fell in.  Following the splash was loud laughter as the riders behind witnessed the dirty debacle.

Pictures were not allowed, at least not until Gina was able to take a quick dip in a close by lake.  But her mishap had really created a loose atmosphere amongst the group, not that we were all that serious to begin with.  The pace slowed, the competitive fire reduced to a glowing ember, replaced by conversation.   Before I knew it, several hours had passed and I was near toast.

And that is when the competitive fire returned.  The slower riders in the group decided to finish up, leaving the faster riders — Price, Gina and myself (sort of) — to ride a little more at a faster pace.  They gave us a challenge to ride a three mile loop instead of the one mile connector they would take back to the parking lot, see if we could beat them back to the parking lot.  I was toast, but no way was I going to do the one mile connector.

I should have just admitted it.  I was buttered and spread with jam with about a mile left on that loop.  Price and Gina ended up slowing their pace to help bring me in.  I rode nearly 6 hours of single track that day, though.

We all finished up with a brew at the Imperial Oak, then I headed home to pick up Nate for a late night movie.  I still had a little left in the Steve tank, I guess.

Price invited me back to Palos for a early morning July 4 guys ride.  I made some new friends — Price, Dean, Neal, as well as getting to ride singletrack with Glenn (Gina’s boy friend).  I was invited to ride with Price and a few others the next evening, with a promise that I could try out Price’s fat tire bike on that ride.  We ended up at the Imperial Oak after the Tuesday evening spin, a mistake for me as I ended up staying out way too late!

So there you have it.  I am so glad that summer is back and the trails are ready to ride again!

A Drop In The Bucket

Tags

bicycle, friends, mountain biking

Bucket list items do not need to be exotic, expensive, unattainable, unrepeatable, nor do you have to wait until you are dying to do it.  Many things that could be bucket list items are just something that you want to try, at least once.

Ray’s Indoor Mountain Bike Park is a place I wanted to visit at least once.  I did that today.  Most likely, I will go back again and make it a yearly trip.

Especially when I have gung ho let’s-do-it friends like my friend Jon.  If it’s bike related, he wants to do it.  Mention it and he’s on it.  Earlier this winter, I suggested to friends that we needed to make the short trek to Milwaukee to ride at Ray’s.  Jon said “name a day”.  So today was the day.  We played hooky from work, took advantage of visiting the place during a week day, which gave us the run of the place without a crowd.

The place is crazy — 120,000 square feet of pure fun and all indoors.  There are two tiers of riding “trails” in the park with banked wood curves, jump tracks for both beginners and expert level, pump tracks, skills areas with skinny obstacles and teeter totters, a skate park style area, and a cross country trail that traces that outside of the upper and lower levels of the park.  Ray’s day pass for first time visitors is relatively inexpensive, a pass that includes bike rental, with three choices of bike styles.  The most popular bike is a bike that looks like a mountain bike and BMX bike got together to have a child, with a lowered seat and smooth fat tires.  The bikes have platform pedals, better for the style of riding in the park, and the placement of the seat means that the bike is pedaled while standing up. The bike is single speed without gears and equipped with disc brakes. It takes some getting used to, but after a short time of riding Ray’s, it makes sense.

I had to learn to lean into the steep bank turns.  If you go into a banked turn with the bike straight up, bike and rider simply slide down to the bottom of the turn.  After learning to lean the bike, something that doesn’t feel natural at first, I could not get enough of the banked turns.

Also a tremendous amount of fun were the jumps.  They are numerous, found all over the park.  I usually catch air pretty easily when riding dirt trails outside on my dual suspension XC mountain bike, but I had to learn how to properly pop the front wheel and then the back wheel up in order to catch air on the strange bike that I rented.

Catching air got me in trouble.  John and I rode a little over four hours this afternoon and we were beat, especially since we had been riding standing up that whole four hours.  It takes a strong core, something I need to work on.  We decided to take one last trip around the park before heading back to Chicagoland.  That last trip around the park culminated at the last section of four jumps.  We flew around the park, exhausted but giving everything we had left for energy, and hit that last section of jumps absolutely flying — literally.  Unfortunately, I hit the second jump very fast and off balance, flying sideways in the air and too close to the next jump.  I landed with the front wheel sideways and was thrown over the handlebars, hit the ground hard with my chest taking the majority of the blow.

I picked myself off of the ground immediately, the breath knocked out of me.  I sat down to assess the damage and saw a knot the size of two golf balls forming high on the shin of my left leg.  My right elbow had a nasty looking scrape and my rib cage was already starting to ache.

Oops.

But I still had a smile on my face.  I had a blast.  I dusted myself off, turned the handlebar around since the impact had twisted it around and pedaled back to the rental counter.  John greeted me there, a huge satisfied grin on his face.

We have to do this again.

The drive back home took two and a half hours, traffic getting out of Milwaukee a bit troublesome, then slow once we hit the Chicago area.  Our wounds of the day caught up with us, both of us groaning like two old men as we each got out of John’s van to unload my stuff.  War wounds.  Badges of honor.  Reminders of perhaps my favorite day so far this year.  It can only get better.

A New Year’s Day Tradition

Tags

bicycling, friends, mountain biking in the snow

To the casual observer, riding a bicycle through the ice and snow in 21 degree weather might just be one of those activities reserved for extreme nutcases.  Yours truly does indeed qualify for that category. 

Today was January 1, 2014 and it means one thing for my friends and I — a bicycle ride.  Usually we have a big crowd, a group of at least twenty riders, but today it was just the basket cases that showed.  You are looking at possibly two of my best friends from the year 2013, our bond forged by our love for mountain biking.  Jim, the guy in the yellow, has been a friend for many years.  Jon was a new acquaintance in 2013.  These guys are great, worth the effort to get out for a ride on a day like today.

We didn’t freeze, although it had snowed all night and the trails had a thick layer of ice and frozen footprints or ruts in many places.  It was a challenge to stay upright during the two and a half hours we rode.  But we made it, smiles like the one in the picture frozen on our faces the entire time.  That selfie was taken in the middle of our ride, so it should speak volumes about what a good time that ride was.

One thing I found myself wishing for, besides better studded tires for my mountain bike (I purchased a used set of Nokkian Hakka 300 studded tires online yesterday), is one of those new snow bikes.  They are bikes with huge tires, made for riding in the snow.  We saw several riders on snow bikes today, rolling effortlessly along.  I laugh at those bikes during the summer, not so much today.  If I had plenty of play money, one of those snow bikes would be mine.  Alas, play money is not one of my blessings.

Thank goodness one of my blessings is friends, ones who ride bicycles!

C versus O — Not a Sesame Street blog

Tags

challenges, family, friends, life, parents

Dang, is that my hand in the picture?  It looks like Thing from the Addams Family is feeding me my hamburger.  Oddly enough, my Dad and I were having one of those discussions this morning that only guys can have, about how hands are what truly give a person’s age away.  I say that as I sit in a McDonalds outside of Peoria, Illinois with an elderly lately sitting a few booths away from me, facing me while reading her newspaper with a magnifying glass.  She looks like her face is nothing but nose.

This was my weekend.  MY weekend.   Me, mine, MY weekend.

Sort of.  Selfishly, as should be fairly obvious by that last miniature paragraph, I chose to look at it that way.  I was escaping to a place where I could just be with me, with a few people to share my me time, without the burden of job or kids or spouse.  That is why it was me time, not really so selfish, probably a time that will be very healthy for me.  A few weeks ago, while chatting with a friend of mine, she encouraged me to come down to see my parents and take in a football game at my alma mater with her and some friends.  Rather than frown and say “naaaaa, it will never happen”, I looked at my calendar and at our family activity calendar, discovered it was very doable, and said yeah sure why not that sounds like a good idea I can’t wait you may regret this.  Except that friend is one of those “what’s stopping you?” types, so I doubt she regrets it.

So, I put in for last Friday as a vacation day, found a $10 a day weekend rental car, looked up places to ride a mountain bike along the way, warned my parents I was invading their space for the weekend.

If you have read my last few blogs, you know a little about how I am choosing to look at life right now.  I’m not hitting the curve very well, if at all, not sure if I am even seeing the ball.  There is a lot of whiffing going on.  At the moment, that’s closer to true than I should admit.  I just got off the trail after a few hours on my mountain bike, trails with several water crossings, lots of opportunity to put on the stink.

Weekends like this should provide opportunity for soul searching, come to Jesus, reality forehead whacking, epiphanies.  Driving away from parents’ house early this afternoon, I was still waiting for that to happen.  Dad was driving ahead of me, glad to have the opportunity alone with me for the final time this weekend, leading the way to the restaurant off of I-55 outside of Lincoln, Illinois that we had chosen.  Dad had suggested the restaurant for one reason and made the suggestion with the stern, wrinkled bald forehead look that I have grown to like over the years.

Son, you don’t need to rush home.  Let’s have lunch and then you go ride those trails you rode on the way here last Friday.  It will be good for you.  You had a big smile on your face when you got here Friday, albeit a dirty face.

I had to chuckle at that last stern comment.  He was right.  The singletrack dirt trails I had taken my bike over on the way to my parents’ house had been a hoot.  They were new to me, peaceful and rolling in some places, just enough challenges to make them worth the side trip.  There were trails that skirted the side of dirt gullies and ridges, a challenge for someone who fears heights like I do.  One trail had an obstacle, or should I say challenge, or should say challenging obstacle, that had kicked my butt.  I wanted to go back to show it who was boss.

Challenges.  Obstacles.

I stood over my bicycle at the top of the deep drop into a gully that emerged steeply up a rocky trail on the other side.  This had been my challenging obstacle on Friday, although I had taken the opposite direction on the trail as I had the other day, knowing where that section of trail was at and thinking that I might have more of a fighting chance if I approached that drop from a different angle.  While it did indeed seem less daunting from the opposite side of the gully, I frowned at the large tree on the left of the trail and a few feet from where the trail dropped straight down.  To the right of the tree was a large root that would either launch my bicycle or my body into the air.  There was only a tiny line I could take, with little time to negotiate that line due to the speed that would send me careening downwards. 

Ugh.

Obstacle.  This challenge was becoming just that.  No longer was I thinking that I could do this.  My fear was turning a challenging obstacle into an obstacle. 

Two riders approached that gully from the other side of the trail.  I moved to the side to watch them.  I heard the lead rider tell his buddy that the tough part of the trail was over after this.  They hopped the log at the top, dropped in, and greeted my with large grins as they passed by with thank yous for my courtesy.  My fear was not apparent to them.    Those riders didn’t know that I had approached that gully three times already and turned back.  I knew my experience should get me through that challenge, but something else made me fear the pain, the hurt, what might be waiting on the other side.  I might not make it.

This is it.  You have to do this, Steve.

I came into this weekend already aware of the challenges and obstacles I would witness.  It would be my choice to confront them, my reaction also my choice.  A sick mother.  A father struggling with how to deal with her pain and the prison that caring for a wife in constant pain had become to him.  Two people I love dealing with perhaps the biggest challenge of this part of their life (raising me should be considered a separate part — because that was a challenge), experiencing pain I am ill equipped to handle.  They both are aware of the demons in my own life I am wrestling with, both wanting to soothe the pain I am dealing with.  Added to that was knowing that I would be seeing an “old” friend who herself was struggling with some challenges, her encouragement for me to visit partly issued to me out of a need to help me address my own demons.  I think she got a little more than she bargained for, had me witness a bit more of her own challenges than she had planned.  She handled the challenges admirably, an attitude that showed a strength.  Pretty cool.  And that kid helped me to keep my head up, our time together really very brief, but good in a way that gave me a perspective and strength that I was able to draw on.

She’s going to barf when she reads that.

Mom was in a lot of pain and discomfort when I got to the house on Friday.  She and Dad had just gotten home from a therapy appointment for the knee she had replaced.  I walked through the door as Mom laid in her bed, retching into a bucket, her face ashen as she turned from that bucket to greet me.   At the moment, she was not ready to see me.  She took a pill to help with the nausea, forced herself to come to her chair in the living room to say hello to me, her face turning from a grimace to a smile as we began to talk.

How was your trip, Steve?  From the look of all that dirt you are wearing, it looks like you had a good time.

“Yeah, Mom.  Taking all day to make a two and a half hour trip was good for me.”

You look good, son. 

She always says that.  I look good.  I am the boy who takes care of himself, who rides bicycles and plays ball and golf and does all kinds of stuff she is proud of.  Mom needed to see me.  Mom has been fighting with nausea and pain since June 7.  Seeing her son was what Dad and I hoped she needs to turn that corner.

Mom didn’t have much strength, but she was buoyed enough that the color came back to her face.  We had dinner together, Dad told me I had better get going to that football game, Mom excused herself to go back to bed.

I went to that football game.  Spent some time with that “old” friend, listened to the stories we have to share.  She bought the beer.  It probably should have been strange sharing beer with a friend who had been a high school girl when most of our memories had been made together.  It wasn’t.  Same girl, just better, down to earth and real.  I had the thought, especially as I listened to her tell how God had put people in her life for a reason, that maybe just maybe that little bit of spark of encouragement was the reason we had touched base again.

And maybe it was so I could hear “what’s stopping you?” from her again.  She has overcome that obstacle, seems to be looking at challenges rather than obstacles again.

I thought about that as I stood over my bike at the top of the gully a few hours ago.  If I don’t do this, maybe it says something about how I am letting challenges in my life become obstacles.

Dad bowed his head at the table this afternoon, his hand over his forehead to hide his eyes.  When he turned to look at me his eyes were wet with tears.

Steve, I don’t know how much longer I can take this.  I can’t leave your Mom for any amount of time.  It’s not that she won’t let me.  I just can’t do it.  And it is so hard to see her in so much pain.  Is she going to be like this until she finally dies?  Is this in her head?  It has been so long.  So long.  And I don’t know the answer.  You saw her yesterday.  She thinks she is going to die.   She says she wants to die.

I only told him what I know.  You have to fight through this, Dad.  Take the time away that you need.  She is not going to die.  You know that.  Making yourself miserable is not going to help her pain, not stop her pain.

Yesterday afternoon I came back to my parents’ house after spending some time playing tennis with that “old” friend to find my Dad bent over in a chair at the foot of Mom’s bed as she wept and cried and wailed in pain, her pain out of control, an almost insane look in her eyes.  I witnessed what Dad had been telling me about.  It was terrible to watch not only my mother, but my father as he watched her helplessly.  I sat at the foot of her bed, consoling them both, telling them this was only going to be temporary, that she is going to turn that corner soon.  Their sheltie puppy curled up in my lap as I sat there, providing both parents a moment to forget about the pain that had enveloped the room moments before.  That puppy adopted me this weekend, a playmate that she adored like a child who is waiting for someone to give them their undivided attention.  My parents loved seeing that.

But I saw the pain.  I did not want to see that.  It was an obstacle that was growing so big that the challenge was diminishing to acceptance.

I dodged the tree, jumped the root on the right, hit the bottom of the gully and shot over the rocks on the other side.  I kicked that gully’s butt.  For the rest of the ride, I got dirtier than ever before, nothing looking as big as that challenging obstacle I had feared on the trail behind me.

Now to get and that car for the two hour drive home.

 

 

Good Bye My Banana Friend

Tags

bananas, friends, retirement

Last week my friend and coworker, Joan, retired.  Over the past 24 years, Joan and I have spent a lot of time in close proximity to each other, with Joan our sales file room clerk and I the most esteemed salesman our company employs.  Don’t believe me?  Just ask me.

Joan is one of the most humble people I have met, unassuming, with the simple values of someone who has lived a quiet life.  She lives close to work, close enough to walk to work when she needed to.  While her husband was alive, he drove a small bus and often would take her to and from work.  A frugal saver, her clothing has always been a uniform of stretch pants and a button down collared smock, clean and pressed every day, her short hair military neat, certainly habits developed during her years in the Army.  She drove the same small car almost all of the twenty four years I have known her.  When her husband died a few years ago, she indulged a bit to purchase a new Toyota RAV4.. and she paid cash.  A visit to her small two bedroom ranch home, something I have done a few times with our friend Frank while we helped remodel her bathroom, revealed the same simple and neat lifestyle.

Joan is a strong woman.  Intelligent and inquisitive, yet happy to work the file room job for many years.

I could always count on Joan to bring me some calm on those days when work’s stress was getting the best of me.  A quick stroll to the file room found Joan, eager to share stories about one of our favorite topics — our animals, especially our cats, and our kids.  She always wanted to know what book or books I was reading, liked to chime in on conversations that always seemed to happen in the semi private atmosphere the file room provides.

She still loves to tell the story of the year, soon after Joan had extensive foot surgery, our friend Frank and I escorted Joan up to the front of the banquet hall at the company recognition dinner as she received an attendance award and bonus.  To this day, Joan calls us her male escorts.  When she says that, she lets out an embarrassed laugh and turns beet red, something that I adore about her.  Every chance I get, I try to get her laughing so hard that she turns red and gets choked up.  It seems to be my gift to accomplish that with a lot of people.

It was my honor to be invited to her retirement luncheon yesterday.  Our company limits the number of people who can be invited, so it’s a great deal to receive an invitation.  Her family was there, sharing the steak catered by the local Weber Grill restaurant, listening to the stories we shared about Joan.

Our friend, Jenn, stood up to share about how wonderful it is to watch Joan laugh, describing how Joan gets so amused she turns red and can barely breath.  Jenn shared about the afternoon breaks that we used to share as part of ‘Joan’s Gang’, how we used to get Joan laughing during those times.

I had to interject, seizing the opportunity to start Joan on one of her laughing fits.

“Remember the banana incident?”  Jenn slapped her forehead as Joan immediately started turning red, laughing so hard that she had take remove her glasses to wipe away the tears.  I didn’t go into details and didn’t need to.  The banana incident is exactly what any dirty minded individual would imagine it is.  I will leave the details to your imagination, as a matter of fact.  Let’s just say that Jenn and I had Joan laughing so hard that afternoon that the paramedics almost had to be called.. and we got a bit of an insight into the dirty details that sometimes lurk in a 70 year old simple woman’s mind!

Joan is retiring at the perfect time.  Our office is going paperless with most of the file job turning into a scanning job instead, that also going away soon enough.  In a few short weeks, our company is moving into a much larger building, no longer close enough for Joan to walk to work.  It was time.

Her replacement is some young chick who is obsessed with her appearance, wears hooker heels to work every day, and has zero personality.  I don’t go to the file room much any more, don’t hang out there when I do.  I am going to miss Joan.

I hugged her, complimented her family, and said goodbye as Joan took her last stroll out of the doors of our building.

It was nice to know her.  And it’s also nice to have a new taunt for our friend Jenn.

BANANA!  That’s all I have to say.