So I cast off into the land of dreams the other night, a warm spring breeze blowing through my window and the merry tones of the dying party at the house next door. I note the pleasant soreness in my legs from the day’s hammer fest and sink them lower into the welcoming tender embrace of my memory foam mattress. I slowly sever my ties with the waking world in excited anticipation of the nocturnal picture show featuring me as hero, heart breaker, and hardcore bad ass. Even those dreams not featuring me as a larger than life protagonist will normally take on themes so utterly bizarre that they’re nearly incomprehensible by the waking mind. I mean, who hasn’t joined a biker gang whose weekend past times involves drinking bourbon from the bottle and watching winged golden retrievers play soccer outside the back window of their favorite watering hole?
I woke up the next morning to the scent of brewing coffee and the sizzle of eggs. As sat up and began to catalogue my night’s cognitive adventures I realized, much to my shock, there were none. I had had one dream, and one dream alone. I dreamed that I had bought a ’09 SRAM Rival gruppo to replace the ’08 Ultegra gruppo currently on my Madone. Then (and this is where the dream really takes on life) I was met with the decision of whether or not to sell the Ultegra gruppo on eBay, or to initiate a new build. I ultimately decided to purchase a Pedal Force RS2 frame and build it up as a crit bike. That was it. That was my dream. The dream theatre normally showcasing flicks about shagging super models and taking out opposing factions with effortless judo chops was now showing instructional reels on making prudent recreational purchases. What’s next, a friggin’ feature film on baking an apple pie? I feel that I may have achieved an all-time low where my dream life is commensurate, and may soon surpass, my real life’s degree of regularity.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Saga Continues...
So the saga continues on my local MUP. Yesterday I was riding home from work which brings me around the back half of the loop so elegantly portrayed in my previous post. Unfortunately my map fails to capture the level of detail necessary to demonstrate the fact that there is a small climb present on the loop that finishes on a blind right hand corner obscured by dense brush. I like to hammer up this particular climb as it’s a waste to drop into the smaller ring, not to mention its just plain fun. As I am rounding this corner I almost run head on into a teenage girl of pretty generous carriage. I pull a death defying maneuver and avoid creaming her by a margin perceptible to only those with the keenest of vision. I mutter a curse under my breath which, much to my chagrin, was audible to the girl’s father now only 10 or so feet behind me. He unleashed a maelstrom of insults upon me, a mistake I am sure he later regretted. With this week’s prior events and an already ill disposition towards these bumbling peds, his words served to whip up a tempest within our dear and humble narrator’s psyche the likes of which no online venting could ever serve to quell.
What ensued was a akin to a sermon delivered from up on high. I quickly wheeled my bike back around and begin to animatedly explain the dynamics of the bike path, and how utterly both he and his daughter had failed to adhere to them. Much to my surprise, I must have located the one ped whose brain hadn’t been reduced to a thin sauce as a result of their primitively jarring and rattling means of locomotion. He began to see the wisdom in my words (believe me, this is a very rare experience in any arena of my life) and even went to the extent of apologizing for trespassing upon us cyclists’ hallowed ground. Content from having done my part to cast a little light into the darkest corners of the pedestrians’ collective store of knowledge, I wheeled off basking in the cool afternoon sun and my own ego stroking.
What ensued was a akin to a sermon delivered from up on high. I quickly wheeled my bike back around and begin to animatedly explain the dynamics of the bike path, and how utterly both he and his daughter had failed to adhere to them. Much to my surprise, I must have located the one ped whose brain hadn’t been reduced to a thin sauce as a result of their primitively jarring and rattling means of locomotion. He began to see the wisdom in my words (believe me, this is a very rare experience in any arena of my life) and even went to the extent of apologizing for trespassing upon us cyclists’ hallowed ground. Content from having done my part to cast a little light into the darkest corners of the pedestrians’ collective store of knowledge, I wheeled off basking in the cool afternoon sun and my own ego stroking.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
LOOK, dog!
Each day on my 12 mile commute to work, I travel over about 2 miles of a local MUP that bisects the angle of the two main roads that lead to my destination (see professionally rendered map below). These 2 miles are always hopelessly rife with frustration and hand wringing as I struggle to cope with the rambling mass of brain dead peds. The MUP, about 10 feet wide, is (in theory, not in practice) pretty well laid out and includes a dedicated uni-directional bike lane that takes up about a third of its total width. Each morning I ride the lane in the correct direction and do my best to keep as far over as possible. Each morning it never fails that some hoard of middle aged women, pony tails swinging side to side in sync with their wagging hips and flapping gums, trot four abreast in the bike lane leaving the ped path void of traffic. Each morning I give a friendly but loud “on your right” to alert them to the fact they’re encroaching on cyclist turf and, every morning, these same pony-tailed adorned skulls come whipping around bearing a look on their face like they’ve just caught me sodomizing their 11 year old. On those really special occasions I am met with a heart-filled “ahole!” or an alarmed “Jebus Christ!”, to which I merrily respond “it’s a bike lane, dipshit!”.
A new phenomenon has been introduced to the bike path as of late in that there seems to be a preponderance of peds accompanied by their canine pals. Now don’t get me wrong, I love dogs and, as a dog lover, I feel it’s a responsible owner’s duty to ensure their dog doesn’t pose a safety risk to itself or others. Besides the mild frustration of having to dodge our furry friends’ ‘leavings’ whose less fastidious owner’s couldn’t be bothered to collect, I have now become accustomed to dodging the beasts themselves as they range, unleashed, into two-wheeled territory. I handle their owners much like I handle any other imbecile ped and deliver a friendly “there’s leash laws for a reason, asspipe!”. Unfortunately, however, it would appear that my wisdom has went unheeded as is apparent in the episode in which I was involved in on this particular morning.
I was coasting towards the exit of my beloved MUP, breathing a sigh of relief at having survived yet another morning of assured peril when all of a sudden a ped and his dog appear from around the corner. I quickly realize that this particular German Sheppard was moving towards me at an astonishing rate, unbound by any sort of tether. Even more quickly I realize that this dog had every intention of gnawing on our narrator’s god-like pistons. As its jaws almost inevitably locked around my leg I was able to unclip and deliver a swift and authoritative shove to its right shoulder with my foot. Instantly confronted by a feeling of pity for what I had to do to this poor animal as a result of its owner’s negligence, I shout at the offending ignoramus that he better get his shti in order lest his companion someday engage a less sympathetic soul. The guy saunters off clearly embarrassed, so much so that he fails to even respond.
As my local MUP’s judicature, I feel personal responsibility for the enlightenment of my dull witted fellow users. It would seem, however, that despite my best efforts I’m clearly just not getting through to them.
A new phenomenon has been introduced to the bike path as of late in that there seems to be a preponderance of peds accompanied by their canine pals. Now don’t get me wrong, I love dogs and, as a dog lover, I feel it’s a responsible owner’s duty to ensure their dog doesn’t pose a safety risk to itself or others. Besides the mild frustration of having to dodge our furry friends’ ‘leavings’ whose less fastidious owner’s couldn’t be bothered to collect, I have now become accustomed to dodging the beasts themselves as they range, unleashed, into two-wheeled territory. I handle their owners much like I handle any other imbecile ped and deliver a friendly “there’s leash laws for a reason, asspipe!”. Unfortunately, however, it would appear that my wisdom has went unheeded as is apparent in the episode in which I was involved in on this particular morning.
I was coasting towards the exit of my beloved MUP, breathing a sigh of relief at having survived yet another morning of assured peril when all of a sudden a ped and his dog appear from around the corner. I quickly realize that this particular German Sheppard was moving towards me at an astonishing rate, unbound by any sort of tether. Even more quickly I realize that this dog had every intention of gnawing on our narrator’s god-like pistons. As its jaws almost inevitably locked around my leg I was able to unclip and deliver a swift and authoritative shove to its right shoulder with my foot. Instantly confronted by a feeling of pity for what I had to do to this poor animal as a result of its owner’s negligence, I shout at the offending ignoramus that he better get his shti in order lest his companion someday engage a less sympathetic soul. The guy saunters off clearly embarrassed, so much so that he fails to even respond.
As my local MUP’s judicature, I feel personal responsibility for the enlightenment of my dull witted fellow users. It would seem, however, that despite my best efforts I’m clearly just not getting through to them.
Friday, April 3, 2009
On Getting Dropped by a Fred
The sport of road biking is inherently a dorky one and, as such, its divided into varying degrees of dorkiness. The racers are the cool guys, and the dudes & dudettes with all sorts of knick knacks bolted to their bikes and sporting white cotton gym socks are referred to as “Freds”. Freds are routinely teased but the cycling community is a close one, so its all in good fun. A road racer’s pride can suffer a small degree of bruising when being passed by one of these Freds, which is exactly what happened to Corey and I yesterday. I wrote a short little blurb about it on a forum I subscribe to, and I thought I’d share:
So I met my buddy on my afternoon commute yesterday and we decided that a 40 mile loop on such a beautiful day would be just the thing for loosening up sore legs after the previous day’s intervals. We’re tooling along soaking up the rays when we hear a whooping “How yaaa doin’?!?!” on our left. Overtaking us is this bike covered with more gadgets than I could even assess with a single glance, piloted by a rider clad in knee high red wool socks, a helmet from 1976, and a long salt and pepper beard blowing horizontally across his face. He drops in ahead of us so fast that I looked down to make sure I hadn’t flatted.
As I see him become smaller and smaller on the road ahead of us, his t-shirt fluttering madly in the wind, I smiled to myself and took pleasure in sharing the joys of such a wonderful pastime.
So I met my buddy on my afternoon commute yesterday and we decided that a 40 mile loop on such a beautiful day would be just the thing for loosening up sore legs after the previous day’s intervals. We’re tooling along soaking up the rays when we hear a whooping “How yaaa doin’?!?!” on our left. Overtaking us is this bike covered with more gadgets than I could even assess with a single glance, piloted by a rider clad in knee high red wool socks, a helmet from 1976, and a long salt and pepper beard blowing horizontally across his face. He drops in ahead of us so fast that I looked down to make sure I hadn’t flatted.
As I see him become smaller and smaller on the road ahead of us, his t-shirt fluttering madly in the wind, I smiled to myself and took pleasure in sharing the joys of such a wonderful pastime.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Edward Abbey's Benediction
I've always enjoyed this particular passage by Edward Abbey, and so I thought this would be an appropriate medium with which to share it:
"Benedicto: May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds. May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets' towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you—beyond the next turning of the canyon walls."
Abbey, for those of you who don't know, was a strong champion for the preservation of the wilds of the Southwest and a true lover of its intimate secrets. For a quick, but great read, I'd suggest checking out "Desert Solitaire", although you're bound to enjoy any of his other works just as greatly.
"Benedicto: May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds. May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets' towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you—beyond the next turning of the canyon walls."
Abbey, for those of you who don't know, was a strong champion for the preservation of the wilds of the Southwest and a true lover of its intimate secrets. For a quick, but great read, I'd suggest checking out "Desert Solitaire", although you're bound to enjoy any of his other works just as greatly.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
4000 Mechanicals: A Look Back at the '08 Cycling Season
I never thought it possible, but ESPN8, the Ocho, has put together highlights from Corey, Tristan, and my 2008 road biking season. What follows is a transcript:
Hi there folks, and welcome to highlights from Dan, Corey, and Tristan’s 2008 road biking season. I’ve got to warn all you viewers at home, though, there’s a disturbingly large number of mechanicals to follow –
The season is off to a slow start with just Dan and Corey muddling about the streets of
Hartford County, but wait, what’s this? Tristan, off on a holiday from school, pulls up from the rear and joins the peloton. The peloton has found their rhythm and is moving along at an astonishing clip but….wait! What’s this? We don’t have confirmation yet but it appears that Tristan’s chain has literally snapped in two as he began up a short and shallow climb! It would appear that the team has stopped and is repairing the chain. But no, wait, I’m sorry, Corey is off again and has left the team to their own devices! The Euros would be proud to have such a esteemed rider amongst their ranks.
Okay then, Tristan is back up and running and the peloton has regrouped, but wait, what’s it this time? It appears that Tristan’s chain has snapped yet again! My god, can this really be happening? However, it’d appear that the chain is now fixed and the peloton is back on the move. They’re now enroute from the rolling hills of Hartford county to the steeps of Litchfield in, what appears to be, pursuit of a festival. Yes, that’s right ladies and gentleman, we’ve just received confirmation that they will attending a wine tasting upon beautiful Lake Waramoug. This affords us the rare privilege to see these men off their bikes and enjoying themselves. Look at those Herculean legs!
Alright, they’re back on their bikes and on one of their signature training rides that start off on perilous Route 189. Corey and Dan pull ahead and are cruising towards the next traffic light and, wait, it looks like they’re being confronted by a balloon-tired hick-mobile! The truck has raced ahead of the two, swerving to the right and has completely blocked their progress! This doesn’t bode well folks because, as you will see from the season highlights, this is just one of many encounters they will be having with motorists. It appears that everything clears up, and they’re back on the move.
It looks like they’ve now added Art to their peloton and are pumping their way through New Hartford, in the midst of 100-miler…but what’s THAT?!?! A bear! That’s right folks, a black bear has just sprinted across the road right in front of the team! It looks like they’re continuing on, unfazed, not a single finger venturing towards the brake levers. They’re now approaching Riverton and, wait again! What’s this? Tristan flats and the team is brought to a screeching halt. It appears frustration is growing as the team struggles to find a working pump between the four of them. Look, though, a good Samaritan at the store where they’re stopped has provided them a floor pump and saves the day! Back on the move and…AGAIN!!!! Tristan has flatted yet again! This doesn’t look good folks. The team has stopped and is conferring.........we now have word that the Tristan and Art are gonna be catching the sag wagon and Corey and Dan will finish the ride via an abbreviated route.
The team is back up and running again, and are making their way to Cape Cod for a double metric century. We can now see them hammering down the Cape Cod rail trails, harrying recreational riders in an attempt to pick up miles in order to make their goal. It would appear that monotony has set in though, and, in the words of Corey, the ‘pace line looks like Swiss cheese’. However, despite growing frustrations, the ride is gonna be a success as the team rendezvous back at the cottage where Jesse has meanwhile been resting up and building a caloric base for the 2009 season.
The crowning jewel of the season is approaching, the Tour of the Litchfield Hills, and the team is making preparations. We’re now with them as they make the torturous climb up the Hubbard Park hill in what is, frankly, dangerous heat and humidity. If I am to understand correctly though, folks, they won’t be doing this hill one time, but rather three! This is part of a routine known as ‘hill repeats’ which the team says helps to build their renowned hill climbing capabilities. And quite a time they are making of it…it looks downright torturous!
Okay, for those of you at home, its now the morning of the Tour of the Litchfield hills and the team is chattering casually by their cars. It’s a little chilly, but I’m sure that’ll be the least of
their worries. With thousands of feet of climbing over 100 miles, the team really ought to be feelin’ it by the end of the day. It now looks like they’re lining up at the starting line annnnd, they’re off! The course starts with a grinding climb and gives the team no time to warm up. The rest of the day is wearing on the same, with climb after climb and a seemingly incomparable amount of descending. It now looks like Tristan and Dan have come upon Corey after having been separated and find that he’s fallen victim to a major mechanical failure, the source of which it appears he cannot determine. We now have word in that after a quick glance at the drive train, Tristan has indentified the problem as a fallen front derailleur as a result of not being properly tightened! We’ll go now to an interview we a taped earlier with his mechanic – “So I was, like, alone at the shop all baked outta my gourd and I’m thinking like, duuuuuuude, how sweet would it look if Corey’s derailleur was, like, all loose and shit?!?!” Hmmmm, well their you have it viewers, the source of the problem. Anyhow, the team is back on the move and approaching the finish line. They’ve just crossed the finish line, completing the tour which, much to our disappointment, will mark the beginning of the end of the season.
Dan and Corey make one last push, however, and are taking up training for The Three Boroughs race in September. It looks like Tristan will be joining them for training and the team is now meeting up with the AMC group ride for added challenge. They’ve dropped into a steady pace line and…WHAT’S THIS??? The ride leader has been clipped from behind and is now having a major meltdown right there in road, resulting in a pileup! Corey’s made out lucky, but it looks like Tristan and Dan have been caught in the resulting mess. Wait, though, it looks like they’ve quickly gotten their act together and are charging after the breakaway, no less than a half a mile ahead! They‘re running a smooth operation annnnnnnd they’re back with the main group! Amazing!
It now looks like they’ve made a decision to join the faster group ride and they are definitely in for it! They’re off and, wait, where’s Tristan? It looks like we’ve lost Tristan! Things aren’t looking good out there. The sky has tornado-like qualities, and Corey and Dan are concerned with Tristan, but the ride must go on!
We’re finally here at the season closer, the Three Boroughs race. This is Corey & Dan’s first true race and the excitement associated with the unknown is palpable. They’re somehow able to compose themselves and looks like their recon of the course will be cut short by the call to assemble at the starting line…..annnnd, they’re off! Pulling up the first hill and, oh wait, what’s this? This hill is way longer than they thought! They’ll have to revaluate their output to maintain a steady burn up this thing! But it looks like they’re now up it and sweeping through the secondary roads and…..oh jeez!!! It looks like Corey’s chain has fallen off! What is with these mechanicals, folks? Will they never end? It does look like Corey’s chain is back on and he’s rejoined the race! They’re crossing the finish line now and Corey has taken 4th with Dan not too far behind in 6th. We’ll now go live to Corey who we can see is walking his bike back to the car – “Why are you walking you’re bike back to the car, Corey, when you could just ride?” “The season is over, I’m not riding anymore”.
Hi there folks, and welcome to highlights from Dan, Corey, and Tristan’s 2008 road biking season. I’ve got to warn all you viewers at home, though, there’s a disturbingly large number of mechanicals to follow –
The season is off to a slow start with just Dan and Corey muddling about the streets of
Hartford County, but wait, what’s this? Tristan, off on a holiday from school, pulls up from the rear and joins the peloton. The peloton has found their rhythm and is moving along at an astonishing clip but….wait! What’s this? We don’t have confirmation yet but it appears that Tristan’s chain has literally snapped in two as he began up a short and shallow climb! It would appear that the team has stopped and is repairing the chain. But no, wait, I’m sorry, Corey is off again and has left the team to their own devices! The Euros would be proud to have such a esteemed rider amongst their ranks.Okay then, Tristan is back up and running and the peloton has regrouped, but wait, what’s it this time? It appears that Tristan’s chain has snapped yet again! My god, can this really be happening? However, it’d appear that the chain is now fixed and the peloton is back on the move. They’re now enroute from the rolling hills of Hartford county to the steeps of Litchfield in, what appears to be, pursuit of a festival. Yes, that’s right ladies and gentleman, we’ve just received confirmation that they will attending a wine tasting upon beautiful Lake Waramoug. This affords us the rare privilege to see these men off their bikes and enjoying themselves. Look at those Herculean legs!
Alright, they’re back on their bikes and on one of their signature training rides that start off on perilous Route 189. Corey and Dan pull ahead and are cruising towards the next traffic light and, wait, it looks like they’re being confronted by a balloon-tired hick-mobile! The truck has raced ahead of the two, swerving to the right and has completely blocked their progress! This doesn’t bode well folks because, as you will see from the season highlights, this is just one of many encounters they will be having with motorists. It appears that everything clears up, and they’re back on the move.
It looks like they’ve now added Art to their peloton and are pumping their way through New Hartford, in the midst of 100-miler…but what’s THAT?!?! A bear! That’s right folks, a black bear has just sprinted across the road right in front of the team! It looks like they’re continuing on, unfazed, not a single finger venturing towards the brake levers. They’re now approaching Riverton and, wait again! What’s this? Tristan flats and the team is brought to a screeching halt. It appears frustration is growing as the team struggles to find a working pump between the four of them. Look, though, a good Samaritan at the store where they’re stopped has provided them a floor pump and saves the day! Back on the move and…AGAIN!!!! Tristan has flatted yet again! This doesn’t look good folks. The team has stopped and is conferring.........we now have word that the Tristan and Art are gonna be catching the sag wagon and Corey and Dan will finish the ride via an abbreviated route.
The team is back up and running again, and are making their way to Cape Cod for a double metric century. We can now see them hammering down the Cape Cod rail trails, harrying recreational riders in an attempt to pick up miles in order to make their goal. It would appear that monotony has set in though, and, in the words of Corey, the ‘pace line looks like Swiss cheese’. However, despite growing frustrations, the ride is gonna be a success as the team rendezvous back at the cottage where Jesse has meanwhile been resting up and building a caloric base for the 2009 season.
The crowning jewel of the season is approaching, the Tour of the Litchfield Hills, and the team is making preparations. We’re now with them as they make the torturous climb up the Hubbard Park hill in what is, frankly, dangerous heat and humidity. If I am to understand correctly though, folks, they won’t be doing this hill one time, but rather three! This is part of a routine known as ‘hill repeats’ which the team says helps to build their renowned hill climbing capabilities. And quite a time they are making of it…it looks downright torturous!
Okay, for those of you at home, its now the morning of the Tour of the Litchfield hills and the team is chattering casually by their cars. It’s a little chilly, but I’m sure that’ll be the least of
their worries. With thousands of feet of climbing over 100 miles, the team really ought to be feelin’ it by the end of the day. It now looks like they’re lining up at the starting line annnnd, they’re off! The course starts with a grinding climb and gives the team no time to warm up. The rest of the day is wearing on the same, with climb after climb and a seemingly incomparable amount of descending. It now looks like Tristan and Dan have come upon Corey after having been separated and find that he’s fallen victim to a major mechanical failure, the source of which it appears he cannot determine. We now have word in that after a quick glance at the drive train, Tristan has indentified the problem as a fallen front derailleur as a result of not being properly tightened! We’ll go now to an interview we a taped earlier with his mechanic – “So I was, like, alone at the shop all baked outta my gourd and I’m thinking like, duuuuuuude, how sweet would it look if Corey’s derailleur was, like, all loose and shit?!?!” Hmmmm, well their you have it viewers, the source of the problem. Anyhow, the team is back on the move and approaching the finish line. They’ve just crossed the finish line, completing the tour which, much to our disappointment, will mark the beginning of the end of the season.Dan and Corey make one last push, however, and are taking up training for The Three Boroughs race in September. It looks like Tristan will be joining them for training and the team is now meeting up with the AMC group ride for added challenge. They’ve dropped into a steady pace line and…WHAT’S THIS??? The ride leader has been clipped from behind and is now having a major meltdown right there in road, resulting in a pileup! Corey’s made out lucky, but it looks like Tristan and Dan have been caught in the resulting mess. Wait, though, it looks like they’ve quickly gotten their act together and are charging after the breakaway, no less than a half a mile ahead! They‘re running a smooth operation annnnnnnd they’re back with the main group! Amazing!
It now looks like they’ve made a decision to join the faster group ride and they are definitely in for it! They’re off and, wait, where’s Tristan? It looks like we’ve lost Tristan! Things aren’t looking good out there. The sky has tornado-like qualities, and Corey and Dan are concerned with Tristan, but the ride must go on!
We’re finally here at the season closer, the Three Boroughs race. This is Corey & Dan’s first true race and the excitement associated with the unknown is palpable. They’re somehow able to compose themselves and looks like their recon of the course will be cut short by the call to assemble at the starting line…..annnnd, they’re off! Pulling up the first hill and, oh wait, what’s this? This hill is way longer than they thought! They’ll have to revaluate their output to maintain a steady burn up this thing! But it looks like they’re now up it and sweeping through the secondary roads and…..oh jeez!!! It looks like Corey’s chain has fallen off! What is with these mechanicals, folks? Will they never end? It does look like Corey’s chain is back on and he’s rejoined the race! They’re crossing the finish line now and Corey has taken 4th with Dan not too far behind in 6th. We’ll now go live to Corey who we can see is walking his bike back to the car – “Why are you walking you’re bike back to the car, Corey, when you could just ride?” “The season is over, I’m not riding anymore”.
Friday, March 6, 2009
On the Passing of my Gloves: A Eulogy
I’ve been quite busy the past month or so, and so this post has fallen to the wayside. I think this is a task that commands my attention, so I’ve put aside some more pressing work in favor of some long over-due musing.
It was almost two months ago that I had attended the International Mountain Equipment’s annual Ice Festival in North Conway, NH. The festival lures in climbers with the promises of gear, beer, and vertically inspired fear. The climbing was great but, otherwise, the festival was kind of a bust. Jesse and my attempt to attend the “climber’s ball” was thwarted by our failure to pre-buy ticke
ts, vendor turnout was poor, and even the beer was sorta warm. However, it got climbers out and on the ice, so that’s what really counts.
Fast forward to the end of the weekend when I am packing up and getting ready to make the drive back to Connecticut. I can sense something is missing, which is right in line with my maxim that ‘its not a matter of IF I forgot something, but rather WHAT did I forget?’. Pretty soon I realize that I am missing my favorite pair of gloves - my go-to hand coverings for just about all my favorite cold weather activities.
I can remember when I first received those gloves. It was the Christmas after graduating college. As is my routine, I provided my parents with a very specific list of what things it was I needed, and a pair of gloves was one of them. As is her routine, my Mom bought me a different pair. I don’t recall what was so ‘wrong’ with the gloves I got…perhaps the stitching ran left to right when everyone knows a good glove’s stitching runs right to left. Or maybe, just maybe, I was being picky. Whatever the case was, I ended up not returning the gloves and adapted to what I am sure was a seemingly endless list of shortcomings.
Much to my surprise, the gloves didn’t unravel at the seams upon their first exposure to winter-sporting life or spontaneously combust on their foray into the world of my below-freezing antics. In fact, the gloves performed admirably. To be honest, I loved them. What else should I expect from Mom? Would she ever provide me with anything less?
My fondness for my gloves, however, wasn’t truly apparent to me until I stood peering into my pack and remembering that I had foolishly left them on the roof of my car the day prior. They
had surely blown off, and the activity of the snow plows during the previous night would almost have certainly obscured their whereabouts. It was true that after three winters of abuse the gloves probably could have used to be replaced, but what I couldn’t replace was the memories attached to them. They had touched many summits, been there to usher Elijah around during his first ramblings into the beautiful quiet of the winter wilderness, and had touched rock, ice, and snow all over the United States. They had clung with me nervously to many a vertical face when the going had gotten tough, and had been there to clap my partners’ backs in celebration of objectives conquered.
It had become obvious that I would miss my gloves, but I was thankful for the memories and ten working fingers that they had left me with.
It was almost two months ago that I had attended the International Mountain Equipment’s annual Ice Festival in North Conway, NH. The festival lures in climbers with the promises of gear, beer, and vertically inspired fear. The climbing was great but, otherwise, the festival was kind of a bust. Jesse and my attempt to attend the “climber’s ball” was thwarted by our failure to pre-buy ticke
ts, vendor turnout was poor, and even the beer was sorta warm. However, it got climbers out and on the ice, so that’s what really counts.Fast forward to the end of the weekend when I am packing up and getting ready to make the drive back to Connecticut. I can sense something is missing, which is right in line with my maxim that ‘its not a matter of IF I forgot something, but rather WHAT did I forget?’. Pretty soon I realize that I am missing my favorite pair of gloves - my go-to hand coverings for just about all my favorite cold weather activities.
I can remember when I first received those gloves. It was the Christmas after graduating college. As is my routine, I provided my parents with a very specific list of what things it was I needed, and a pair of gloves was one of them. As is her routine, my Mom bought me a different pair. I don’t recall what was so ‘wrong’ with the gloves I got…perhaps the stitching ran left to right when everyone knows a good glove’s stitching runs right to left. Or maybe, just maybe, I was being picky. Whatever the case was, I ended up not returning the gloves and adapted to what I am sure was a seemingly endless list of shortcomings.
Much to my surprise, the gloves didn’t unravel at the seams upon their first exposure to winter-sporting life or spontaneously combust on their foray into the world of my below-freezing antics. In fact, the gloves performed admirably. To be honest, I loved them. What else should I expect from Mom? Would she ever provide me with anything less?
My fondness for my gloves, however, wasn’t truly apparent to me until I stood peering into my pack and remembering that I had foolishly left them on the roof of my car the day prior. They
had surely blown off, and the activity of the snow plows during the previous night would almost have certainly obscured their whereabouts. It was true that after three winters of abuse the gloves probably could have used to be replaced, but what I couldn’t replace was the memories attached to them. They had touched many summits, been there to usher Elijah around during his first ramblings into the beautiful quiet of the winter wilderness, and had touched rock, ice, and snow all over the United States. They had clung with me nervously to many a vertical face when the going had gotten tough, and had been there to clap my partners’ backs in celebration of objectives conquered.It had become obvious that I would miss my gloves, but I was thankful for the memories and ten working fingers that they had left me with.
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