I can hardly believe another year is about to wrap itself up in a matter of minutes. I am amazed at how much I have accomplished, yet regret what I could have done but did not.
So, my one resolution for 2013 shall be to have fewer such regrets 365 days from now. All other resolutions and goals will follow from that. Cliché or not, barring some kind of time travel scenario, we only get to do 2013 once.
Children
I can still hear the words my parents used to say out of sheer frustration with my siblings and me. “When you have kids, I hope they turn out to be just like you.”
My children often do what they know they shouldn’t, and they often don’t do what they know they should. And they behave this way repeatedly, even though they know there will be consequences.
Children are called a gift from God. But I am convinced they are also a lesson from God. “You are just like your kids.”
Running
Well, I seem to have been bitten by a new bug. Running. I am not even sure how it happened.
Maybe it was watching my boss go from having his chest cracked open for bypass surgery to gradually working his way to running 5K nonstop, and now to running 10K.
Maybe it was discovering web sites for various mud run events, and thinking they look like they could be a lot of fun.
Maybe it is finding out how many of my Sunday cycling cohorts participated in a recent duathlon.
Maybe it was all of the above and more.
I have never considered myself a runner. Yet eight weeks ago, I saw Galloway’s Book on Running, 2nd ed. in the bookstore near work. Six weeks ago I ordered it from a huge online retailer. (What can I say, the price was considerably better.) Four weeks ago I registered for a 5K run/walk event to take place this last Sunday. This last Sunday life bumped me out of the event, so I did a 5K run/walk on my own around the neighborhood. And I finished it in 31 minutes, without too much soreness. And yesterday I finally got around to reading the opening chapters of the book.
Now I have a dilema: ride or run.
Tomorrow it’ll be run. And I can hardly wait.
Flying
The ability to fly like Superman would be wasted on acrophobics.
Malt
I learned a rather important cycling lesson today: if you simply must treat yourself to a medium chocolate malt at DQ®, do not ride with it if comes with one of those open dome lids. You know, the kind that go on an ICEE® or Slurpee®. Either ask for a standard flat soft drink lid, or stay put and enjoy your treat.
The consequences of ignoring this bit of advice will be quite apparent as soon as you hit a bump as you pedal away.
Today I ignored that bit of advice out of ignorance. My frosty treat sprayed my arm from cup to elbow. It even went under my HRM watch. Oh yeah, that was pleasant. Minor miracles of minor miracles, my bike only managed to be tainted by a couple three drops of the sticky goo. (Found the third drop on the pedal crank, same side as the tainted handle bar, after I had myself a nice, long, hot shower.)
Fortunately, I had snagged a few napkins before leaving the store. After cleaning my arm of most of the mess, I wedged the napkins in the lid’s gaping hole. Just enough to prevent a repeat spraying at the next bump in the road.
Next time I think I will skip the malt altogether. Sure it was good and tasty, but not nearly good and tasty enough to risk a repeat fountaining of chocolaty dairy product all over my stretchy synthetics-clad self. It’s bad enough the clothes need to be soiled with sunscreen.
Sandpaper
I suppose I had to suffer the affliction eventually, though why it took so long I am not really sure. Looking back, I would have to place the blame, contributing cause rather, on July’s record-breaking heat.
What, pray tell, am I rambling on about? To put it bluntly, my not quite baby-smooth, middle-aged rump now has a couple rough spots. Not that I spend my days caressing my derrière, but in comparison to the rest, these spots are sandpaper. I will spare both of us photographic representation.
It wasn’t until the tail end of a longish 100+°F endurance training ride that I began to notice irritation on my tail end, and areas in the vicinity. Had I been riding around the neighborhood, I could have ended the ride early. Home was still 20 miles away, however, so I had no choice but to press on.
Adding insult to my gradually increasing injury, my saddle suddenly tilted back on a couple bumps along the way. Trying to ride on a tilted saddle doesn’t make for a good cycling experience. Doing so with a sore bum even less appealing. Multi-tool to the rescue! Without a torque driver, though, it is difficult to know how tight is tight enough for the saddle bolt. Too tight, and the carbon saddle post is toast.
Back home, safely in the confines of my bathroom, I peeled off my stinky synthetics and sun screen covered HRM (heart rate monitor) watch. And then I turned to examine the damage in the mirror. Baboon butt rivaling the worst red-hot diaper rash ever.
I crawled into the shower. It felt good to scrub of the remains of the sun screen. It did not feel good when soap, never mind water alone, made its way to the hot spots. Fortunately, the stinging was over quickly, allowing me to stand under the cool spray for a few minutes.
Carefully patting dry, it became apparent a little treatment would be good idea. Had we a baby in the house, a home remedy would have been readily available. We discovered Mary Kay’s peach-colored something in a squeeze tube not only worked the best on the fiercest baby rushes, but was also pain free and an excellent preventative. But that miracle salve was gone long ago.
I went for the only other option I could think of: Chamois Butt’r. Apparently marketing via free single-use samples available at a few tour events had worked on me two, three, or four years ago. I found my tube, squeezed some Butt’r onto a finger, and smeared it upon my wounds. The pain subsided for about 3.14 seconds.
Then it resumed with a hornet sting’s intensity. It was then that I realized Chamois Butt’r probably contains alcohol. The label confirmed that deduction. Not a lot, but definitely enough. The pain faded over the course of a few minutes. For all I know it was really only about ten seconds, but you know how unpleansantries feel like they drag on forever. I went to bed sore, but not sore enough to keep me awake.
The single application of Chamois Butt’r seemed to do the trick. I still had semblance of a baboon’s bottom, but the pain was generally minimal. By the time I was completely healed again, the skin at the site of the boniest part of my once tender tush is rather rough.
Since then, I have been largely successful in avoiding a repeat of the stinging redness. As they say, an ounce of prevention worth a pound of cure.
If the ride is short, say under 30 miles, the only thing in my bike shorts is me. Longer rides, and I usually apply Chamois Butt’r to the chamois before carefully pulling the shorts up the rest of the way, to avoid getting the Butt’r where it isn’t wanted. So far, so good, tested all the way up to a multi-day ride totaling 218.4 miles. (That story is coming soon.)
This post is not intended to be a commercial for Chamois Butt’r. There are plenty of opinions about which saddle sore preventative goop is best. Chamois Butt’r works for me, though I may opt for something else when the tube is empty.
Mark
It is hard to believe that already seven years have passed since my friend Mark died suddenly. While my family was out celebrating our wedding anniversary at a Caribou and the attached Great Harvest Bakery, his family watched his life slip quickly away in their kitchen.
Mark lived his life prepared to leave unexpectedly early. A lesson he learned from his father’s early death in similar circumstances.
I cannot say that I have yet learned the lesson from Mark. But I am working on it.
Upshifting
For as long as I can remember, I have used the terms “biking” and “cycling” interchangeably. Likewise with “biker” and “cyclist.” Until mere days ago, I failed to recognize the subtle but distinct difference between the “b” words and their respective “c” words.
So what is the difference between biking and cycling, and a biker and a cyclist?
Biking is generally a relaxed, laid back, casual activity. The equipment tends to cost less, and the biker tends to wear clothing of a more general purpose nature. Bike rides are usually utilitarian trips to a nearby destination or leisurely rides around the neighborhood. The more enthusiastic participate in family-oriented ride events. Many bicycle riders, perhaps the vast majority of them, are happy to stay in this camp.
But, there are some who, perhaps without realizing it, change gears and begin to engage in the activity with considerably less casual vigor and intent.
Riding becomes a more frequent activity. Goals form: can I ride farther, can I ride faster? That old low-end bike bought at a garage sale or discount department store doesn’t cut it anymore. A bike shop’s version of lower-end takes its place. Bike shorts begin to go from being a “no-way” to preferred attire.
The biker begins learning simple maintenance. Minor components are upgraded. A T-shirt gives way to a sweat-wicking sport shirt, which later gives way to a bike jersey. Footwear is upgraded to bike shoes, and pedals for them to snap into take their place on the bike. That upgrade alone allows for noticeably longer distances and faster speeds. Goals are reached, and new ones come into focus. The limits of the trusty old bike shop budget model are reached. Realization dawns that further component upgrades will not help achieve the latest goals. The rider knows what must be done to continue forward.
Gears shift again. A bike is purchased for a price that just a few short years ago seemed outrageous. It is lighter, faster, quieter. It is adjusted to fit its rider, and its rider alone. Trying to keep up with faster riders changes to easily keeping up with them, and even taking the lead. Time and distance goals that seemed impossible to attain before are now on the radar.
At last realization hits: the biker has become a cyclist.
I am this cyclist.
Toilet
You haven’t lived until you’ve use a bus toilet whilst said bus is speeding down a less than smooth road in a less than smooth manner.
Double points for failing to notice the “no standing while urinating” sign until the process is nearly complete. Triple points for not spilling. Much. (I cleaned it up. I’m not a filthy slob.)
Satellites
My family and I met friends at Whitewater State Park in Minnesota for a weekend of outdoor fun. Our campsite was on the fringe of the hub of activity. We traveled in and out of the hub much like comets going around the sun.
One of the park’s evening programs featured an amateur astronomer. As the sun began its evening descent, he set up his telescope in an open area near the ranger’s station in the park valley. First one star, then another appeared in the sky. That was enough the calibrate the telescope, so that it could accurately locate any item in its electronic catalog.
More and more stars appeared in the darkening sky. Soon there were far more than are visible in the metro sky at home. A starlit sky is one of my favorite things about camping. Adding to the show was a hidden moon, allowing for much better viewing.
One of the first stars making its presence known isn’t a star at all. Saturn. We lined up for our chance to look in the telescope. I have never seen Saturn and its rings with my own eye before. Beautiful. One of our sun’s satellites quietly drifting along its orbit, tilted just right to show off those iconic rings. Had timing been just right, we would have been able to see tiny black dots in front of the planet. Saturn’s moons, quietly drifting along their own orbits.
We looked at a pair of suns, one orange-red, the other blue. I think one of them is labeled M57, and has an Arabic name. They are many light years away from us, but only one light year away from each other. Relatively close, astronomically. Each following their own orbits around some distant center somewhere in the heavens.
While looking up we saw the International Space Station glide across the sky. First brilliantly bright, then quickly fading away as it moved out of the sun’s rays. We saw a few other satellites cross the sky, each following its own path around our planet.
Occasionally, a firefly would fly overhead, showing off its tiny light, mimicking a satellite miles above it. First visible, then hidden from sight.
So much to see in a dark, brilliantly starlit sky, on a satellite quietly drifting along on its orbit.
