lint trap

Come play in my sandbox

2010-04-30T18:07:00.000-07:00

After several years of fun here at the Lint Trap, I'm moving. It's not far, just around the corner, really. It's time for a change of scenery. Also, I just like wordpress better, which is super dorky, but what are you gona do. Don't mind the dust, I'm still working on the decorating.

Anyway, come play in my sandbox. It'll be fun. I promise to try to write more often, too. Because it's been too long and I like to play with the words. Sometimes, a girl needs more than 440 characters.

If you happen to have a linky to this site, you should like change it and stuff. I won't delete the Lint Trap, I'm rather attached to it. But future stories will be over on the twobluebikes.wordpress.

Bring your toys!

About A Bike

2010-04-20T12:49:00.000-07:00

So yesterday, it seemed that I needed some groceries. And I didn't need all that many groceries, just a few. The organic food market is rather inconveniently placed at the top of a hill. Not so bike friendly, this place. Usually, we use the car thing for buying the groceries, due to the hill and the sometimes cumbersome nature of the groceries. The wine, she is heavy.

But yesterday, I only needed a few groceries. The weather was good. Aha! I have a bike for that. The bike in question, an old, if not distinguished, road bike sat at the bottom of the bike stack. I began to dig. A couple road bikes, a couple mountain bikes, and at last, there he sat, just waiting to go to the grocery store. First, he needed a little work. Like, air in the tires. And somehow, the cable had jammed itself into the cranks and the shifting did not shift so well.

I dug out some wrenches and a pair of pliers and went to work. Now, I'm not so stellar as bike mechanics go, but I can get it done when the need is pressing. Since I needed to buy food, the need was pressing. I unscrewed the bolt, stuck the cable back in the cable thingy (highly technical), and slid the cable back under the bolt thingy (also highly technical). Then, I tightened the bolt and twisted on the twisting thingy to make it shift. Ready for a test ride, I took the bike, known as Sherman for his weight, down the stair to ride him around. Of course, I didn't tighten the cable bolt enough. Schwing! Out came the cable. Back up the stairs, back with the pliers, back with the threading the cable through the bolt. Let's try this again, shall we? This time, it worked.

Not quite trusting my mad skillz with the wrenches, I threw a few in my bag, and headed out to the grocery store. Though I imagined the bike spontaneously exploding, spokes popping, bolts flying out, tires exploding, it actually rolled down the road just like a bike should roll. Up the hill to the grocery store, we went. Sun shining, wind blowing, and the light had just begun its turn to evening. Still, the bike continued to roll just as a bike should.

When we reached the grocery store, I realized that while I had brought along some spare wrenches, I had forgotten a bike lock. Really, what kind of dufus forgets a bike lock? I do. Like, all the time. In my perfect world, there would just be bike locks, like lockers in train stations, where I'd be able to lock my bike. I wasn't about to ride back down the hill to get a bike lock, then back up the hill to buy my groceries. I would have to be one of Those People who bring their crappy bikes into stores with them. This bike is pretty crappy, though it does have 9sp chorus on it, so I suppose to the discerning eye, it isn't so crappy. Also, a well-broken in Fizik Alliante makes the best around-town bike saddle ever. Don't say I never told you anything useful here at the Lint Trap. So, I clipped my shoes into the pedals (really, if you want to steal my old road shoes, I can't be bothered to argue), wheeled my bike into an unused check stand (after asking nicely for permission), and went about my gathering of food. Food is good.

Buying food to carry home on the bike is a tricky business. You can't buy too much, or you won't make it home. But if you buy too little, you won't have enough food. It has to be just right. Food assembled, I packed it away in my bag with the baguette sticking defiantly out the top. Not only was I one of Those People who bring their crappy bikes into the store, I was also one of Those People riding home with a loaf of bread sticking out of my bag. I'm not sure whether this is good or bad. Still, the bike continued to roll and better still, the uphill turned to downhill on the way home. You can never go wrong with a downhill finish.

Later that same night, we sat on the couch and ate the food. Suddenly, a strange sound emanated from the bike stack. It seemed the tire on my newly wrenched (not to be confused with wretched) grocery bike had decided all at once to go flat. Psssssssssss, it said, and the cat looked wildly around the room for ghosts. But there were no ghosts, just air punching through tired rubber. Free at last!

At least we weren't sitting by the side of the road, for then, my grocery bike would be wretched indeed. Instead, I finished my food, and thought, yes, maybe tomorrow, I fix this. Because one should always have a grocery bike for when the grocery store is at the top of the hill and for when you don't need very many groceries at all.

The Great Pumpkin

2009-11-17T20:12:00.000-08:00

Quite some time ago, I went to the pumpkin patch to fetch some pumpkins. This adventure occured before Halloween when one naturally needs to acquire orange squashes for the purpose of carving. So I went to the pumpkin patch owned by a family who has farmed here since the 1860s. Not only did they have pumpkins, they had old farm tools. Rusty farm tools, with wheels and cobwebs and whatnot. I happened to have my happy snapper along, so I took some snaps.

See the full gallery.

Assorted Adventures

2009-10-06T14:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I went to the pool as I often do. Not too many other people went to the pool, and so I decided to do some intervals. For the water geeks playing along at home, I started splashing my way through 5x200. Nothing too silly, just a little splishy splashy. There was no one else in my lane. It was quite glorious. I swam straight down the middle and didn't hit arms with anyone in the lanes next to me. I have very long arms, so swimming down the middle is a lovely luxury. Somewhere midway through the fourth 200, the water began to feel a little strange. Bubbles tickled my fingers. Somebody was in my lane, and she wasn't moving very fast. So much for glorious solitude. Well, I navigated around the intruder and went on my merry way. On to the final 200, only one left to go. After 50 meters of rolling along, a strange creature swam into my field of vision. I had encountered Accessory Man.

Now, I like swimming, because it's simple. I put on a few scraps of lycra, a ballon over the hair, and a pair of goggles. That's it. Jump in, go swimming. But Accessory Man, he's in love with the gadgets. He was wearing fins on his feet, paddles on his hands, a lycra shirt to avoid the sun, swim trunks to cover the um, stuff that swim trunks cover, a swim cap, swim goggles, and a snorkle. All at the same time. I couldn't help but wonder how he remembered it all and which part he put on first. Certainly, the paddles had to go last, since opposable thumbs come in rather handy in most situations. It was quite a stupendous sight. Waiter, waiter, there's a sea monster in my lap pool. He was moving rather quickly too. There's a reason fish have big flippers instead of feet and gills to breathe under water, you know. Accessory Man clearly has fish envy. Also, he looked like a dork. I was awed by the dorkitude and the vast collection of accessories. I felt lucky to escape with my life.

In other news, I've been looking for a new Shack lately. I'm a tad bored of the old Shack and it is lacking in certain useful features like a garage, washer and dryer, and well, lots of things really. So I make my daily pilgrimage to the classified ads and to Craigslist to see the Specials of the Day. During that ridiculous bubble thing, rents rose along with housing prices. Thanks to an elderly non-greedy owner, the Shack lagged far behind. This was very nice. Pop goes the bubble. Prices are slowly sinking, though rents are lagging behind as owners who wagered far beyond their means try desperately to find a renter to save their shirts. Newsflash, if I could pay your mortgage, I wouldn't be a renter.

Anyway, the Search for Shack Version 2.0 has led to some amusing episodes as the descriptions in the classified ads have a tendency to leave out many relevent and important details. Take the example of one house that showed up a month or so ago. Listed as a two bedroom with a large fenced yard, this Daily Special included a separate studio for office or storage and sat on a dead end street. Dead turned out to be the key word. After emailing for more information, I punched the address into the Googler and zoomed along street view until I found it. It was indeed a two bedroom house with a large fenced yard. It also neighbored the local cemetary. At least, it would be quiet. And we could throw a kickass Halloween party.

Next, please.

Beach cottage, new paint, off-street parking, washer dryer hook-ups. This sounded promising, though usually when I see beach cottage in the classifieds, I picture a tool shed with a curled photo of the beach on the wall located somewhere remote and dusty. So, I called up the owner Mike. (Name changed to protect the foolish.) Hi Mike, tell me about your beach cottage. Get the address, check the Googler. Mike's beach cottage is actually near the beach. This came as quite a surprise, I have to say. A Zillow check revealed that the lot was not currently up for sale, a key consideration in this day and age. So, we wound up the veedub - which recently got a mostly rebuilt engine, zoom! - and headed out to view Mike's beach cottage, which was actually a cottage near the beach.

Mike's beach cottage sat in the middle of a lot with two other beach cottages. It had a cute little yard and though it lacked a garage, the car port had ooodles of storage. Looking good so far. Venturing onward, we entered Mike's beach cottage. The door stuck on the carpet and required a solid push. Annoying, but not fatal. The kitchen offered counter space, good, but no refrigerator, bad. Very bad. Like, where's the refrigerator? Not only was there no fridge, but there was really no obvious spot to put one. Mike's beach cottage had a very small kitchen when it came right down to it. A door led from the very small kitchen to an even smaller porch with the advertised washer hook-ups. The porch was cute, with a cheerful red floor. Red floors are nice. Windows without glass are not so nice. The laundry porch had no door and no windows. Killer, I get to buy a fridge and put it, well, somewhere, and a washer and dryer and put it well, outside. This idea did not fill me with joy.

The large hole in the kitchen wall around the gas pipe also did not fill me with joy. Hello, Rodent Local #3201, we have a job for you. Yes, c'mon over, the wall's wide open. All you can eat, we'll leave the light on. The bathroom spanned the length of the bathtub and not a millimeter more. It also had no fan and no window and sat between the two bedrooms. Maybe the bed, which is not really so large as beds go, would fit in the bigger bedroom. Maybe. My beloved sectional couch would definitely not fit in the living room, at least without overlapping the wall heater which would lead to fire. Fire is bad. The walls bowed inward and outward at the same time. Single concave works well for surfboards, but not so well for walls. Just one layer of wood and siding separated the inside of the house from the outside and no insulation marred the imperfect fit of the windows in their frames. I could always burn my couch.

The sign outside showed the original offering price for Mike's Daily Special. $1800.00 per month, bring your own fridge, washer and dryer and a lot of wool socks. The price had dropped considerably by the time I encountered Mike's beach cottage, but it was still way over-priced for what amounted to a permanent camping trip. If I wanted to go camping, I'd buy a tent.

I don't really like tents, so here I am at the Shack still reading the classifieds. At least the roof doesn't leak, the walls aren't concave (or convex), and my couch fits. This is very important, the couch.

For those who'd like to play along at home, welcome to Craiglist. Roll the dice, see what you get. No pets? Lose a turn. House for sale? Do not pass go. Apartment listed as a condo? Go directly to jail. Ad that leads to a Nigerian email scam? Lose all your money. It's good wholesome fun for the whole family!

Alrighty, then, that's all the adventures for today. Next time I go looking at beach cottages and such, I promise to take my secret pocket camera, so I can bring you photos. Accessory Man, I leave to the imagination. I would not wish to confront my readers with such a frightening sight.

The Wooden Surfboard

2009-08-13T18:27:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time, on a flat Summer day in Santa Barbara, John decided to build a surfboard. An Alaia, to be exact. The Alaia is an ancient Hawaiian design made of wood. It is completely flat. Look ma, no fins.

Off we went to the hardware store to purchase some wood. Heh, heh, she said wood. Well, it turned out that they didn't make wood wide enough. So we bought two pieces of wood (6'x 1'x 1") and some very very strong glue. We also bought a saw, because we didn't have one. A planer, because we also didn't have one of those. Some sandpaper. And some string.

Those are all the ingredients, right there.

Chapter 1: The Planks
The boards, they needed sanding. John planed the inside edges so they'd fit together all nicelike. Then, they needed gluing. Newspaper might have been a good idea right about now. Shhh, don't tell the landlord.

The planks had to dry. This part was sorta boring. Like watching, er, glue dry. The strings kept the wood all close together and tightlike without squishing it. Squishing is bad.

Chapter 2: The Measuring
The template came from the internet. Is there anything that isn't on the internet? I'm going to say... no. The laser printer rallied to the cause and belched out all the pages. Then, we taped it together. Be vewy vewy kwiet, we're measuring surfboards.

And then, measuring it again.

Chapter 3: The Saw
Now it was time for the cutting and shaping parts. The cutting part would be much easier with a better saw. Like, maybe one of those fancy ones that you plug in and stuff. Sweaty business, the sawing.

With the outline cut out, the planks were starting to look something like a surfboard. Something, being the key word.

Now it needed rails and some curves. John planed the rails down to a rounded edge.

Then, he put a wee bit of upward curve on the nose. (Okay, I lied, the Alaia isn't totally flat, just mostly.) He also put a concave in the back. Just a wee one. I tried to take a picture of the concave, but it didn't work out. You can barely see the concave curve on the bottom.

There followed lots and lots of sanding. Then, the Alaia received several coats of linseed oil to seal it for freshness. And a Milo brand for cuteness. Voilà.

Finally, we took it to the beach, and put it in the water. It actually floats! There weren't really any waves, but John made it surf. I don't have any pictures of this phenomenon, because I was surfing too. Maybe next time.

Final measurements: 5'11", 3/4" thick, 16" wide (at the center).

The End.

Overheard

2009-07-13T17:40:00.000-07:00

Overheard at the Cafe:
"Is that your single speed?"
"Uh, what's a single speed?"

Meanwhile, I have spilled many words on the Giro d'Italia and the Tour de France over at steephill.tv, which is why the Lint Trap has been a bit empty lately. After much squinting at very cryptic profiles, I have stage previews up for the Tour now too, though I still have four more to write. Sheesh, who makes these profile thingies anyway? The ones for the Giro stages were no problemo, but in France, they seem to have a profound aversion to legible stage profiles. Eh, we persevere.

A second twobluebikes has also shown up. Someone has clearly been feeding them after midnight. Pro Bike racing content is at the other bluebikes. When I get around to it, that is, which hasn't been lately. Maybe today, since there's a rest day thingy there in France. Surely there will be gossip of some sort going on.

And I'm really really hoping the flat spell ends soon. I did ride my fish yesterday in ankle high windswell. But I'm not sure that counts.

John finished building his Alaia. A post with photos on that bit of shenanigans coming soon!

Another Roadside Conversion

2009-04-08T16:16:00.000-07:00

The other day... No, no, I did not meet a bear.

The other day while I was out playing bikes, I pulled off the road to send off a text message. My headset is pitted, so I can not text from the bike. Or, do anything of the other things on the bike that require two hands. A tad inconvenient.

Anyway, I was chilling roadside making plans with a friend for coffee. j... k... Ld.. Lep... Lets md... medicate... mee.. meet. Autocomplete, so silly. There I sat arduously turning gibberish into words. There must be a better way.

Along came two riders. I noticed them out of the corner of my eye, noting the beat-on mountain bikes, the backpacks, and the white shirts. Commuters, I figure. But then, they stop. Maybe they're lost, I think.

"What have you done today to bring Jesus into your life?"

I stared back blankly at them. Like, who are you and why are you in my space. And, are you for real? They looked like they'd walked out of a Halloween party.

You are trying to convert me by the side of the road, I think. This is an odd turn of affairs. Surely, text messaging must be some sort of devil's work. Certainly, lycra shorts are.

"What are you doing today to bring Jesus into your life?" More insistent, this time.

So I said the only thing that came to mind, that is, what I was doing at exactly that moment.

"I'm writing a text message, then I'm finishing my bike ride."

Nothing like putting action to words. I hopped on my bike and sped off. Sped, being a relative term, of course. It wasn't exactly difficult to out-run the missionaries.

The road is a strange place, some days.

~~~

Today's ride was thoroughly uneventful. Just windy. I like Spring, except when I don't. Flowers are nice, except when I sneeze. Wind is fun, except on the bike. And the surf is well... Don't ask. So much wind, so few waves. I'm paying rent for this?

~~~

In Between Storms

2009-02-22T08:42:00.001-08:00

Sunset in the harbor.

That is all.

Strings Too Short To Tie

2009-01-05T11:43:00.000-08:00

I went out on a bike ride on Saturday. I saw a lime-green whoopie cushion by the side of the road. I wonder if it glowed in the dark.

Happy New Year. Did I say that yet? I meant to say that. Now, it's 2009. Which feels so completely different from 2008.

There's still no surf to speak of. Who ordered up the flat spell? Me, I'm blaming Kelly Slater. Reportedly, he recently bought a house here. Clearly, it's all his fault that it's been flat for weeks and weeks and weeks. Sigh.

In other surfing-related news, we just sold one board, so we can buy another. So virtuous.

If you are of the surf-video watching persuasion, One Track Mind has some quite lovely footage shot on film (as opposed to digitalness.) Yum. Funny interviews, too.

No surf, how about food? I recently discovered a friend has a fabdabulous blog of vegetarian recipes. Nice clear instructions that even a dumbass like me can follow. And, pictures. Scrumptiously beautiful pictures. Now, where is that kitchen of mine, anyway?

I did say this post was about strings too short to tie. And, really, it's a bit short to tie, too. Somedays are like that. Especially mondays.

Happy New Year!

Words

2008-12-17T16:24:00.000-08:00

Wisdom from the Snob:

One of my favorite things about cycling is that it can reward suffering with joy. Another thing I love about it is that it often rejects those who don't understand this. Cycling teaches you that there's such a thing as necessary suffering and such a thing as unnecessary suffering, and that sometimes a short cut is a dead end.

There's a guy who knows his way around a sentence.

Oddities

2008-12-12T17:22:00.001-08:00

Somedays when I go out on bike rides, I see odd things. One day, it was shoes. Not pairs, just single shoes. An old athletic shoe at mile 10, a white strappy high-heel at mile 15. Another day, I saw a T-square in the road. Who carries a T-square in their car? And leaves it on the road?

Today's oddity had a Christmas theme. Fitting, since last I checked it's almost Christmas. Anyway, I was rolling along the road that runs along the beach, wishing that the beach would suddenly transmogrify itself into the North Shore, and along came a guy with a convertable. It was one of those wee little fast cars, a BMW or an Audi. He was on the other side of the street, and well, I really don't do cars. Anyway, sitting in the passenger seat next to him, was a giant, life-sized nutcracker. It was red with a white beard and a black hat. And it was sticking straight up out of the car on the right hand side. Since his wooden knees didn't bend, he sat at an odd angle, tilted backward as if the speed of the car were sweeping him backwards. Woosh.

And there he was, a nutcracker, riding along in an expensive convertible along the beach, which wasn't the North Shore.

The world is a very strange place sometimes.

Dumbass-ery of the Day

2008-12-08T12:42:00.000-08:00

The Independent reports that Platform A has leaked 1,134 gallons of oil into the Santa Barbara Channel, as of early this morning. An oil slick 1.5 miles long and 2,000 feet wide is drifting toward Ventura County. As the Independent points out, Platform A was the site of the massive 1969 spill that galvanized the environmental movement of the time, including the first celebration of Earth Day.

Stolen

2008-12-01T18:31:00.000-08:00

La Jolla, Cali.

I don't generally go for the sepia look, but this one worked for me. So I stole it from my big bro. I'm sure he won't mind. Erm, right?

And while I'm stealing, how about another one?

Gettin' Shacked in La Jolla. Same spot, same day.

See more here. Photos copyright Christopher See, used with permission.

Winter Wonderland

2008-11-23T20:08:00.000-08:00

Flipper Feet

2008-11-21T09:23:00.001-08:00

I went to the pool yesterday, and as I strolled along the pool deck contemplating the bizarre combination of tan lines I currently sport, an older gentleman walked up to me. Nice guy with a big smile.

"Size ten?"

I look at him confused.

"Your feet," he says.

And then, he looks at me more closely, and realizes that I'm not who he thought I was. He explains: There's a woman who swims here, and she kicks really fast. She said it was because she has size ten feet.

He thought I was the woman with the size ten feet who kicks really fast.

Well, I'm not The Woman. But I do have size ten feet. And sometimes, I kick pretty fast.

Silly swimmers.

Four Whole Days

2008-11-18T17:30:00.000-08:00

Of Surf.
Thursday, it was my birthday. And there was surf.
Friday, it wasn't my birthday anymore. But there was still surf.
Saturday, it definitely wasn't my birthday anymore. But there was surf.
Sunday, yes, you guessed it, there was surf.
Four whole days.

It looked something like this:

I had a camera in my bag. You know, the bag that has all the stuff that goes to the beach in it: Bikinis (several, because it's so hard to decide), ear plugs, Sun Screen (Much), a balance bar or three, a banana, gloves, orange gu (friends don't let friends surf hungry), fuzzy-wuzzy warm rash guard for extra-cold days, surf wax, flip-flops, sand, and all the other assorted odds and ends that end up living there.

But about the camera. I put the camera in the bag, so that I could take a picture of two. Every day, I walked down to the beach to check the surf, and every day I forgot to bring the camera. Maybe I'll take a couple pictures after I surf. But every day, someone patiently waited for our parking spot. And I felt bad saying, well no, you can't have the spot, because I want to take a picture. That, and I was far too lazy to walk back down the trail from the parking lot to the beach.

So I have no pictures. The one up there? It's from last year. Recycling is good.

Since the weather bordered on epic, lots of people showed up to play. Some of them clearly had not surfed in months. How else to explain the girls in cutey cut-off spring suits when the water hovered around the 58 degree mark? I especially like the bikini and rash guard look. Girls, let me remind you once again: Board shorts are good. Also, bend at the knees, not at the waist. And do please remember not to run over me with your ten foot long board, mmkay? You're really not cute when you do that. Promise.

Because it was our birthday - Yes, John and I have the same birthday - we stopped at the bakery on the way home and ate cupcakes. So heart me some post-surf cupcake.

There was a brush fire, too. Good thing we had more cupcakes for dinner. Otherwise, it would have been very disappointing, what with the power outage and all. But mix-n-match pasta and cupcakes by candle light is pretty good times.

But mostly, there was surf. And it was good.

The End.

Election Night Drama

2008-11-04T16:24:00.001-08:00

So, I'm not usually much for politics. But I dig me some election night Drama.

I'm trying to get some writing done, but I can't stop flipping among the bazillion tabs I have open on election coverage. So much fun this internet thingy.

I especially like the maps, like the one over at NY Times.

Looks like the networks have all called Vermont to Obama and Kentucky to McCain.

Let's see what happens next...

Tuesday Truth

2008-10-21T16:33:00.000-07:00

Riding the trainer is to bike racing as swimming the pool is to paddling out in a good swell.

Substitutions, while sometimes necessary, are never as good as the real thing.

Where's my Northwest swell? It's almost November already.

{taps foot impatiently}

How about another picture, while we wait?

Photo copyright Chris. Used with permission.

Fall Colors

2008-10-10T17:28:00.000-07:00

Photo copyright Chris. Used without permission. Hopefully he'll let it slide this time.

Long Time, No Blog

2008-10-08T16:40:00.000-07:00

My mom said I needed to blog more. I always do what my mom says. Um, well, most of the time. Well, okay, some of the time. Not very often?

Well, anyway, here I am, and I'm going to blog now.

. . .

New Look. The Lint Trap now has RSS feeds. And a real blog roll with updates and excerpts. Crazy stuff. I know, I know, welcome to two years ago. Laggage. It's what I do best of all things.

This New Look should not be confused with Eisenhower's New Look, which is a different thing altogether, involving large quantities of nuclear weapons and alliances with countries whose names you can't pronounce. Do make a note of it.

. . .

Restoration. The VeeDub, which is older than I am, just got new floor boards. Because the old ones, they were rusting. If you looked real closelike, you could see the road pass beneath the car. I mean, I'm all about energy conservation and stuff, but going the Flintstones route seemed a step too far. Voilà, new floorboards, no more holes.

While we were crawling around under there — or, more accurately, while our crazy German mechanic was crawling around under there — we also put new shocks in the front end. The old ones were very old. Like, original, just rolled out of the factory, never replaced old. Now, the car's all springy like. Boing. The rear shocks are still original, because they still work. Brilliant.

Last fall, the VeeDub got a brand spanking new transmission. Now, all it needs is a paint job. That'll have to wait for Spring, because we wouldn't want to miss any of the winter swells and stuff. We recently put old-skool roof racks on. Yes, it needs a picture. Forthcoming. Now, we look suitably retro when we roll up to the local spot. Except for the shortboards, that is. Ah, well, consistency makes for small minds anyway. At least, that's what Emerson always said, and who am I to doubt him?

You want to know my very favoritist thing about driving the VeeDub around? We get to hear everyone's stories. People stop by, they want to tell about the time they drove their brothers '66 to Baja or how they used to have a blue one, back in the day, how sweet that car was. Always the stories.

. . .

We laden onze woody. Speaking of winter swell, apparently it's time for them to show up. And apparently, it's time for like a gazillion people to show up to surf them. Who knew so many people owned surfboards?

Laten we eens gaan surfen nu
Iedereen is te leren hoe
Kom met me mee op een safari
Kom met me mee op een safari

Vroeg in de ochtend
We zullen beginnen
Sommige honingsoorten komen langs
We laden onze Woody
Met onze borden binnen
En leidt ons liedje zingen

I so heart me some Dutch.

Now, Doods, the first head-high swell of the winter is not the day to bring your girlfriend for her first ever day of surfing. It's not going to be fun. For her. Or for us. If you insist on bringing her, do please give her a few tips. Like, for example, letting go of your ten foot longboard in the line-up is not nice. Sitting like a buoy in the impact zone, while the rest of us dodge and weave around her, is not so nice either. Just trying to help out.

And Girls, please try to remember, bend at the knees, not at the waist. If you can't remember this very simple lesson, we recommend board shorts. Do your really want your ass sticking up in the air like that? No, I didn't think so. Fortunately, it will soon be too cold - really, it was never warm enough - for such transgressions. Phew.

. . .

Bike rides are fun. Fall has to be one of my favorite times of the year for bike rides. I love the dry, desert heat of the Fall, the weird winds that whorl up through the canyons, the clear air. Lovely, really.

Dear Angry Car People — I'm sorry if...

your girlfriend left you, your wife is ugly, your wife is beautiful, but sleeping with someone else, your job sucks, you got fired from your job, which still sucks, you're late for a meeting, you're late to sleep with someone else's beautiful wife, your kid's a fucking twit, your kid beat up a the neighbor's fucking twit and now there's hell to pay, you're late to the twit's soccer game, you're pissed because you had to work during the swell last week, you took off work, but there was no swell, you hate bikes, you love bikes, but you're still late, you're late for class, the dog ate your homework, you failed the exam, because you didn't study, you studied for the exam, but you still failed, fucking professors anyway, your girlfriend's cat threw up on your shoes, gas costs too much, your car isn't as cool as your neighbor's car, your boyfriend's sleeping with your neighbor, because her car is cooler, or your stock portfolio just took a beating...

Don't take your fucking problems out on me. I'm just riding my bike. Thank you.

Anyway, it's fun going for bike rides in the Fall.

. . .

Pro Cycling Shenanigans. The bike racing news lately, it just gets weirder and weirder, doesn't it?

Lance Armstrong, again? Where's my DeLorean, I need to get back to the future.

And this week's scandals and speculations. Could they just get it over with already? The suspense is so totally killing me right now. Eh, I've written my share and then some about that elsewhere. I wouldn't want to be redundant or something.

But Lombardia is coming soon, which is one of my favorite races of the year. They do know how to throw them some bike races there in Italy. Could Worlds have been any more fun? Well, yes, if I'd actually been there. But we endure.

. . .

And that just about exhausts my blogability for this Wednesday afternoon. The word supply is running low, the gauge says E.

So I stop now.

From the Rule Book

2008-08-30T10:09:00.001-07:00

Rule No. 523: Always apply sunscreen before putting on your bikini.
Contents may shift in transit.

Still Life

2008-08-20T14:11:00.000-07:00

Still Life with Fruit Bowl, #5.

The Virga, she is smiling. We just might need to re-stock the fruit bowl soon.

* *

A friend of mine is a digital artist. Lovely stuff. She recently went to a big conference thingy with other digital artists. One of the best pieces? RealSnailMail.

Real snails will collect your message and carry it to the drop off point, at which time it will be delivered. Average time from pick-up to delivery? 8-16 days, depending on how speedy your snail happens to be.

Oh, and there are currently 7000 messages cued for delivery, so it might take a little while. Speed, so totally over-rated.

Want to meet the artists? Head over to NPR and hear an interview.

Brilliant, really.

For Sale!

2008-07-24T15:16:00.001-07:00

Because three wetsuits is too many!

Triathlon Wet suit by 2XU. Designed for swimming fast.

Model: C:1, clicky to see tech specs and size info.

Size: Mens Small/Tall. Fits 5'9" to 6'0", 141-159 lbs, according to size chart.

Brand new, tags still on, never been wet.

Asking $200.00

Shoot me a maily, twobluebikes@gmail.com if interested.

Name That Spot?

2008-07-21T10:19:00.000-07:00

What's not to like about the beach on a summer day?

Especially when there's a little surfy surf.

And we score parking right up front.

Memo

2008-07-15T14:47:00.000-07:00

Dear Supermarket Bagger People,

Thank you for bagging my groceries. Because really, I couldn't possibly do it myself. But please, when I give you MORE THAN ONE cloth bag for my groceries, do NOT stuff all my groceries into ONE BAG. There's a reason I have MORE THAN ONE. If I wanted my avocade squished under my bottle of Chianti, I would only give you ONE BAG. But I don't. And I don't want my fancy-shmancy organic lettuce crunched under the olive oil bottle or the soup cans. Really, I don't. When the time comes to crunch the lettuce, I'll be the one doing the crunching. Thank you for your consideration in this matter.

Love and kisses,
Jen.

Oh, and that race in France, pretty fun, eh?

¿donde esta?

2008-07-07T13:21:00.000-07:00

Calling all locals! I need me a new taco stand in the neighborhood of downtown. Like, east side would be super convenient like. I want to eat decent Mexican food, drink a beer, for not too much money. Help a girl out! I so heart the kids at Los Arroyos. Good food, nice people. But ack, they just went up with the prices again, and really, I just can't be throwing down quite so much every time I want a taco. They'll have to be my special occasion taco joint. Eh, I remember back in the day, eating fish tacos and caronas on the sidewalk outside their old wee hold in the wall. So good.

Why does progress have to cost so much money?

Gracias for any and all suggestions!

Where do they go?

2008-06-23T18:25:00.000-07:00

While I was on my bike ride today, I wrote a great post for this blog. It was all about how we went to the hardware store on Sunday morning to buy an umbrella so we could sit on the beach under an umbrella during the heat wave.

* *

There was a man there who was also buying an umbrella. He said he wanted one that he could stick in the sand. We said, we want one of those too! Where did you find yours? So he led us over to the umbrellas, which were stashed in a corner and not so easily found. The umbrella was almost as big as he was, and he dragged it along behind him. Then, he wanted to know which umbrella was the best umbrella. Should he get the one with the white metal post and the striped design? Or the one with the wood post and the solid design? Decisions, decisions.

We got the blue one.

Then, we put our umbrella in our VeeDub with the beach chairs and the beach towels and the beach bag with the sunscreen bottle in it. We drove around the corner and across the traintracks and around another corner. We found a VeeDub sized parking spot under a tree. Even the bug needs a little shade, and it's too big to fit under our umbrella. We walked along the trail, under the bouganvilla bushes (really, those flowers need a simpler name), across the little bridge and out to the sand.

And we sat under our umbrella. The blue one, that we bought at the hardware store.

* *

I think there were a few other things that went into this post, too. Maybe something more about the man. Maybe something about going to the hardware store on a Sunday, because it feels like such a cliché. Maybe something about the beach, and how it has two different names. But I can't remember them.

I don't know where the words go. Sometimes they're there, sometimes they're not.

Sunday Morning Cartoons

2008-06-09T20:23:00.000-07:00

John, Rincon Sunday morning.

Glassy, low-tide.

So perfect.

Photo, courtesy Jon Shafer, Rincon Surf Blog

Time Suckage Maximus

2008-06-02T15:05:00.001-07:00

See Ricco.

See Ricco Ride.

Ride Ricco Ride.

See Ricco Crash.

Ooopsy.

For best results, make sure the sound effects are on. You'll never work again. Promise.

And if you don't like Ricco, try this one. It has cows.

Yay for Giro!

2008-05-28T11:05:00.000-07:00

Really, the scenery is just so lovely there in Italy this time of year, isn't it?

With two mountain stages and a time trial left, Contador hold 1.21 over il Vecchio and .44 over Ricco. Savoldelli seems to think that there is room for attacking off the Vivione on Friday. He'll no doubt go stage-chasing in his native Bergamo, and could well take a GC fave along for the ride. Then, there is the Gavia-Mortirolo. Last time the Giro climbed the Mortirolo, Basso and Simoni rode away from the field, leaving them all far, far, behind. This is Simoni territory for sure. But he'll need time in hand to survive the final crono in Milano. This is what I love best about the Giro: Most years, it comes down to the final few days. That, and the scenery of course...

Oh, and have a look here for some cool photos from the Plan de Corones.

Potato Chip

2008-05-19T17:41:00.000-07:00

This is my new toy. It goes, very, very, very fast.

So I took it out to play.

If surfing all day during a heat wave is wrong, I don't want to be right.

Meanwhile in Oregon...

2008-05-15T08:46:00.000-07:00

While I'm drooling all over lovely viddy of Italy, the Mt. Hood Stage race is going off. Lyne Lamoureaux is on the story with her usual detailed race reports.

Head over to Roadbikereview or Podium Cafe to read on all about it!

In Italy? The bunch got all lazy today, despite the shortened stage and let the break go 12 minutes up the road. Visconti, the Italian national champion, is the new Maglia Rosa, replacing Cutey Curls. Nothing much notable happened, though I suppose for the Levi fans, there were signs of impending doom in his 23 second time loss. Me, not such a Levi fan, so WhatEVAH. Tomorrow, they do some climby climbing. Never a dull moment there in Italy.

Animal Kingdom

2008-05-11T14:05:00.000-07:00

Friday evening as we pedalled our way through Hope Ranch, we saw a family of skunks crossing the road. They stopped, looked both ways, and crossed in a tidy single-file line, just like a childrens' book. My precious meter pinged off the scale.

And no, I didn't stop for a pic. This blog would be so much better if, among other things, I actually carried a camera with me when setting out for adventures. Alas.

Today's ride was all about the critters. First, the dog. Bark, bark. Oh, look, there's a dog barking at us as we pass. Good thing he's behind that fence. Bark, bark. Oh, look, there's a hole in that fence. Here comes the dog. Bark, bark. How do they know that they should aim for the front wheel? Secret doggy senses. Bark, bark, sprint, ears flapping all wild like. Since I'm not adventurous enough to broadside the dog, I locked up the brakes all tightlike and stopped. Doggy looked up with a doggy sort of grin, turned around, and trotted off, tail wagging. That was fun. Woof.

Then, the squirrel. Look, a squirrel. Good thing he's by the side of the road. Oh, look, he's going to run into the road. Oh, look, there's the front wheel. Then, the squirrel changed his mind. Then, he changed it again. And again. By the side of the road, little dude spun his little self in circles. Am I going to run out into the bikey riders' wheels or am I going to stay out of the way? Ooooh, I can't decide. Spin, spin. Maybe I should go this way. Spin, spin. Which way should I go? Spin, spin. Good thing he couldn't make up his little squirrely mind. Dizzy squirrel.

The first Italian word I learned watching the Giro? Caduta, meaning crash. If there's a caduta generale? The whole field crashes. (There, now you can say you learned something reading blogs today. I'm so on your team right now.) Since the first stage of the race is always all nervylike, you'll hear Caduta over and over. The Italian cameras linger lovingly over the carnage, and the always excitable Bulba (yes, it's a national stereotype, but in this case, so totally true), gets all jiggy with the Caaaduuuutaaa! Uh, huh. Anyway, too bad for Z today, leaving the Giro on a caduta. Hopefully, all will be well for him soon.

Which reminds me of one of my fave things about the Italian commentators, Bulba and Cassani. Though they clearly love dearly their Italian stars, they comment generously about the non-Italian riders. Want to know the major results of the neo-pro from Ukraine in the break? They'll give it to you, along with some colorful story of another. So pro. They all but swooned over Z's time trial position last year. The kids over at OLN could learn a thing or two. Just sayin'

Pellizotti in Pink? Such a cutey.

Small

2008-05-09T09:52:00.000-07:00

Surfing small waves is hard.

But watching dolphins frolick and the sun set behind the trees turning the water to molten orange is a lovely way to spend the evening.

That is all for now. Blogging here at the Lint Trap may be a tad sparse (or, sparser than usual) for the next three weeks. GIRO!!

NeverBetter

2008-04-28T14:30:00.000-07:00

After our bikey ride on Sunday, we went down to the beach and sat on the point in the shade of the cliffs. As the sun disappeared behind us, the sand cooled beneath our feets, the water went splish splash, and the hint of an on-shore breeze cooled the air. Air Conditioning.

We brought the longboard along, because it's nice to get wet on a hot day, not because there were really any waves.

We call it the USS Ronald Reagan.

It's very,

very,

very long.

Thursday Morning Ride: Live Report

2008-04-24T15:20:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, 8.00 pm: Yeah, sure, the 8.00 am RoCo ride. I'll so be there. See ya tomorrow.

Thursday, 7.56 am: Jen, sitting on the couch, sipping an espresso. Because 8.00 am is far, far, too early. Uncivilized.

9.15 am: Roll out the door. 10.00 am is too late, 8.00 is too early, but 9.00? 9.00 am is just about right.

Pedal, pedal, pedal. Stoplight. Pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal.

9.35 am: Look, there's Meh-wee-uhn!

U-turn.

Pedal, pedal. Suweet, now I'm not a total loser friend for slacking on the 8.00 am. And I don't have to ride all by my silly self. I can ride with my silly self and Meh-wee-uhn's silly self. Two silly selves are definitely better than one.

Life is good.

Pedal, pedal, pedal. Good thing I didn't want to go surfing today. NeverBetter is bring your rubber ducky splish splash in the bathtub flat. Pedal, pedal, pedal.

9.45 am: KABAM! Spontaneous tubey combustion. At least it wasn't a slime tubey. (There's a story for another day...)

This event caused much headscratching. Like um, how the heck did that happen? Several offers of assistance from passersby were made. We thanked them nicely, because we're always nice.

Meh-wee-uhn goes to work with the tire levers and such.

9.48 am: Problem. Short stem tube, deep-dish wheel.

What to do.

Jen: I think I have a long-stem tubey. Jen digs in seat pack, spewing contents all over. Oh, crap, it's actually a short stem. But look, there's a long stem on my rear wheel.

Lightbulb.

Tube swappage commences. My long stem for her short stem. Then we pumped both our tires back up. Actually, I used a CO2. Cuz I'm lazy that way.

Pedal, pedal, pedal.

10.15 am: A few small hills appear. We climb them.

Meh-wee-uhn tries to eat and climb with mixed success. We compare Gu to any number of nasty, unmentionable substances. I think I may never eat it again, actually. I tell a lame story about eating Japanese food at an interview in British Columbia. I behaved. The interviewing committee? Not so much.

10.45 am: Gosling crossing. A pair of leetle yellow goslings crosses the bike path. Mama Goose sticks out her pink tongue at us. And hisses. Nice goosey goose, very nice goosey goose, we're like so out of here right now.

11.00 am: Meh-wee-uhn looks for the downhill lines on the UCSB bike path. No skin was lost in this adventure.
Jen makes a dicey pass by a stu rocking the cruiser no hands stylie. Do not try this at home.

11.05 am: Detailed discussion of favorite donuts ensues, a sure sign that someone is bonking. Powdered sugar scores high. So does frosted with sprinkles. Mmmm, dooonuts. What's sugar made out of?

11.20 am: Safe and sound on Cannon Green. What the hell is a Cannon Green anyway?

Meh-wee-uhn waxes philosophical: You see, I think you need to have a fluid ego construction to survive bike racing. I mean, fluid, like an amoeba. My ego is an amoeba.

Meh-wee-uhn stops to think, looking perplexed: An amoeba. So what's my psuedopod?

Jen laughs too hard to steer bike. Really, I think she should come with a warning label. Maybe we could plaster it across the back of her helmet? Think of the children.

11.30 am: Meh-wee-uhn goes in search of lunch. Jen continues pedaling. Things become less funny.

Pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal. TAILWIND! Wheeee! Pedal, pedal, pedal.

12.00 pm: Weather's getting warmer. Jen looks for more pockets. Where do they go? Stuffs vest up jersey. Does best camel imitation.

Avoids eating Gu packet. So totally ruined. ForEVAH.

Swoops down descent, checks surf at Burrito. Not even an itty-bitty bit of windswell. Sigh.

Pedal, pedal, pedal. Why'd they put this climb here? Sigh, again. Pedal, pedal, pedal.

12.30 pm: Jen arrives home, dumps pockets on floor. Searches kitchen for donuts.

Finds blueberry poptarts instead. Frosted. With sprinkles.

Life is good.

Poo' Talk

2008-04-23T14:23:00.000-07:00

Dude: How many meters did you do?

Me, thinking: Uh... are you hitting on me?

True confessions? I really wasn't counting. I did some swimmy swim, then some kicky kick, then some sprinty sprint. It was fun and splashy and sunshiney. Maybe I got a little tan.

How many? Some.

B'sides, I already got a hot date tonight for some bikey riding.

And um, yes, I'm like married and stuff.

April Flowers

2008-04-21T13:50:00.001-07:00

Just a leetle Monday project.

And yes, in case you were wondering, the trip home is all uphill.

So, um, like do I get credit for training and stuff? Ruling? Sigh, I didn't think so.

For added entertainment the Green Beast - which is a 5 speed Schwinn - pulls to the right, thanks to a bendy in the framey. The basket could fit a small child and weighs about as much. Cornering is muy, muy, interesting, to say the least.

Mmmkay, now I gotta go plant 'em.

Funny Pages

2008-04-11T09:15:00.000-07:00

Not an Angry Girl

2008-04-07T16:38:00.000-07:00

Clicky the piccy to make it go. (The embed thingy is brokey.)

Ani D played at the very stodgy theater downtown where Cultural Events take place.

Oddly, they once booked X at this very same venue.

Damage occurred. Uproar roared up.

Who books a punk band to a theater with velvet seats and chandeliers? And columns. The place has columns. Like some sort of Greek mausoleum. Fuck the Patriarchy.
I think I saw the columns shudder.

Ani rocked it hard. So it was all good. And since St. Babs is a small town, the theater for Culture is very very small. You can't have the plebes getting too much Culture or anything. We had like sixth row seats. Ani said she was scared of farting. Cuz we were really, really close.

Final score: One tranny got (almost) naked. No velvet seats torn.

And no, I haven't seen Flanders yet. Cuz I just got the download. So can't wait!

Training Wheelz

2008-03-31T17:17:00.000-07:00

I gots me a bit of work to do on my turning and pivotting skillz. This is some very serious training equipment right here.

Uh-huh.

Last time I had a skate, it was pink and I was like ten. Um, this one's like way cooler and stuff.

And yes, I've already totally stacked it.

Today's lesson, boyz and girlz: Pavement is harder than water.

Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle

2008-03-24T15:49:00.001-07:00

More warm sunshiney roads in the hills.
More spring.
More flowers.
More sneezes.
More is good.

Saturday night, we went to see these guys in Ventura.

Crazy fun punk rock mayhem.

Lots of songs from the early 90s. Even, gasp, some old skool '80-'85 bits. The kids in the pit weren't even born for some of those songs. But they knew every fucking lyric to every fucking song.

So cool.

The boys on stage have a little less hair and a little more grey, these days. Never too old to be a punk.

On the subject of badass, this finish has to be the coolest EVAH. (And Italian commentators so bring the passion.)

When was the last time someone won San Remo off a solo move? I mean, I know Coppi did. But that was sorta different. This one certainly ranks up there with the 1992 edition where Kelly went all crazy like on the Poggio and bridged to Argentin. Che bello finale!

Pool Nazi

2008-03-21T13:50:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, I went down to da poo' for a splashy-splash. It's been pretty much like forEVAH since I last went to the pool for anything more strenuous than a casual dippy dip and a little sunbathing. But I thought maybe I'd swim back and forth. Chase the black line, make sure it was still there.

I put on my little suity and stuffed my hairs into the cap, which always feels like putting a balloon over my head, and tied on my newly assembled goggles. On swim team, all the cool kids get Swedes. (As a side note, it's nice that wiki gives assembly instructions. Because, um, it's like hard and stuff.) The really cool kids mix and match. Blue on the right, green on the left, and whathaveyou. Just avoid the yellow ones. There, now you can't say you never learned anything useful here at the Lint Trap. No yellow swedes. (Unless you have to race in a really really dark indoor poo' Then, you'll be rocking the yellows and desperately trying to ignore the unfortunate effect they have on your surroundings. Better that than wacking into the wall.) Anyway, since I'm not cool, my Swedes are blue on both sides.

I tippy toed across the deck, found myself some swim toys - no, no, pull your mind out of the gutter, toys are the little bouy for the leggies and the little kick board for the kicking - and headed over to a lane. Helpful descriptions labelled each lane: Slow, Medium, Fast, Very Fast, and Kick. Choose your own Adventure. I headed toward the slow lane. Because I was feeling slow and maybe not quite totally committed.

I hopped in the water, and splashed around. This poo' is set up 50 meter. Long course stylie. It has always felt like a very very long way from one end to the other in a 50 meter pool. Short course? Way mo' easier, because there's walls to bounce off. I'm all about bouncing off the walls. 50 meters? Not so many walls. Anywho, I cruised back and forth a little, getting a feel for the joint.

On about my second trip back to the start where all the little lane signs were, I looked up to find the Pool Nazi staring me down. I'm thinking, what di' do? Has some new etiquette rule been enacted since I last jumped in a poo'? I'm just splashing around here, watching the sun make those little patterns on the bottom.

"Do you know you're in the SLOW lane?" she asked, in the tone of voice that seemed to imply that I was in fact very slow indeed.

"Um, yes?"

"Well, you're in the wrong lane. You need to move to the Fast Lane. Or better yet, the Very Fast Lane."

"But, I mean, I haven't been in the pool in years," I argue.

But the Pool Nazi was not swayed. She fixed me with her Pool Nazi Stare.

"You need to move."

"Uh, ok," I mumble.

No Slow lane for you.

So, under her watchful eye, I gathered up my toys and shuffled over to the Fast Lane. No way, no how was I getting in the Very Fast Lane. Shit, I can't remember the last time I felt Very Fast in a pool. I can't even remember Sorta Fast, Maybe a Little Fast, or Not Quite Fast. I'm long retired from Fast.

Fast means pace clocks and qualifying times and more intervals than any human being should ever endure. Fast means stroke drills that make you sink, turn practice that makes you dizzy, breathing exercises that make the world go dim around the edges. Fast means chasing the black line hour after hour, doomed never to catch it. Fast means layering on three ugly swimsuits faded and torn. Fast means really bad hair.

I'm not looking for fast. I just want to splash around in the water, get a little exercise, and maybe work on my tan.

In the end, just as I suspected, the Pool Nazi was wrong. I definitely wasn't Very Fast.

How do I know?

My bikini stayed on.

Much More Better

2008-03-14T14:19:00.000-07:00

I found it. The creak, I mean. Stupid pedal washers.

Now, my bikey is all quiet, which means I have no excuse but to sally forth and train much. Uhhh....

Speaking of finding things, I found a new road today. I mean, I didn't really find it. It's been there all along, I just never got around to paying it a visit. It went under some trees up to an empty grassy flowery field with a perfect view all the way to the islands. Then, a twisty little quicky descent to finish things off right. Fun times. File under, new favorite.

And yes, I have a bunch of these flower pics, so I'm going to bore you with them repeatedly. The words just look so lonely without a little piccy to keep them company.

Someday, I might write about bikey racing. But I'd have to go to one first. See above about the training part. I hear riding around off the back of a mountain bike race is pretty fun. But, um, I think I'd rather show up at least a leetle mo' fitter. I know, I know, no sense of adventure.

Gesundheit!

2008-03-10T18:21:00.000-07:00

So I'm trying to find my fitness. It's around here somewhere. Has anyone seen it?

It's always cracks my morale a little to have that not-so-fit feeling. Since having the flu that kept on giving, I've been talking myself into riding my way back toward something resembling form. I mean, we're not talking world beating here or anything, just enough to ride an actual race all the way to the actual finish line. And maybe before sometime next year.

This is always a tricky business, since the less fit I am, the less I want to ride. So I play little games. I pick a few of my favorite roads and string them together. If I ride an hour in that direction, I can go down a fun descent. If I turn up this road and do a little climby climb, I can see a nice view. Come here little girl, I'll give you some candy. Today, I rode along the coast and looked at the water. Tomorrow, I'll climb up somewhere and look at the view. All these little games. No numbers, no graphs, just bikey rides around the 'hood.

Fortunately, spring has decided to show up for a few days. (It's supposed to rain this weekend, so enjoy it while it lasts.) Riding the bikey in the sun is such a joyous thing. The sun is all sunshiney, the hills are green and grassy, and the flowers all flowery and polleny.

Jen's tip of the day: Do not attempt to sneeze and corner simultaneously. It may cause disequilibrium.
(Is this a word? It is now.)

Now, if I could just find and silence the nasty creak my bike seems to have acquired recently, it will all be so perfect.

I do not like a creaky bike
A creaky bike, I do not like

I do not like it in the light
I do not like it in my sight
My creaky bike, it is a blight
Oh, tool of Park please make it right

Dr. Suess, I'm surely not
For now my brain is in a knot
With these rhymes I fought and fought
Perhaps I should erase the lot

I do not like a creaky bike
A creaky bike, I do not like

Keyhole

2008-02-29T08:29:00.001-08:00

Very Large Sunday...

Lag Time

2008-02-25T18:07:00.001-08:00

Who were the dumbasses who put ugly paper stuff all over my pier pilings? I'm just trying to get all artsy here, and you had to go and ruin the entire effect. I like the light and shadow. We're just all going to pretend that instead of the piling condoms, we see old, nurled, splintery wood, smelling faintly of tar and sea spray.

Got it? Good.

Now that we have that out of the way, I feel certain you all thought I'd forgotten all about you. Fear not, gentle reader, I have not forgotten, simply lagged. Why is it that the reader is always gentle, anyway? Wishful thinking, no doubt. I even had content to post. You missed out on my Presidents' day celebration, a lovely day at the beach.

But I have an excuse. Surely, you will understand once I explain. See, I'm getting over the flu like pretty much everyone else on the planet. This is some fun times right here. Would you care for some snot with your snot?

And let's talk about fevers for a minute. I am as lazy as the next person, but really, two full days staring at the wall is a little excessive, don't you think? Couldn't we streamline this process, somehow, get it all done more quicklike? I have things to do, you know.

Like bike racing, for example. I was really thinking March. March sounded really really good. I always dream that I'm going to race in February. But really, who am I fooling? It's freakin' cold out in February. Who wants to do climbing repeats in February? 1-2-3... Not it! And all those clothes. How the fuck am I supposed to feel fast in ten layers of clothing? Adding weight, right there. Besides, February is a long way from June. And I really like to race in June. Sun. I think I remember what that looks like.

Meanwhile, I'm sitting here in the endless coughing stage. I'll see you all on the road. Sometime next year.

Fortunately, fate smiled upon me and I could play interwebs all week. Yay for the Tour of Cali! So kind of all those bike racers to show up and entertain me while I was lying on the couch. There are several blog posts worth of material right there. But really, I've posted more than my share around the interwebs. During the season, I tend to hang with the kids at the Cafe. Pretty much all my pro bikey racing chatter goes there, rather than here. Uh, I dunno, I guess because I was there before I was here? Something like that, at least. Fun race to watch for sure, though I was hoping for a new winner. Variety, spice of life, and stuff. Most excellent to see two Slippies on the final podium. Could they have ridden a better race? They could have won, you say. The gentle reader grows demanding. I say, Vandevelde looked happier than the winner, and I thought they were going to spray paint the walls when they won the teams competition. Did you see the shot of Millar's face inside the last K of the time trial? He wanted that one real badlike. I can't wait to see what happens next with those kids.

I did manage to miss the grand finale yesterday, though. I was sitting on the couch, well, really, I think I'm permanently attached to my couch. So until further notice, you can assume I'm sitting on my couch. Maybe I should post a picture.

But anyhow.

I was sitting on my couch watching the race do its thing over the big hills in the hard rain. I was also rather idly flipping over to the bouy readings, which were going up remarkably quickly. The break hit the closing circuits with 2.30 in hand, rain coming down in the sheets in Pasadena. All the ingredients for an epic showdown.

Right about then, the bouys inside the Santa Barbara Channel read 20 feet with 19 second periods. Uh, this bike race looks great, but I gotta go.

It looked like Hawaii. Except the part about the water being the wrong color. Hawaii water is all blue and light and happy. Central Cali water is dark, grey. Very serious water. A banker in a tailored suit sipping a vodka martini at lunch water. Not a little paper parasol to be seen.

It was fucking HUGE.

Big Wednesday? Not-so-big. Access to the sandbar was closed as was the pier, so I didn't score much with the cam cam. We watched from the beach by the pier as a few guys got crazy.

Then we drove down the coast a little, sat on the wall, and watched the huge sets roll in one after another until the sun set.

Girlfried

2008-02-12T17:26:00.001-08:00

Bikes. Waves. Sunshine.

Too much fun.

In the immortal words of the Dead Kennedys, too fried to type.

As usual, the picture above has nothing to do with this post. So sue me.
It also needs re-cropping. Cuz it's just a wee bit off-camber. Oopsy.

Short and Lazy

2008-02-07T14:48:00.000-08:00

The Coastal Commission voted 6-2 against the toll road thingy last night. A report by a CC expert concluded that the road, if built, would do "irreparable" damage to the surf at Trestles. Some of the pro-road peeps claimed that this was just localism, that the Trestles clique just wanted to keep the inlanders out. Localism? At Trestles? Oh, puleeze. We're not talking secret spot here, kids. B'sides with all that internet prediction out there, just about anyone with a car and an internet thingy can find some surf. What's the point of getting there faster on the toll road, if there's nothing left to surf, hmm? Next up, the appeal. More words and some pics of the craziness over at surfline. (As a side note, I wish one of the cycling sites would take lessons from these guys. Pictures are good.)

I had a lovely long bike ride in the sun today. So lovely, that I am far too stupid to write anything more.

While you're waiting for me to come up with something, have a look at these lovely images:

Save Trestles!

2008-01-29T12:49:00.001-08:00

The Coastal Commission meets next week to decide the fate of San Onofre State Park and the Trestles point break. Some developer people have submitted a plan to build a toll road, passing behind San Clemente and directly through San Onofre State Park, the fifth most visited State Park in Cali. If approved, the highway would cut off 60 percent of Park. Clicky the pic at left to see the before and after shots of the project posted by the good people at Surfline. The "after" images were created as part of the official proposal, and are designed to be as accurate as possible.

So nice to take a walk in the woods. Along side a freeway.

What's a freeway got to do with a surf break? Trestles is a point, created and nourished by San Mateo Creek, a creek that the new chunk of concrete would largely cover. A point break needs its river to survive. Orphaned from the creek, the point stops working, because the silty rocky bits that keep the waves breaking all the way down the point are no longer replenished by the flow of the creek.

Build the highway, lose the break. Simple.

Governor Arnie has signalled his support for the project, but the Coastal Commission has still to approve it. The company building the freeway likely bought Arnie's support with their offer of a one-time $100 million offset payment, intended to compensate for the lost State Park lands. Surfrider is rocking it hard to convince the Commissioner guys that this is the wrong freeway in the wrong place. See what they have to say to the notion of selling off the State Park in this recent interview.

Surfrider has also posted an online petition thingy.

Me? I think SoCali already has far too many freeways. Far, far too many.

Palm Trees and...

2008-01-24T12:53:00.001-08:00

Snow?!

A Long Story for a Rainy Day

2008-01-23T12:00:00.000-08:00

It's definitely not sunny out anymore, so I suppose I'd better be updatin'.

Happiness is a clean bike on a rainy day on the trainer? Not quite doing it for me, I have to say. I think I need a few more surf videos.

While, I'm waiting for my pod to charge, how 'bout a story from the way back machine? I was chatting with a good friend over email yesterday, and we got to reminiscing about the time we drove across country. A bit of a cliche, the best friends drive across country story. I think someone once wrote a book about it, but I might be mistaken.

I'd been living in Washington DC at the time, doing graduate work at Georgetown University. She drove out with a soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. Tall and skinny, he looked like he'd just walked out of one of those early '90s films set in Seattle, complete with flannel shirt and ripped jeans. He even played drums in a local band. He had the nickname, green bean. But he isn't altogether relevent to our story, since he flew home almost as soon as he appeared. Exit stage left.

After closing out a bar in the District, which for those of you who know anything about DC is quite a feat, because there's no last call, we piled into her Nissan. I'm forgetting exactly what sort of Nissan it was, but she'd had it since high school. It was tiny, and made tinier still once we stuffed all my odds and ends in the back and our tall, gangly selves in the front.

We passed over the mountains into West Virginia, surrounded by the deep green of early summer in the south, and headed toward our first stop in Dayton, Ohio. We had a friend in Dayton, where we planned to stay the night. Alissa had met him in a chat room on AOL. He inhabited a very white, very plain condo in a tidy, carefully mowed lawns sort of suburb of Dayton. We pried into his cd collection. So not punk rock. We went out for drinks in old town Dayton. We didn't close the bar.

Fuled by the bottomless coffee cups of a Waffle House - do they have Waffle House in Ohio? Maybe it was a Denny's - we hit the road toward Chicago. Our goal? The Art Institute of Chicago. A parking meter offered the only space to leave the car. We stuffed the meter as full as it would allow, and headed off to the museum. Time flies when looking at fabulous paintings, and in a panic, we ran through the museum to make it back to the car, imagining ourselves stranded in Chicago with our car in some impound lot. A blur of Kandinsky canvases flew by, the colors streaming together in a way not even Kandinsky could have imagined. Our meter had expired, but apparently it was our lucky day. Not only had the museum admitted us for free, but the parking police had ignored us.

The traffic did not smile upon us, and we sat for hours on a gridlocked highway leading out of the city. We found a bed outside Iowa City late that night, and ate a country breakfast with the local farmers, like a pair of politicians canvassing for votes. Another bottomless cup of coffee - we were still far from the land of espresso - and we set out for Nebraska.

On the highway across Nebraska, our story slowed to a crawl. Crossing Nebraska longways requires commitment. Unlike the gridlock of Chicago, the cow pastures of Nebraska had no radio stations. Eventually we even strayed beyond the reach of NPR, whose consideration of all things wacky and random had kept us entertained when the cows could not. Road stops stood few and far between and we finally braved a truck stop cafe just off the highway. Picture a movie set diner, and you'll know the place. I opted for the always safe, grilled cheese. I forget what exactly Alissa ordered, but it came with this white, glazelike gravy that looked like the product of some alien life form. Alien spoo, over easy.

At last putting Nebraska behind us, we reached a rainy Cheyenne late that evening.

Hmm, nice thunderstorm out there. Internet connection dies, in 3-2...?

Back to Cheyenne. We slept in a motel with pseudo-rustic wood panelling. Like so totally western. At least it was cheap. Determined to make Utah by the end of the next day, we didn't devote much time to Cheyenne. Somewhere along the 80 in Wyoming, the emergency broadcast system started squawking. Naturally, we changed the station. Like, as if we wanted to hear the standard, this is only a test message. Meanwhile, the sky turned black and chunks of asteroidsized hail pelted the car. A rest stop appeared through the murk. We pulled off, and joined a parking lot full of truckers and assorted extras staring at the horizon, watching a not-too distant tornado. I guess sometimes those emergency broadcasts have something useful to say. A trucker helpfully informed us that getting struck by lightening is a bad idea, and driving through a tornado even worse. Thanks, we were a little unclear on that, because like, we've never seen Wizard of Oz or anything.

The tornado headed off on its merry way, and we hit the road to Utah, arriving early that evening. We saw many mountains with much snow. We stopped in Park City and got drunk on 3/2 beer at 7000 feet. Good thing about that altittude. We paused for a few days to sip espressos on Main Street. We slept in a half-dilapidated Victorian, on its way to restoration. But nothing much funny happened. It's hard to be funny on 3/2 beer.

I've done the drive from Utah to San Diego a few times. It's like Nebraska without the cows. At least we had air conditioning, unlike the time I drove it in my veedub one summer. That trip, I wore a bikini, because it was hot and stuff. We stopped at the Barstow McDonalds in the train car and drank milk shakes, because that's what one does in Barstow. We descended Tejon at sunset, the valley already in shadow, a thousand points of light just blinking on. We reached San Diego late that night, never really wanting to see the inside of the Nissan again.

Holy Crap, this is some kind of rain.
And this post definitely needs a picture. Far, far too many words for no pictures. Back later...

Happiness Is...

2008-01-15T14:26:00.000-08:00

...A clean bike and a sunny day!

Grayscale

2008-01-14T17:38:00.000-08:00

I like a rainy day at the beach. I have no idea who this dude is, but he made me a nice swirly design.

The rest of this post has nothing to do with the picture. Just one of those things.

Saturday, I went out for a little bikey riding. John was out surfing a rockin' west swell that the stork brought in from the Pacific. I'm pedalling along enjoying the sunshiny day, when I see some guy riding along ahead of me. He's going kinda slowlike, so soon enough I roll on up and pass him. I said hi and gave him the requisite roady wave, because I didn't want him to dash home to his computer and get all ranty on some forum or another about how roadies are a bunch of stuck-up assholes who never wave. (True topic, actually seen in forumland.) B'sides, he's in my 'hood, and I wouldn't want to give the wrong impression. The natives are quite friendly here. Really.

So I said hi, and continued on my merry way. Since there's some flowery things blooming (they're obviously confused, like, um, newsflash, it's January), I had some extra snot that needed removing. Duly removed. Oopsy, looks like slow guy sped up and jumped on my wheel. Who knew he was back there? I didn't. So now, he's going to go home and tell all his friends virtual or otherwise about how this mean bitch blew snot on him.

He said he was from the East Coast or some sort of cold place like that. And I'm thinking, you spent all this cash to come out here to ride, and you're going to spend it staring at my ass? Not like you're going to get fit sucking my wheel all day, you know.

And he wanted to chat. With my ass. If he'd actually wanted to talk to me, maybe, just maybe he'd have moved on up next to me and we could have had a chat. Not that I really wanted to or anything, but really, it's odd having someone sitting back there babbling on and on about nothing I can really understand since I can only hear about one word out of ten over the wind.

After a while, I decided I really didn't want to listen to him back there any more. And more importantly, I had some more snot to dispose of. Usually I just head for the hills under such circumstances. Or turn off somewhere completely random. But there weren't any random spots for turning and I wasn't near any hills for heading. So I turned the screws until he blew.

I guess I'm a mean bitch after all.

At least I waved.

Winter Color

2008-01-10T09:15:00.001-08:00

FREE THE BABBLE!

2008-01-04T16:30:00.000-08:00

This blog is under review due to possible Blogger Terms of Service violations.
Apparently, the good people at Google think that us Bellas are a bunch of good for nothing spammers. We're innocent, I tell ya. I mean, I haven't written about Viagra once on the Race Blog. Promise. Silly Google People. FREE THE BABBLE!

Orographically Enhanced. Weather report or porn star? You decide.

I had this idea that I was going to lift more this winter. Usually, I crack and give it up. Really, I'm no fan of the gym place, and counting to 15 over and over is not exactly my idea of a good time. But the weather decided to help me out. It's fucking pouring. That, and I discovered the rolly ball balance thingy. Fun times. I did nearly land on my ass, but since there was no one around to see, it didn't actually happen.

Someone at the Red Lobster corporate mothership decided that the gym was a good place to advertise. Nothing like seeing pictures of fried fish bits being dipped into vats of butter while you're doing crunches. Sea cockroaches, yum.

CNN sent some poor schmuck to stand by the side of the road in Truckee. Yep, it's snowing, yes indeed. Sillier still, there were people sitting in their cars on the Eighty, in the belief that they were actually going to get somewhere. Um, like, hello? Any y'all ever looked at a weather report? Let's go drive over Donner Pass during the biggest storm of the year. Brilliant.

A Janet Jackson video came on. My pod was playing System of a Down. It was confusing.

Then, I rode the trainer. Some surfers shredded it on my laptop. That was good of them to show up and help me out like that. And, better still, I finally found a use for that copy of War and Peace I got for Christmas. Because it's not like I'm going to read the thing.

Apparently, Obama won in Iowa. That's nice. I'm glad the good people of Iowa have something to do with their time during the dark days of winter. All those caucuses and town meetings, diners and high school gymnasiums: it makes a lovely advertisement for participatory democracy. Can you give me a little more sepia? Maybe soften the focus up a smidge? Perfect.

Keep your eye on my finger and listen to the sound of my voice. Spectatory Democracy. (And no, that is not a word. I made it up. Sue me. Actually, on second thought, that would be a really bad idea. The suing part, I mean. How 'bout I promise not to make up any more words instead? Because there's a promise I can keep.) Gather around the glowing box and gaze upon the empty pageantry of presidential politicking. Red, white, and blue bunting. So hot this year.

I hit 50 on Free Rice. I'm not sure this is a good thing.

Yikes, there's a whole lotta water out there right now. Um, I think I'm over it. How about skipping the orographically enhanced part? Un-enhanced is perfectly fine with me.

From the 805 to the 858

2007-12-26T21:46:00.000-08:00

The One-Oh-One
The Four-Oh-Five
The Seventy-Three
The Five.

The One.

The Five
The Seventy-Three
The Four-Oh-Five
The Five
The Fourteen
The Five
The One-Twenty-Six
The One-Oh-One
The One-Ninety-Two.

Fuckin' SoCali.

Merry Christmas and Stuff.

Words

2007-12-18T19:03:00.001-08:00

Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running luster on the bay. You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web.

Opening paragraph, The Body Artist.

How does he do that?

Little Bike Blue

2007-12-13T18:30:00.000-08:00

I took my IF out for a long overdue jaunt around the neighborhood. She's the first blue bike, Little Bike Blue. I actually have three blue bikes, but two makes for a far better rhyme. I certainly didn't set out to be so monochromatic. Next time, I'll have the orange one, thanks.

I have sinned. I have badly neglected Little Bike Blue and she felt free to show her displeasure. Born in Massachusetts, a land of rooty, twisty single track, the first blue bike likes to go fast and turn quickly. She reads my mind. Which is not always a good thing. A high bottom bracket, short chainstays, and short wheel base make tight single track a joy. Except when I forget what to do and get left behind. Uh, dude, where's my bike?

We went out to one of the local hills and went up. Up went great. Little Bike Blue likes to climb things. Down went less great. We had a few directional disagreements, the blue bike and I. When it's cold and winterlike, I'm not so quick. Being of the east coast persuasion, Little Bike Blue has no problem with cold. She was way ahead of me. I feel certain it was all the weather's fault. No, really.

Perhaps I should stick to my Schwinn, who rarely gets ahead of anything. The Schwinn is the third blue bike, for those of you keeping score at home. The third blue bike is a 1955 Schwinn Tornado, a name that sounds far more exciting the pedestrian pace we generally achieve. I even put on a nice spineasy gear, since the original gearing was bigger than my legs. Maybe women were just burlier in the 1950s. Or maybe they wanted to ride their cruisers on the freeway.

Having digressed this far from the original point, which may or may not have existed, I should not neglect the second blue bike. I really don't have much to say about the second blue bike. She came second. And she's from Santa Cruz, a place I would very much like to be from. (I'd like it ever more if there weren't a preposition at the end of that sentence. Alas.)

But I am trying to get back down the hill, and can't be bothered with prepositions just now. The descending part wasn't smooth, and it definitely wasn't pretty. Like, how long have I been riding this bike? (A really long time, in bike years.) I really race on this thing? (Yes, I'm afraid so. There are even pictures to prove it.) Let's just say, I've got just a little ways to go before I'm ready to see any starting lines, and maybe I better hide out in the hills for a while where no one can see my utter lack of grace and finesse. Certainly, I should stop neglecting the first blue bike.

But at least I made it back home at the same time as my bike.

Baby steps.

My Own Secret Sandbar

2007-12-10T21:00:00.000-08:00

Into the Sunset: An unidentified surfer grabs air at a rarely breaking spot in Santa Barbara.

It's a funny quirk of surfing culture, that one is never supposed to blow the secret spot or publish news of the big swell. All the same, everyone knew about the big swell that showed up last week. In the parking lot, a guy said he owned a surf shop on the East Coast. He'd flown across the country. I hope he got a wave. I heard French, Aussie, and Spanish accents. Everyone turned out for the big party in Cali.

In the morning, we headed down to Rin- erm, a point south of Santa Barbara. There, the size showed to advantage. The water runs deep over an undersea canyon, then kicks up big when it hits the silty shallows of the rivermouth. It was nothing like the NorCali spots, the Grand Canyonlike troughs at Mavericks, for example. (Head over to surfline for some video of that craziness.) But big enough to inspire awe. And break a few boards.

After a serious gawking session, I headed down to the harbor to that "rarely breaking spot." Even surfline didn't give it away, posting video of "an epic California Sandbar." It's a little silly. There isn't a wave in the world that looks like this one. And it isn't especially hard to find. Maybe that was why the lineup stretched the length of an Olympic-sized swimming pool. And why only the best of the best got a ride.

When the Army Corps of Engineers decided to create Santa Barbara Harbor, they got out their digging machine and started shovelling. The result was the harbor.

And a sandbar.

To the sandbar, they added a breakwater, with a stout rock pile to keep the currents from undoing their efforts. Certainly, they didn't set out to make a surf spot.

On a big swell, the sandbar kicks up a fast, steep wave that barrels like nobody's business. The same shallow sandy bottom that forms the peak demands the perfect take-off, as blowing the timing means intimate contact with the sandy bottom. One board lay forlornly on the beach, its nose broken clean off. Surely, it wasn't the only casualty.

But I am forgetting the breakwater, which gives this spot its distinctive sillouette. After all, nature creates its share of sandbars. Here, the concrete wall sends each successive swell careening back on itself, pushing the peak still higher and sending sky-high the signature arc of spray. Drop in too slow, and the backwash pushes back. Boards and ragdoll figures fly through the white water.

I stood on the breakwater, the spray towering above me. To get to the front of the lineup, guys walk, lemmings in a line, along the rocks and jump. A cranky old man watched nearby, muttering dire predictions. Really, this was the easiest part of the whole business.

After watching the mayhem for a time, I headed down to the beach. The swell started to drop off, though a few overhead set waves still rolled through. One of the mass of photographers, lugging a monster long lens, headed for home as I walked down the beach. "It's over," he said. I thought maybe he was right, but the afternoon sun warmed my skin and I hated to leave. When the film ran out, I didn't reload, switching to the digital happy-snapper, lazily firing off a shot here and there.

And then, just about the time I started to think about the bike ride I hadn't done and that maybe I'd had my fill, the real party started.

The signs showed subtlely at first. Suddenly, guys were making the drop. Every time. The overhead set waves, which had often gone unclaimed earlier, now found plenty of takers. Interesting, I thought. On the smaller waves, the moves started look a little more polished, a little more powerful. A little more pro. A Quicksilver logo caught my eye, then an Oakley. Still more interesting. A kid ran down the beach, autograph pad in hand. A tan, strong-looking guy smiled and signed.

And then, I saw the best surfing I've ever seen live. It was as if Tommeke and Ale showed up and pulled out all the stops to win the city limit sprint. Or, maybe better, as if Brian Lopes railed on your local descent, getting air and taking lines you'd never imagined existed.

Here's Kelly Slater (right), bazillion times world champion. He's like good and stuff.

The beer flowed freely on the beach and the local bros cheered the big moves. No prize money, no judges. Just a little play session in the sand box.

I shot until the light faded, walking back up the beach in the setting sun.

Beautiful.

Clicky for more pics.

Sandspit at Sunset

2007-12-04T18:40:00.001-08:00

Santa Barbara Harbor.

Schaaawing!

2007-11-30T10:02:00.001-08:00

No, it's not the hill profile for a Giro stage, though they will present next year's Giro course this Saturday. Hair gel and swanky suits, galore! This, my friends, is a "significant northwest swell event," coming our way next week. The predictor-guys... No, not the bike racers, the surf report guys. Geez, we can' t talk about bike racing all the time. Anyway, those guys who watch the bouys and computer models and tea leaves and stuff are calling for 15-20 feet. In the channel.

That's, um, like big and stuff.

Now fear not, gentle reader, I will not be paddling out. That's a whole lot of water. Like the Stelvio. Only wet. The storm making it happen is sitting close to the coast, so that big mass of water will be movin' something fierce. But I will be dusting off the beach chair. Because I like to watch.

I might even get out the camera, the one that requires actual film. You remember film, right? Long, skinny, plastic ribbony substance, that when exposed to light and chemicals displays images. You know, that stuff. My film camera still kicks ass over the little digital box, but it only gets to come out on special occasions. If the tide hits just right, the wind doesn't freak, and Sandspit starts working, that would constitute a very special occasion.

If not, well, there's always the webcam at Mavericks.

In totally unrelated news, the gray lady plugged 'cross racing in today's Escapes section. What next, downhillin' in Sunday Styles? Mud, Sweat and Gears. You'd think, with the mulitude of talent assembled there in the big NYC, they could rally up a better headline. I mean, even I could do better than that one. Mud... Mud and... Barriers and... Um, well, right. Maybe later. Anywho, click and read. I'll just be sittin' here writing headlines. Pedaling... Mud stuck in pedals... Sweat and... Pedals and... Falling... Falling... Falling...

(Graph thingy stolen from wetsand.)

Now, with pictures...

2007-11-28T15:19:00.001-08:00

I like the climbing rides. Roll out the door, start pedaling. Simple.

This time, instead of trying to make words, I brought pictures. Pictures are good. Or they would be good, if I'd bothered to bring my camera. But I didn't. My pockets were a little full. And I wouldn't want to add weight, you know. The horror! Instead, I give you furry, blurry cell photos. You never knew the world looked quite like this. Alien lenses. Or something.

million dollar view, not-so million dollar cell phone
the clouds were pink... really.

the road snakes upward
and up and up and up

one blue bike, such a poser

the view commanded the islands
they're out there, i promise

a cratered moonscape
i'll have a some dirt with my road, thanks

vertiginous

there's a coke in the fridge
and not much else

Under a Winter Sun

2007-11-26T16:20:00.000-08:00

I like me some kelp. With a full moon comes wide tide swings. Yesterday, it hit 7 feet and change in the morning, then skedaddled on out to a minus by the late afternoon. As the tide goes out, the kelp reaches up and wraps around fingers and toes and surfboards. Nothing like blowing the take-off, because the kelp grabbed your fin.

Yesterday was some good surfing. An overcast, grey sort of day, the sea the color of the sky, or maybe it was the sky the color of the sea. I'm never quite sure about such things. A decent little swell brought out the full cast of characters.

There's the guy who always wears a white hat tied under his chin. There's the guy that rides each wave all the way to the beach, then walks back up the point for the shortest possible paddle back into the lineup. Is it really easier to walk than paddle? There's spastic paddler guy. His hands churn egg-beaterlike, his elbows high and dry. Who knew it was so hard to make a surfboard go. There's the wave hog. Got it! Outside, outside, got it! He likes to give a little whistle, just to be sure. I mean really, if you're that badass, go to Jalama or something. Tarantulas. Now there, my friends, is a great name for a surf spot.

But I am being digressing.

There's the dude who can't steer. Um, if you're going to take off from the top of the point, try not to run everyone over, mmkay? There's the spastic kid on the short board who's watched far too many surf vids. There's the woman who must have spent years at ballet school as a child. She stands on the board in third position, the feet placed just so, the arms floating all graceful like. She can't turn either, but she looks pretty doing it. I suppose there's something to be said for looking pretty. There's dad, teaching his kid to surf. He knows just where to sit in the lineup, and he launches his little missile into the perfect wave. Of course, junior falls over and gets worked. There's ugly pink surfboard guy. Pink. I hope it was free.

Me? I caught me a few waves and watched the sun dance off the peaks, turning grey to silver, each rolling swell a wrinkle in rippling silk.

Intermission Talk amongst yourselves. Topic, the weather.

Alright, I'm back now. Didya miss me?

The espresso machine called. Of course I answered. Now, where were we? Thanksgiving happened. Bikes were ridden. Nappage was committed. Coffee was consumed. People were watched. Pizza was eaten (with red wine, natch). Relatives were phoned. Slacking occurred. Fun was had.

The passive voice was massively abused in the writing of this post. Forgive me oh Chicago Manual of Style, I know not what I do.

Respect my Authoritay Was it me, or did the cop who pulled over the group ride bear a striking resemblance to Cartman? This coincidence made it terribly hard to take seriously the earnest lecture about behaving well and traffic laws (yes, kids, the red sign with the letters on it does mean stop) and such. Terribly hard not to start giggling at exactly the wrong moment. Congratulations, sir, you win the prize for Walking Caricature. Come on down, you'll find your prize behind door number two: A dozen jelly donuts. Mmm, donuts. Stop sign? What stop sign?

Maybe the local ride just needs a donut sponsor. Pass the sprinkles.

In other news, I managed only six points on last week's round of trivia. Alas. I need to work on my guessing skills. Or, um, learn something about bike racing. Right, I'll get right on that.

How 'bout that weather?

asdfjkl;

2007-11-19T18:25:00.000-08:00

Ich bin ein Berliner. I am a jelly donut.

The letters are wearing off my keyboard. There's a blurry black splotch where the n is supposed to be. Same with the e, and the s, d, and c are catching up real quicklike. This is a regular occurence in my life, almost as regular as the wearing out of chains, cassettes, and other shiny moving parts made in Italy. For a while, I had a keyboard that had hardly any letters left at all. I could see all the numbers and those funky function keys, but no letters. This one's still got some life left in it, though. It looks well-used, broken in, like a favorite pair of jeans with the perfect rip just starting to show in the knee.

Letters, shmetters.

Saturday, someone told me I'm funnier in blogworld than in real life. Funny? This blog thingy is serious business, dammit. Of course, if I were to be funny, it certainly would never happen before 10.00 am. Just because I'm riding my bike doesn't mean I'm actually awake.

Pass the espresso. Yes, thank you, I'll have another.

Somewhere in the neighborhood of two hours from home on Saturday's ride, I broke my zipper. Of the lengthy list of things that can break on a bike ride, the jersey zipper ranks relatively low on the severity scale, somewhere between funny and annoying and a long way from expensive and catastropic. One does not, after all, have to walk home with a broken zipper. Nor is a cell phone necessary. But the weather was a tad on the chillier side of warm and while a base layer works really nice as, erm, a base layer, it did not work nearly so well as an only layer. My boobies froze.
Where was the old man standing by the side of the road with his Gazzetta? I needed that guy.
Spare tube? Check. C02? Check. Bonk money? Check. Safety pins? Um...

Shopping list:
Safety Pins.
Full-zip long-sleeve jersey.
Cassette.
Chain.
Keyboard.
Donuts.

That should just about cover it.

Into the Belly of a Hair Dryer

2007-11-15T18:30:00.000-08:00

I just put lotion up my nose. It smells better than vaseline.

I rode up into the hills yesterday into the belly of a hair dryer. Warm winds whorled through the canyon crevices, the scaled road surface shimmering in the searing sunlight. My feet swelled in protest.

You have to climb to get to the climb, up through million dollar views, their twisting driveways peeling back from the main road. An old waterworks, green concrete built in the days of the WPA, stands guard at the base of the mountain. Extreme Fire Danger, reads the only warning sign. Past the reservoir, once above ground, now buried, you take your first bite out the climb. You feel sated, but this is only the beginning. Through the first steep set of corners, you reconsider. Somewhere your couch is calling, but you ignore it for now. The first false flat isn't flat, but relative to what comes before and after, it feels like it might be. Your confidence builds and recedes. Gravity's invisible hand pulls, your legs push.

The road snakes it way up the mountain, topping out at four thousand feet. In a fit of lizardish laziness, I stopped short of the summit. The view commanded the channel, the islands closer than they appeared, the city pixellated in white, red, silver, and green. Maybe if I'd taken a picture, you could see what I mean. And, I wouldn't have to write so much. Writing is hard.

Swooping down through the switchbacked corners, the scenery blurs vertiginously. Steep drop-offs stalk the unwary. Potholes pockmark the road surface, a cratered moonscape. The brakes burn, your hands cramp. Dodge the guy wrong-siding it, climbing too hard, too delirious to see the danger in a blind corner on a one lane road. You look over the edge, the view extends across the canyon out to sea.

Far below, a car inches its way upward, still small in the distance. You'll hear it long before you see it, surprising you behind the next corner, its mass monopolizing the road. You slip between it and the mountain side, a few centimeters to spare. The road straightens, flattens, then turns again. Your internal compass spins haplessly, seeking its bearings and finding none. A steep series of corners, none of them banked, lures you downward. Come here little girl, I'll give you some candy. You open the brakes, concede to temptation. Someone has painted "pave" on the road. An arrow points to a hole roughly patched. You corner again, wheels angled, a physics problem brought to life and set in motion. A straight steep chute ends with a stop sign. You wonder if you can. You do, but just.

The air feels slightly cooler here, down off the mountain, but not by much. Your sweat is long dried, evaporated nearly as fast as it appeared, leaving only salt behind to mark its visit. There's a Coke in the refrigerator, and the refrigerator lies just down the hill. You roll in the door, still in the twelve.

Disclaimers: This post brought to you by the Alliance for the Affirmation of Alliteration. In honor of the awkwardly named Third World Conference on Doping, no espresso was consumed in the composition of this post, a herculean feat never to be repeated here.

Blame the Cat

2007-11-09T18:15:00.000-08:00

Cycling Revealed has begun their annual winter trivia game.
New questions show up every week until February.

So trivial.

I scored 7 points out of 15 on this week's edition. Some of the questions
are like kinda hard and stuff. They're grading on a curve, right?

Yes. I am a total dork. But you like so totally knew that already.

I had big plans for this post. I was going to write something witty, profound, even earthshatteringly brilliant.
But my cat is sleeping on my arm. I really can't type so well. Which puts brilliance a little out of reach.

It's always the cat's fault.

Seashells by the Seashore

2007-11-06T21:42:00.000-08:00

Clicky for more.

You're not punk...

2007-11-02T13:42:00.001-07:00

...And I'm telling everyone.

I went to the gym today. Specificity, Shmecificity. Since I'm not very good with numbers, I kept losing count. Was that two sets or three? Eight reps or twelve? Maybe I need to carry a calculator. Or an abacus.

But counting is so not punk rock. So I just guessed.

Yo, meathead. Yeah, you, making funny faces and loud grunting noises, checking yourself out in mirror. Ohmigod, I can't believe you can squat three times my body weight.

You. Are. So. Cool.

NOW RERACK YOUR FREAKIN' WEIGHTS, DUMBASS! Newsflash, pec-boy, there are other people on the planet. And some of us plebes can't get your 45 plates off the squat rack, mmkay? I really like tracking down some gym staff guy to do it for me, or more to the point, for you, since you're the one that sucks. So I'm only going to say it one more time: RERACK YOUR WEIGHTS! Don't make me come over there. Because I'm way, way smaller than you.

Meanwhile, I'll be slam dancin' in the corner. A Girl's got to do something between sets. And it sure isn't listen to that '80s crap coming through the sound system. (If you like '80s crap, I'm sorry. For you.)

Anarchy burger, hold the government. (Extra credit, if you can name the originator of that gem of a phrase.) Speaking of punks, we had a little outburst of anarchy here at Disneyland, right on Main Street. Stop the electric light parade, we've got a cataclysmic situation here. Halloween night, a crowd of merry pranksters decided to throw a spontaneous party in the middle of State Street, the main shopping drag lined with chi-chi boutiques. Coach handbag, anyone?

Now, spontaneous outbreaks of "people power" are not exactly the norm here. Yes, student protestors burned the Bank of America in the Sixties (actually, I believe it was in 1971, but sometimes the calender refuses to conform to events), but that, my friends, was then.

I think there might be a few ageing hippies still hiding out in the hills. If you search the halls, there's probably even a Marxist or two lurking about the University. Has the New Left become the Old Left yet? Inquiring minds. (Full disclosure: All three volumes of das Kapital, first American edition, are sitting here on my shelf. Bound in red, natch.) We have a hardy band of war protestors who never miss a Saturday. Thanks to them, I frequently spend my training rides with peace songs stuck in my head, which at least makes it hard to summon up much in the way of road rage. All we are saying is give peace a chance. (No, no need to thank me, just playin' it forward.) But in the main, this place is pretty darn mainstream when it comes to the politicin' A median housing price in the low seven figures just doesn't bring out the anarchists. Property is Theft.
What, no takers?

Anywho, the Reclaimers led the police on a wacky foot chase around downtown. The cops weren't so amused, and out came the riot gear. Clear the station. All the cars came peeling out one after the other, getting crazy with the blue flashy lights.

Me? I was just trying to pedal my bikey to the grocery store to get some food. A Girl's gotta eat, you know.

Please don't run me over blue flashy lights. All I wanted was a Pepsi.

Happy Halloween!

2007-10-31T13:23:00.000-07:00

Leaf Blower.

I'm a tad slow with this blog thingy. Too much time writin' for wages. I see the blank screen and this deep sort of panic sets in. Ack.
But, I can do pictures. Pictures are good.

I was trying to explain the Surf City mayhem to someone on the local group ride. You mean, you went to a race but you didn't do it? Well, yes. Haven't you ever noticed when you've gone to a bike race that there are people at the race who aren't actually racing? They're doing stuff like running around with results sheets and entering reg info and directing traffic.

Me? I was all over the traffic directin'. There was a football game, and the football people wanted to know all about the bike race.

Hey, that doesn't look like a road bike. Very astute of you, young man.

How long is the race? Um, Long?

Then, some kids tried to sell John their skateboard for 100 bucks. Where do you skate? Santa Cruz. Uh-huh. Getting the locals only shtick down early. Good show.

I tried to explain to my group ride partner how funny bike racing is when crossed with Halloween. It's very very funny. Especially when beverages are involved. Who knew there were so many cross-dressin' bike racers out there? Hmm, did I want to know that? Maybe not, but it sure was funny. I think I wasn't doing so good with the explaining part, though, because the SB locals weren't seein' it. Me? I'm giggling. Them? They're looking a little confused. Maybe a few pics would help...

<- Scarred for life?

Yum, Orbea better than Banana >

^ Um, waiter? There's a bat in my belfrey

Uh... A guy in a grass skirt riding a bike? >
(running short on caption ideas here, and really, what is there to say about this one?)

<- Ze dust, ze dust eez 'orrible!

So funny.

Dreaming of Rain

2007-10-23T13:21:00.000-07:00

(Photo, SB Indy)

They've managed to put our little fire out. It was just a wee thing, not like the monster from this summer.

Now, if we could do something about the air quality. How 'bout a vacuum?

SoCali's a bit of a mess. That tastey morsel, brought to you by the Department of Understatement.

Think rainy, foggy thoughts, my friends.

Falling Leaves

2007-10-22T09:49:00.000-07:00

(Photo shamelessly stolen from Graham Watson)

One of my favorite races of the year. What's not to like about Italy in Fall? (Or any other time, for that matter.)

Together with Ricco, Cunego escaped on the final climb of the day, San Fermo della Battaglia. Over the top, they had just five seconds in hand over a chase group containing a pair of CSC's, Rebellin, Cadel Evans, and Sammy Sanchez. Despite the best efforts of kamikaze descender Sanchez, Ricco and Cunego reached the last kilometer alone, where Ricco tried desperately to convince il piccolo to come around. As if Cunego was going to fall for that. Watch the final kilometer, and feel Ricco's pain. I don't count myself among the Ricco tifosi, but he drew the low card in that particular deal. Too bad he couldn't rid himself of Cunego before the finale. As it was, he was almost certainly racing for second. With only the smallest of gaps, there was no time for funny business, and Cunego easily took the sprint.

Ricco may have held the low cards, but at least he was still at the table. On the Ghisallo, CSC looked to be holding a royal flush, with Sastre, Kolobnev, and a pair of Schlecks in the front group. Sastre, who always looks simply bursting with fruit flavor, turned the screws up the climb, and the front group dwindled. But in a moment of inattention on the road to the Civiglia, Frank Schleck touched wheels and crashed out of the front group. Oopsy. So much for the perfect race. The younger Schlecky still managed fourth, beating out Rebellin, Evans, and T Dekker, among others. Silly talented, that kid (I especially like the bed head.)

Here is a tidbit for the trivia - or is that trivial? - minded. When Cunego won Lombardia in 2004, he achieved a rare feat in cycling by winning both a grand tour and a monument in the same season. Prior to Cunego, who was the most recent to do the same?

And while we're at it, had Bettini won (best watched without the sound, unless you like sappy techno), he'd have taken three straight. Who is the last rider to win Lombardia three times running?

Ah, but maybe I should have just posted this bit of love, ten minutes of choice footage and saved my little fingers the tappy-typing. Grazie anonymous Belgian youtuber! (Now, if only I'd found that sooner.)

Pen Tests

2007-10-16T15:47:00.001-07:00

We have a collection of espresso cups called Pen Tests. The espresso machine is the only tool in my kitchen I know how to use, which isn't to say that I have a great many kitchen tools. I am not what those of a previous era might have dubbed an "accomplished woman." I boil water competently. What more is there? The kitchen is where the espresso machine lives along side its friend the bean grinder and its other friends the espresso cups. I have more espresso cups than dinner plates. Big blue scribbles decorate this afternoon's choice, picked mostly at random from the cupboard where the espresso cups live. Frothy tannish foam sticks to the inside. I begin to feel smarter, a little.

Big blue scribbles.

I did the group ride this morning. I'm a fall group ride kind of girl. When the days get a little shorter and I get a little lazier, I roll on out and see what everyone has been up to. Turns out, not all that much. Someone gets faster, someone else gets a little slower, and one dude just keeps getting fatter. There's a new bike here, a new wheelset there. The same guys ride the front. And at the back? Sandbaggers, party of five, your table is ready. I was cozied up to the October sandbagger table, shooting the breeze, checking the scenery. Nice weather back here, pass the chips and salsa, can I get another drink? Waiter, there's a fly in my soup.

It was a small sort of group ride today. It seems there may have been a secret ride. But since I lost my secret decoder ring, I wouldn't know anything about that. Meanwhile, the fall transfer season is in full swing. Did you hear the news? All the cool people are riding for the red team next season. But only if they didn't get invited to join the exclusive new team, where the really cool people are. They're going to get cool bikes to match their cool new kits. A veritable epicenter of cool.

Then there's the press releases. I'm going climbing after this, so I have to go easy (Watch out for that overpass, it's a doosey). Last week, I did my best time up the climb. (One wonders if he measured it from the same spot.) I can't go hard, because my socks are too white (so distracting), my shorts are too tight (sounds like a personal problem), my chain is too loose (are you sure it's your chain?), my bottom bracket is unthreading (that really sounds like a personal problem), I'm choking on my gu (real excuse, used by an honest to gosh category 1 racer), uh, sorry, gotta take this call (for best results, use this one when about to get dropped by a girl, she'll never guess). Use as directed, limit one per customer, please. Void where prohibited.

Me? I'm just sitting here pedaling.

On the way home, I rode by the beach to see what was doing. I won't keep you in suspense. It was flat. So I sang a little song, and pedaled onward. Rubber ducky, you're the one, you make bath time lots of fun...

Can I get one of those in carbon fiber?

Last week there was a swirly off the coast, and it made us some waves. So generous. When we went out on Thursday, I got totally cleaned up when the first big set rolled through. Spin cycle, my favorite. Thank you, I'll have another. Uh, wait, I didn't mean it. Yes, friends, set means more than one. So, there's always more where that came from. The trick is to keep breathing.

And while I'm on the subject of water, if anyone can tell me how to get tar out of my hair, I'd be most grateful.

Big blue scribbles.

Sprint or Break?

2007-10-11T12:45:00.000-07:00

It's Paris-Tours this weekend, that long jaunt across the French countryside. It's usually grey and cold, as befits Northern Europe in October. Pass the onion soup. The race dates from 1896, when men were men and bike races were long. This year's edition comes in at 256 km of mostly flat, windy, riding. My ass hurts just thinking about it. Not surprisingly, Paris-Tours counts mostly sprinters among its winners. Erik Zabel, for one, has three wins in Tours to his credit.

The sprinters don't always get their way. Last year, Arvesen and Guesdon escaped, and hit the closing meters with enough time in hand to play a little cat and mouse. Guesdon proved the quicker, as Arvesen, perhaps distracted by the oncoming field, failed to match the Frenchmen's jump.

Favorites? Experienced and canny sprinters like Zabel, Friere, or Thor. Petacchi's presence makes a fourth win for Zabel unlikely, and may well doom the hopes of the breakaway artistes. Gert Steegmans - his name just sounds fast - showed speedy form at Circuit Franco-Belge. With Boonen staying home with his Lamborghini or whatever, Steegmans has a chance to play for himself, though the finish may prove a few kilometers too far. Since Fiellu just won Paris-Bourges, he's certainly on form also. The bumpy climbs inside the last 10 km give the quick classics kids like the Hair and Gilbert a chance to escape.

Book of Cat

2007-10-08T18:17:00.000-07:00

Chapter 1.

Do not yell at your cat.

It isn't nice.

You will annoy your neighbors.

And your cat.

Got surf?

2007-10-05T10:51:00.000-07:00

It's tough being the first North swell of the season. There you are, frisking about up around Alaska, waving at the polar bears, tossing a few boats around, making the cruise director queasy.

Meanwhile, down in Cali, everyone's watching you. They've seen your picture, they know what you look like. You're a sexy swirling thing, twisting the night away for the satellite cameras. Smile, say cheese. You're the blip on a graph, the hump of the curve, passing through the wires from screen to glowing screen.

Everyone knows you're out there. Everyone knows you're coming. They're putting their racks on the car, planning vacation days, and stopping by the beach every hour.

Is it here yet? Is it showing?

But it's a long way to Cali, and you're starting to feel lazy. You make a stop by Santa Cruz. Everyone is so glad to see you. It's nice. But it's such a tiresome business being a swell. You have to work so hard to make the perfect peaks. Too many lulls, and you're judged a fizzle.

Then, the wind picks up, and you're thinking is it really worth the trouble? Down South, they're still waiting for you.

So much pressure.

. . .

Today was the day. A north swell, bringing surf galore was supposed to roll into town, which is an unusual thing for October. So far, nothing. Here and there, a hint, a teaser, but no waves. It's nice to know some things are still unpredictable.

Still, I think I'll go for a little bike ride. And I'll make sure to pass by the beach.

Because you just never know.

Unwanted Guests?

2007-10-04T12:54:00.000-07:00

Black Flag kills ants on contact.

Blankscreenphobia

2007-10-03T15:07:00.000-07:00

"Man, wow, there's so many things to do, so many things to write! How to even begin to get it all down and without modified restraints and all hung-up on like literary inhibitions and grammatical fears..."

—Kerouac, On the Road

If you don't know what to write, start things off with a good quote, the tried and true cure for blankscreenphobia. It's so empty and white, that blank screen.

And the little winky thing sitting there, prodding. Hello? Would you type something already? I'm getting bored just sitting here like this, blinking. On. Off. Onoffonoffonoff. Still waiting, impatiently.

In more desperate times, I've typed entire pages of other people's words, in hope that somewhere, somehow, inspiration might strike. Sometimes it even worked. But I'm not so desperate as all that today.

Of course eventually, you're supposed to erase all that stuff you borrowed from someone else.

But if I did that? I'd actually have to come up with something to say, and I'd be back where I started, sitting here with the blank screen and the winky thing.

On off. On off.

lint trap

Come play in my sandbox

About A Bike

The Great Pumpkin

Assorted Adventures

The Wooden Surfboard

Overheard

Another Roadside Conversion

In Between Storms

You Are Here

Strings Too Short To Tie

Words

Oddities

Dumbass-ery of the Day

Stolen

Winter Wonderland

Flipper Feet

Four Whole Days

Election Night Drama

Tuesday Truth

Fall Colors

Long Time, No Blog

From the Rule Book

Still Life

For Sale!

Name That Spot?

Memo

¿donde esta?

Where do they go?

Sunday Morning Cartoons

Time Suckage Maximus

Yay for Giro!

Potato Chip

Meanwhile in Oregon...

Animal Kingdom

Small

NeverBetter

Thursday Morning Ride: Live Report

Poo' Talk

April Flowers

Funny Pages

Not an Angry Girl

Training Wheelz

Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle

Pool Nazi

Much More Better

Gesundheit!

Keyhole

Lag Time

Girlfried

Short and Lazy

Save Trestles!

Palm Trees and...

A Long Story for a Rainy Day

Happiness Is...

Grayscale

Winter Color

FREE THE BABBLE!

From the 805 to the 858

Words

Little Bike Blue

My Own Secret Sandbar

Sandspit at Sunset

Schaaawing!

Now, with pictures...

Under a Winter Sun

asdfjkl;

Into the Belly of a Hair Dryer

Blame the Cat

Seashells by the Seashore

You're not punk...

Happy Halloween!

Dreaming of Rain

Falling Leaves

Pen Tests

Sprint or Break?

Book of Cat

Got surf?

Unwanted Guests?

Blankscreenphobia