It’s hot. Africa hot. An eerie silence has descended upon my neighborhood. From my perspective on the front porch, not a single person is in view as far as I can see. The yards are all empty, the windows all closed, the shades all drawn. My schoolmates and I are all home from school now, and yet the streets that are normally the venue for afternoon baseball are strangely empty, the striking players refusing to play in these conditions. It will be a few hours yet before the other kids will venture out, waiting for the oppressive heat to wane. A long, crowded commute on a hot school bus has left us instead craving a tall glass of something cold and sweet and a cool place in front of the TV. But I will watch no television today, for I am in my mother’s doghouse again. I will have to sit out here on the porch for a while and serve my sentence. It seems that I alone will brave the harsh elements of this early June day.
But I am alone only in the human sense.
The magpies, normally annoyingly vociferous, are silent, taking refuge on the lush, green grass under the two black walnut trees in my front yard. They cast a wary eye towards the porch as they wait for the cool of evening to resume their normal routine. Their banana yellow beaks agape, they pant in a futile attempt to cool down. My dog Chuck, the object of the magpies’ anxiety, lies off to my side, panting also. The Labrador retriever was a gift from my parents on my fourth birthday. Three years old now, Chuck is experiencing his hottest summer yet. His black coat surely was not designed for the extreme heat of the Sacramento Valley. For the birds on the lawn he has no interest: a bird dog with no will to hunt the teasing magpies who surely haunt his dreams. Today these natural adversaries have a common enemy in the heat, much like the lions and cheetahs and zebras and gazelles of the Serengeti Plains. They lie disinterested in each other, side by side under the searing sun, waiting for nightfall to hunt and be hunted.
With dark brown, sorrowful eyes, Chuck pleads to me for help but there is little I can do. My mom won’t let him enter her house—a sterile, bright white, dirt-free environment that has certain areas where even I am not allowed to go. Dogs are dirty, she says. I have already hosed Chuck down once in an effort to cool him off, but the relief was short lived.
When the heat becomes unbearable, I turn on the hose once again and he allows me to wet his thick, black fur. Taking turns, we lap the cold, rubbery water from the hose. Relieved again for the time being, a goofy smile stretches across his muzzle and I giggle as we play in the soothing water. Sufficiently cooled off, we then return to our accustomed positions on the porch, having consumed so much water we can barely move. We both just stare out into the rising heat. There is not much else to do but wait it out.
The insects have also fallen silent. The cicadas, usually filling the summer air with their shrill song, have given up for the day. Likewise, the katydids and crickets have lost their voices. The only sound is the distant drone of Interstate 80, which runs right behind my house. Even the record-setting heat of this summer day does not slow the highway traffic. Like a purring cat that never wakes, there is a perpetual din that remains constant, day and night. The sound is a natural part of my environment, like the wind hissing through the trees or the rain pattering on the roof. But only on a very still and quiet day like today do I notice that the freeway is even there.
My house sits atop a hill, making our yard slope steeply towards the street. From the front porch the walkway in front of me drops off out of sight as it makes its way to the shimmering road. It is as if I am sitting on a dock watching ships sail over the horizon and disappear. To the left of the walkway, along the side of the garage, drooping bottlebrush bushes drip their red, prickly flowers toward the ground. The honey bees and the big, fat bumble bees that frequent these plants are nowhere to be seen. Red lava rock, as hot as it has been since its volcanic birth, covers the ground around the bushes. To my right I check the chrysanthemums, also floating in a river of red lava, for signs of life. The butterflies—Monarchs, Tiger Swallowtails, Cabbage, and Buckeyes—are gone too. However, I notice that there are tiny yellow crab spiders in some of the blooms, waiting motionless for an insect meal that will not come today. Above the mums, geraniums flourish in a planter box built just below the living room window. I stay away from them though because, unlike most people, I think they smell like dirty socks.
Our well-manicured grass is difficult to mow because of the slope. My dad says that I will be big enough to mow it myself soon. The slope of the yard does provide some benefits though. My driveway has become the favorite place for the neighborhood boys to race their Hot Wheels. We carefully set up the long tracks and race them all the way from the garage to the gutter. Lately I have been winning because my dad showed me how to put sewing machine oil on the axles to make the cars go faster.
The two walnut trees create a canopy that lets little sunlight filter through to the turf. Around the trees, a circle of stones protects the delicate daisies caressing the trunks. Like huge, six-foot hay bales, bunches of pampas grass run along the side fence. The blades are long, narrow, and razor sharp like swords. My father planted them as a deterrent to burglars but for the most part they only cut the neighborhood kids and devour our wayward baseballs. And anyway, Chuck would never let a burglar get over the fence.
The garage of our house looks like an old brown barn from a Midwestern farm. Its broad, angular roof ends on either side with eaves that hang down very low. A seven-year-old like me can easily run beneath them, but adults must duck or walk around. Over the large front door, decorative woodwork mimics the doors of a hay loft.
Over the slope of the lawn I can see the street. Images from some far-off, distant place dance and shiver in the silver heat that rises from the asphalt like fleeing spirits. Walking home from the bus stop an hour or so ago, the road a black skillet, I felt the heat biting me through my leather sandals. I tried to hop as I walked in an effort to keep my feet off the ground as long as possible, like the lizard I saw on television that alternately raised two of its feet above the fiery desert sand to keep them cool. But for me, it didn’t work. I resorted to walking in the gutter, where a small stream of warm but refreshing water flowed, even though I knew that my mom would probably get mad at me for soaking my good sandals. And I was right. So here I sit on the front porch with my dog, both banished from the house, waiting for my sandals to dry.
I find it a little hard to breathe, the heat like a mighty python constricting my chest. The air is dry, still and tasteless. Dead. No breeze to carry fragrance, no moisture to enhance it. I look over to Chuck and see that he is already dry again. Scooting over next to him I draw a deep breath. A dry dog, like a dry summer day, has no smell.
Sweat forms tiny pools at the base of each blonde hair on my arm. I sit and watch until the pools grow large and overflow their pores, generating small streams that flow down to the lake forming in valley of my elbow.
Even though the sun falls lower toward the horizon, this is the hottest part of the day. As the shadow from the front porch overhang creeps forward towards the street, the first signs of life appear before me. A trail of ants strings across the walkway, following the shadow of the overhang, noticeably avoiding the sun. I drop a small stone in their path and they become confused for a short time. But they quickly find their way around it and resume the serious business of being ants.
The magpies are still sitting under the tree, waiting. This is the first time that I have ever been this close to them. Normally they are very timid. My dad says this is because they are quite intelligent. His friend had one when they were kids and he taught it to talk. Dad says that you have to split their tongues with a razor blade to form a fork in order for them to speak. I have always wondered what it would be like to have one for a pet but I’m sure my mom wouldn’t let me have one. Birds are dirty, she would say.
I hear the doorknob click and turn around to see my mom opening the front door. “Are your sandals dry yet, kiddo?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“Okay, you can come in now.”
“Can Chuck come?” I ask.
“No honey, he’s filthy.”
“Hmm. Okay, I’ll just stay out here for a while then.”
With a frown and a shake of her head, my mother closes the door. Chuck and I stare out into the rising heat. We’re just going to wait it out.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Monday, January 27, 2025
Saturday, September 16, 2023
Losing My Religion
And then it was over. The end came suddenly, yet it was also a long time coming.
For me the blow was crushing, and for my wife equally so. Maybe even more so. She is a mom, you know. After a few days had passed, she said, “It feels like someone died.” And it did. A friend. A very close friend.
If this sounds a bit overdramatic, so be it. I am not going to apologize for how I feel.
The feeling of loss wasn’t because of any selfish reasons, or any of that “living my life through my child” nonsense. I had my day in the sun as an athlete. I basked in the glow of victories, soaking in that sunshine like a desert iguana. I was a happy lizard.
Then our calendar suddenly became a wide-open wasteland. In one single day I lost my religion.
This game is difficult enough without dealing with an injury. For the position players you need three basic skills: catch the ball, throw the ball, and hit the ball. Lacking any of those three skills will eventually end the game for you.
From the very first day a kid picks up a baseball, the clock starts ticking. The hands go round and round. Round and round.
As a parent you can't help but nervously glance up at that imaginary yet very real clock. Your dream is for it to spin for decades. I wanted to see that damn clock die of old age. Keep on spinning, baby. Round and round.
For some the game ends after that first year of tee ball. We plant the seed, but for some kids the roots simply don't take hold. For a lucky few, the roots grow strong and deep, and it all ends at 40 years of age in the Major Leagues. That is the hope—a teary-eyed man at the podium, graying at the temples, announcing his baseball retirement on national TV. A man spending his life playing a beautiful game and ending it on his own terms is the ultimate dream. As Billy Beane asked in the film Moneyball, "How can you not be romantic about baseball?"
For the overwhelming majority of us, unfortunately, it ends somewhere in between those two extremes. That is where it ended for me. That is where it ended for my son.
The Cobra hung up his spikes on Wednesday.
He had been experiencing some pain in his biceps for a couple weeks. His first two fall ball outings at Folsom Lake College this season were great, but on Tuesday his velocity was down and he gave up some hits. Some of that was due to his coach calling everything but his best pitch, the two-seam fastball. It's unclear if Coach Gregory was setting him up for failure, or perhaps challenging him to use other pitches. Who knows with that guy. Gregory then left him off the travel roster for Friday's scrimmage in Butte. Spencer was stunned and disappointed.
After four years of struggling to get healthy after the first shoulder injury, he said it was just too much—too much pain, too much stress, too many lows and not enough highs.
For me the blow was crushing, and for my wife equally so. Maybe even more so. She is a mom, you know. After a few days had passed, she said, “It feels like someone died.” And it did. A friend. A very close friend.
If this sounds a bit overdramatic, so be it. I am not going to apologize for how I feel.
The feeling of loss wasn’t because of any selfish reasons, or any of that “living my life through my child” nonsense. I had my day in the sun as an athlete. I basked in the glow of victories, soaking in that sunshine like a desert iguana. I was a happy lizard.
I wanted him to experience that triumph at a higher level. Although I played baseball, my best sports experiences came after baseball in cycling. I had some good results while racing on some big stages. Those experiences and the resulting memories are priceless. The sunshine stays with you, sustaining you on life's darkest days. That’s all I wanted for him. More time in the sun. More good memories. A little more sunshine.
No, I wasn't living through him. We simply love the game. We attended the church of baseball year-round. Like any good cult members we not only participated in the game, we were (and still are) fans. We typically watch every single San Francisco Giants game. We go to minor league games. We keep a close eye on our minor league prospects. We get excited for free agency and the draft. The baseball gods smiled upon us. And it was good.
The excitement of upcoming tournaments and games fueled us and fed our souls. We practiced in freezing temperatures. I strapped on the catcher’s gear on the hottest of summer days. We played long toss in a hail storm. Spencer once played in fog so thick you couldn't see the infielders from the stands. It’s all part of the game, part of our history, part of our family folklore.
Then our calendar suddenly became a wide-open wasteland. In one single day I lost my religion.
The day I became a believer is still etched clearly in my mind. My parents took me to Candlestick Park for a Giants day game. There was a huge escalator on the back side of the stadium that carried you up to the top. As we slowly climbed, I felt the anticipation, like ascending on a rollercoaster knowing a thrill was coming soon. We crested the top and the field came into view: grass greener than any I had ever seen, perfect reddish-brown dirt, crisp white baselines. I felt a euphoria I had never felt before. This was my church. These were my people. And it was good.
I think we are all struggling to figure out what comes next. Our family life has revolved around the game of baseball for 13 years, almost year-round. That's well over two-thirds of Spencer's life, and a sizeable chunk of mine. There is a large void in my heart, an empty space that used to be filled with dirt and sweat and sunshine and the smells of leather and fresh-cut grass.
After the labrum surgery, the clock ticked unevenly—sometimes powerfully, other times so faintly you had to crane your neck to hear the barely detectable pulse. As baseball people we become very aware of injuries and surgeries and their success rates. It's an unfortunate but prevalent part of the game, especially for pitchers. And because of this we know the numbers. Surgery success rates are just another stat in a game that is built upon and revolves around statistics. So we know this: shoulder surgeries are a crap shoot.
Players can completely destroy an elbow or a knee and a competent surgeon can repair it with a high success rate. These are fairly simple hinge joints that only move in one plane. The shoulder and hip, on the other hand, are ball-and-socket joints which move in multiple directions. These joints are a marvel of evolution, but they are complex. A pitcher undergoing a labrum surgery can expect a 12-month recovery and only a 60% success rate.
Throughout the rehab process there are ups and downs, good days and bad, optimism and fear. He completed his physical therapy and we adhered to the throwing program religiously, down to the last letter. The whole time I kept glancing at the clock. Tick tock.
This game is difficult enough without dealing with an injury. For the position players you need three basic skills: catch the ball, throw the ball, and hit the ball. Lacking any of those three skills will eventually end the game for you.
For pitchers it's a little more simple: get hitters out. Yet the complexity of this singular task can be daunting. There are a million ways to do it, and for the past 150 years pitchers have been coming up with new ways. The first guy credited with throwing a curveball, Candy Cummings, completely baffled hitters. But they adjusted. The arms race between hitter and pitcher has been escalating ever since, with both sides coming up with new ways to compete.
One short month ago, things were going well. Other than some timing issues, our bullpen sessions were good, but there is always room for improvement. We too were looking for new ways to compete, so we called an old coach.
We went to Hard 90, Spencer's old travel ball facility, and worked with one of the coaches named Hutch. It was probably a little weird for Spencer because everyone else in the facility was much younger, but Hutch and Spencer always clicked.
They spent the first 45 minutes in a back room working on different things with weighted balls. When they came out to the bullpen area, Hutch made him start his throws by standing on his front foot and hopping back onto his rear foot before throwing. He made him do it over and over again until he was satisfied. At first Spencer was throwing the ball into the ground or way over the target. By the end he was hitting the target dead center. It was slowing his upper body and syncing his timing. As his bullpen catcher I could see this problem, but it took a more experienced coach to correct it.
They finally progressed to the pitching mound. And it was good. I had never seen him throw so hard or so accurately. He was throwing the four-seam fastball right to the glove. Every single time. Then he threw a bunch of changeups and all but one dropped right on the outside of the plate where they are supposed to. Then he threw some curveballs, which were okay but still needed some work.
Then Hutch said, "Let's finish with a few more fastballs." Spencer asked if he could throw some two-seamers, and Hutch said sure, whatever. Spencer knows they can be challenging to catch, so he was trying to give him a heads-up. Standing behind Hutch, I said, "It breaks a lot." He looked back at me, and although he said nothing, his face told me, "Okay, old man."
He threw the first one and it was heading right for Hutch's inside (left) knee. He turned the glove over to the forehand side to catch it. Then it started breaking and ended up outside his right knee. He still had the glove turned the wrong way when he caught the pitch. It completely handcuffed him. He stood up and stared at Spencer for a few seconds and said, "That was NASTY."
He threw a few more and they all broke beautifully off the outside of the plate.
One thing we know about Hutch is he is big on negative reinforcement. If you go to a coaching session expecting praise, you will be very disappointed. Sessions typically end with 20 minutes of harsh critique. When Spencer was younger this was tough for him, yet he always wanted to go back. This time Hutch had very little feedback. He said, "If you throw like that you are going to be a problem. No righty is gonna like hitting that two-seam." Spencer quipped, "Lefties don't like it so much either."
We left there buzzing on a high. He made it. He was part of the lucky 60% to make it back. The clock clicked strong, pounding out a steady rhythm.
A short month later it was over. The baseball gods stopped the clock. I quickly realized these weren't the kind and benevolent gods I thought they were. We were so devoted to the church and this is how they treat us? It didn't feel fair. Because it isn't. Life in general isn't fair, and baseball much less so. It's a mean, heartless game.
The next day the three of us walked into town for dinner on a warm Thursday evening. We strolled slowly and talked about anything and everything except for the one unspoken subject. Our outing was only made possible by a calendar now void of afternoon baseball practice. After dinner we walked home as the sun set, quiet and contemplative, nourished with food and conversation and connection. And it was good.
In the morning Spencer was in great spirits, a mood we hadn't seen in a while. Shedding the weight we carry as athletes does feel good at first. The regret we might feel later in life can feel much heavier, though. The sunshine of old success can indeed carry you, but the darkness is always lurking.
The day Spencer broke the news I was incredibly sad. Later that same afternoon I walked to a nearby bike shop. Baseball fields and bike shops are the closest things I have to churches. I handed my drivers license over to a shop employee and test rode bikes for over an hour in an effort to to fill the void, leaning on my other lifelong love. I rode around town on shiny new bikes and thought about bike racing and baseball, focusing on the victories and triumphs we had both experienced. Stopping at a spot overlooking the river, I closed my eyes and absorbed the sunshine, pushing away the darkness that threatened to envelop me.
I probably won't totally leave the church of baseball, but the congregation will definitely see less of me. Unless, of course, there is a resurrection, and the clock clicks back to life, seeking one last ray of sunshine.
Later.
Tuesday, January 23, 2018
A Tale of Two Poachings
Sometimes you just have to poach.
For those of you unfamiliar with the term as it applies to mountain biking, it's the act of riding on trails that are deemed off-limits to bicycles. Yes, it's illegal. No, it's not very responsible. Yes, it makes all mountain bikers look bad. Yes, it could threaten the access we currently have. I've heard all the arguments, and yet I still poach. So why do I do it?
The main reason for poaching is pretty simple: Convenience. Time is in short supply these days. Most every trail close to my home is illegal to ride on, so when I only have a couple hours to spare, it's poaching time. Terrible excuse, sure, but convenience is only part of a complex equation.
Most of these trails see little use by the vocal minority, i.e., the hikers and equestrians. I rarely see a horse on a ride, whereas I see many, many mountain bikers. Seem fair? It doesn't to me. But life itself is not fair, and I accept that, so fairness is only part of the problem.
I don't think I have ever traveled anywhere outside of my home region and ignored a "no bikes" sign. I don't go to Marin County, for instance, and poach a trail. The people who live and ride there have their own land access battles to fight, big ones, and they don't need outsiders screwing things up. In general, I am honest to a fault, and I obey the rules handed down to me. I use my turn signal while driving, return shopping carts to the corral in pouring rain, never run with scissor and sit up straight at the dinner table. Hell, I've never had a speeding ticket.
Which brings us back to my local trails. Over 30 years ago, my friends and I graduated from BMX bikes to the then-new mountain bikes. We left jumps, berms and 45-second BMX races behind and embraced singletrack and grueling multi-hour races. We began riding the horse trails around our two local lakes, and having a blast. We had miles and miles of it at our disposal, more than we could ride in a weekend. We saw the occasional horse, and it was no big deal. But within a few short years, the all-too-familiar circle-slash signs went up. To my knowledge, there was no discussion or public forum, no debate. Just a knee-jerk reaction to complaints from horse owners. Case closed, never to be opened again.
For people who came to the dance late, they see a "no bikes" sign and shrug their shoulders. They never knew any differently. Those who were there in the beginning feel that something was taken away from them. For me, today, it is this: The Good Old Days.
For many years I obeyed those signs, obeyed the law. I rode the boring, short, multi-use trails and looked longingly at the fun stuff across the lake. I drove for an hour or more to do legal rides. Finally, I really lost my way. I rode a damn road bike. The horror.
Then one day you reach a point where you start yearning for those Good Old Days. You're spinning along on the paved bike path, and you think, "What if I slip down Shady Trail, just this once?" Nobody is around, it's near dusk, and you go for it. And it's as good as you remembered it. Better even. At that point it is all over. You are a poacher.
So before you point toward me, perched high upon your horse (or worse, your bike), calling me the problem, know this: I am just a guy, a tax-paying guy with a job and a family and a mortgage and a yard. I'm just stealing little pieces of my past, little pieces of the miles and miles of enjoyment stolen from me, little pieces of The Good Old Days.
Most of the time, when you choose to poach, things turn out just fine . . .
Back in my racing days, we had a team single speed ride on Tuesdays starting at the fish hatchery. We were a competitive bunch, so the pace was fast and painful and often dangerous to others. Many of the trails we used were not especially legal. This combination could, on rare occasions, lead to problems.
One day I showed up for the ride after a long absence. I had raced with the Rio Strada team for seven years, but my participation had tailed off greatly due to a number of outside factors. I pulled into the parking lot apprehensive about my ability to keep up after the layoff.
The 3:00 start time came and went, and only Curtis and I were there. This left me feeling a bit uneasy, as Curtis was coming off a fine cyclocross season which saw him place 11th overall in the Master A class. I, on the other hand, was finishing up a fine season of, well, absolutely nothing. I was hoping for a little pack fodder to hide among.
For the first time in eight years, I raced not a single time all season—not a criterium, road race, nor a mountain bike or cyclocross event. Without any racing under my belt that year, and nearly all of my riding being done solo, I again questioning my fitness as we saddled up. I told Curtis, "Take it easy on me, Racer-Boy."
Whereas I usually start out my single speed rides with some spinning on the flat, somewhat boring (but legal) multi-use trail on the south side of the lake, the team ride jumps right into the illegal stuff by traversing the cliff near the dam. This is the toughest climb of the entire ride, steep and rocky and loose, and it's right out of the parking lot. Curtis flew up it, his spinning tire spitting rocks backwards into my spokes. I barely hung on, thinking this was going to make for a long day.
As we descended down the backside, I easily caught up. Coming from a road racing background, Curtis simply isn't the descender I am.
The next few hills yielded the same result: Getting killed going up, catching back on going down. We were really flying, and I was very uncomfortable with the ungodly pace. It hurt. I tasted copper and lunch was lurking right behind my tongue.
On the next hill I went around Curtis and gave it everything I had to crest the top first. On the descent, a long winding one, I really let it go and put some time into him. This worked well, and was to be my strategy for the remainder of the ride. Using the gap, on the next climb I was able to climb comfortably at my own pace. And so on.
The trails were completely empty except for a couple other riders near Beal's Point. Curtis asked them if they knew they were riding on illegal trails. They didn't get the joke, but Curtis and I laughed anyway. Nope, no runners, hikers, horses or dogs. It was nice. A great afternoon for poaching. No harm, no foul.
On the way back I started getting my legs, bringing the hammer down on the climbs, descents and everything in-between. I was hurting Curtis a little bit, and it felt good. He said, "Take it easy on you? Take it easy on ME!" I felt a bit more confident that I could still ride with these guys who raced all year.
Sometimes, when you poach, things go terribly, terribly wrong . . .
The scheduled Sunday ride was supposed to be in Georgetown. Scanning the dead and dying bikes strewn across the garage, I decided that I didn't have a running machine up for the task. Georgetown is rough—trails maintained by motorcycles, basically. A rigid single speed and a cyclocross rig were the only living soldiers; neither was going to cut it.
I woke up on Sunday morning and saw an e-mail from Dave. It said the ride had been changed to El Dorado Hills due to the freezing temperatures that would make Georgetown miserable. Sweet, I'm in.
I scrambled to change the gearing on my 29er single speed to accommodate the ride at Brown's Ravine, a trail I've poached maybe three times in 15 years. I grabbed some food, changed clothes, and flew down to the pizza place where we park.
Due to the cold, the group was small. It ends up being me, Craig Peterson and a tatted up dude named Robert on single speeds, with Dave opting for his old Merlin geared bike. We took off and it was a little cold, but nothing like the temperatures we would have dealt with up in Georgetown.
Everyone agreed to a slow warm-up, but almost immediately Craig P. broke the truce and put the hammer down. I jumped on his wheel. Craig is a strong rider, but I was pretty much sitting in comfortably. Even so, we put a big gap on Dave and Robert, who actually stuck with the warm-up plan.
The trail was in prime condition from the rain on Friday, and we railed through the turns with seemingly endless traction. We regrouped at a crossroad, and Robert took the lead followed by Craig, Dave and me. We were going through a long series of downhill left turns followed by gradual uphill right-hand bends, over and over. So fun. Robert bobbled on one of the short, steep climbs, and Craig passed him. This would prove to be our undoing.
We continued in this order for a couple miles. I was actually spinning along very comfortably in back, enjoying the ride for the sake of riding. Sometimes it's nice to just cruise along with a slower group and not feel like puking.
Suddenly I came around a corner to catch the beginning of a discussion that was quickly escalating to an argument between Craig and an equestrian. She was in her early sixties, I'd say, with three dogs in tow. Craig had moved off the trail, to the downhill side, and issued a good morning. What he received in exchange was not quite as pleasant. Within moments there was a cussing and pissing contest involving who had been riding the trail longer, who did more for it, and who was more wrong—us for riding the trail or her for letting three dogs run wild. Since Craig lives right up the road, he rides the trail often, and claims to clear poison oak every spring, fix washouts, etc. She admitted to never doing any trail maintenance, giving Craig more ammunition against her, but this only pissed her off more.
The argument lasted for some time, and the old woman was really dishing out the profanity. Craig and Robert responded in kind, and quite frankly it was embarrassing to witness. Robert finally had enough and continued on. Craig finally did the same and issued one last "fuck you" as he rode away. Well, this riled her up again and she took that damn horse right down a steep ravine and up to the trail again, cutting Craig off. She positioned her horse right in front of him and said, "I could crush you right now and nobody would care because you're illegal."
Craig said, "Yeah, well I could shoot your fucking dogs because they're off a leash."
More arguing, more cussing. We tentatively went around her and tried to ride again. This time she decided to chase us while trying to call someone on her cell phone. Unfortunately, I was at the back and the fucking horse was running right up my ass. It was scary. I could actually feel the ground shaking beneath me and feel the horse's breath on my neck. I couldn't believe how fast she was riding that horse on the narrow trail.
After a couple minutes of this, I'd had enough. I was getting mad. What the fuck did I do to her? I hadn't uttered a word to this point. I started to brake and hoped she wasn't serious about stomping on someone. Thankfully, the horse did stop. I tried to talk to her, tell her this wasn't really a constructive way to spend a morning, but it didn't work. She only had eyes for Craig, and rode around me in the weeds, taking off in pursuit. I took off after her.
Riding behind her, I saw her feeble attempts to get a cell phone signal out there. Finally, as we neared the road, she registered a signal and stopped the horse. I blazed by. I knew I had to get back to the guys to warn them about the call she was about to make. Not a half mile later, I was descending down to the creek that runs under Salmon Falls Road, when I saw a ranger getting out of a truck. He told Craig and Dave to stop. Robert was nowhere to be seen. As I pulled up, the ranger, who looked like he was rousted from bed, asked, "What's this about you brandishing a gun, son?" Craig, who is normally pretty quiet and laid back, went off. You could almost hear the capillaries bursting in his eyes.
At this point Dave jumped off his bike and pulled Craig away, while I slipped in to diffuse the situation. Although the lady told him that shots were actually fired, I explained exactly what happened. The Ranger nodded knowingly, like this lady was a constant pain in his ass. Or maybe he was humoring me because he thought we did have a gun. I wasn't sure. Still, he clearly intended on giving us citations and we knew it. I think the fine was $500 back then.
Craig said OK, have a nice day, and started RIDING AWAY. The look on the ranger's face was priceless. He couldn't believe it, and he stood there frozen. Then Dave said the most brilliant thing: "Let's just ride back to Falcon Crest, get in the car, and go home."
Well, we were actually parked on the opposite end of the trail in El Dorado Hills. Dave and I slowly rode away and Ranger Rick didn't immediately come after us. However, I did see his radio come out.
Once out of sight, we regrouped with Craig. We agreed to ride up to a point where we could jump off the trail before Falcon Crest, where the posse was surely assembling, and come back on the road.
So we were riding along, and out of nowhere the psycho horse lady came flying in again. It was like something out of a bad Western movie. She was pretty mad that we kept getting away. She said, "If the fucking rangers won't do anything, I will!" She then started snapping limbs off of trees and throwing them at us. The situation had reached the point where all we could do was laugh.
We took off again in a hail of tree branches and put some distance between us. If she stayed within sight of us, it would make positively identifying the "shooter" very easy. Without her, we were just three guys poaching a trail. The terrain was flat and fast, and the horse couldn't keep up as well as in the tight woods. Craig suddenly took a hard left and went right off the trail and over the embankment towards the lake, diving behind a bush. I looked back and realized that she didn't see him bail. I let Dave ride for about a quarter mile before I whistled at him to pull over. She stopped briefly to ask us if we give up yet, and I said, "Nope, just stopping for lunch." She looked up the trail and headed out in pursuit of Craig, who was now actually behind her.
Dave and I sat there for a few minutes and shot the shit. All of the sudden, a new ranger on a horse appeared from the direction the lady just went. Dave and I quickly turned around and high-tailed it. We were hauling ass and the ranger was losing ground. He pulled his radio out, so he was probably calling ahead. We were getting boxed in.
I told Dave to hit it hard and look for a place to bail. After about a half-mile, we came to a faint cross-trail. We headed uphill and it became too steep to ride. We ran up the hill cyclocross style to who-knows-where. We ran under a line of trees and shrubs, and came to a barbed-wire fence. We ran along it for a while until we saw a break in it. We ran through and found ourselves on someone's ranch. We rode on a dirt road until we hit an asphalt road, which we took towards where we thought Salmon Falls Road might be. It ended up being a gated community, and we rode through it to a chorus of dogs barking; it was like they knew we were on the run. Residents looked at us like we were already in orange county jail jumpsuits. We found the gate and of course it's closed. And of course it's six feet tall with spikes on it. I carefully hopped over. Dave handed me the bikes and followed. An old lady watched us from her garage and pulled a cell phone from her robe.
Dave and I rode for a while on the road until we saw the Deputy Sheriff cruising slowly behind us. Luckily he was combing the woods to his right, so he didn't see us yet. I ducked down a dirt driveway and Dave followed. We hid behind some bushes and thankfully he drove right past us. We then decided that we preferred park rangers over El Dorado County Sheriff's Deputies, so we rode up to a trailhead and continued back on the trail where the first ranger stopped us. Screw it, we weren't going to miss the best part of the ride.
The last few miles were uneventful, and we didn't encounter a soul. Knowing we likely escaped a fine, arrest or being stomped to death made the curving ribbons of trail that much sweeter.
When we arrived back at the cars, Craig was there and Robert had just pulled in. Rob had ridden non-stop and went all the way through Falcon Crest to do the Sweetwater Trail before riding back on the road—a nice ride. He never saw a soul or knew of the chaos we were dealing with.
It was a wild day and I probably left out some details. One thing I do know is Brown's Ravine is one of the best single speed trails in the region. I had forgotten how great it is.
Sometimes you just have to poach.
For those of you unfamiliar with the term as it applies to mountain biking, it's the act of riding on trails that are deemed off-limits to bicycles. Yes, it's illegal. No, it's not very responsible. Yes, it makes all mountain bikers look bad. Yes, it could threaten the access we currently have. I've heard all the arguments, and yet I still poach. So why do I do it?
The main reason for poaching is pretty simple: Convenience. Time is in short supply these days. Most every trail close to my home is illegal to ride on, so when I only have a couple hours to spare, it's poaching time. Terrible excuse, sure, but convenience is only part of a complex equation.
Most of these trails see little use by the vocal minority, i.e., the hikers and equestrians. I rarely see a horse on a ride, whereas I see many, many mountain bikers. Seem fair? It doesn't to me. But life itself is not fair, and I accept that, so fairness is only part of the problem.
I don't think I have ever traveled anywhere outside of my home region and ignored a "no bikes" sign. I don't go to Marin County, for instance, and poach a trail. The people who live and ride there have their own land access battles to fight, big ones, and they don't need outsiders screwing things up. In general, I am honest to a fault, and I obey the rules handed down to me. I use my turn signal while driving, return shopping carts to the corral in pouring rain, never run with scissor and sit up straight at the dinner table. Hell, I've never had a speeding ticket.
Which brings us back to my local trails. Over 30 years ago, my friends and I graduated from BMX bikes to the then-new mountain bikes. We left jumps, berms and 45-second BMX races behind and embraced singletrack and grueling multi-hour races. We began riding the horse trails around our two local lakes, and having a blast. We had miles and miles of it at our disposal, more than we could ride in a weekend. We saw the occasional horse, and it was no big deal. But within a few short years, the all-too-familiar circle-slash signs went up. To my knowledge, there was no discussion or public forum, no debate. Just a knee-jerk reaction to complaints from horse owners. Case closed, never to be opened again.
For people who came to the dance late, they see a "no bikes" sign and shrug their shoulders. They never knew any differently. Those who were there in the beginning feel that something was taken away from them. For me, today, it is this: The Good Old Days.
For many years I obeyed those signs, obeyed the law. I rode the boring, short, multi-use trails and looked longingly at the fun stuff across the lake. I drove for an hour or more to do legal rides. Finally, I really lost my way. I rode a damn road bike. The horror.
Then one day you reach a point where you start yearning for those Good Old Days. You're spinning along on the paved bike path, and you think, "What if I slip down Shady Trail, just this once?" Nobody is around, it's near dusk, and you go for it. And it's as good as you remembered it. Better even. At that point it is all over. You are a poacher.
So before you point toward me, perched high upon your horse (or worse, your bike), calling me the problem, know this: I am just a guy, a tax-paying guy with a job and a family and a mortgage and a yard. I'm just stealing little pieces of my past, little pieces of the miles and miles of enjoyment stolen from me, little pieces of The Good Old Days.
Most of the time, when you choose to poach, things turn out just fine . . .
Back in my racing days, we had a team single speed ride on Tuesdays starting at the fish hatchery. We were a competitive bunch, so the pace was fast and painful and often dangerous to others. Many of the trails we used were not especially legal. This combination could, on rare occasions, lead to problems.
One day I showed up for the ride after a long absence. I had raced with the Rio Strada team for seven years, but my participation had tailed off greatly due to a number of outside factors. I pulled into the parking lot apprehensive about my ability to keep up after the layoff.
The 3:00 start time came and went, and only Curtis and I were there. This left me feeling a bit uneasy, as Curtis was coming off a fine cyclocross season which saw him place 11th overall in the Master A class. I, on the other hand, was finishing up a fine season of, well, absolutely nothing. I was hoping for a little pack fodder to hide among.
For the first time in eight years, I raced not a single time all season—not a criterium, road race, nor a mountain bike or cyclocross event. Without any racing under my belt that year, and nearly all of my riding being done solo, I again questioning my fitness as we saddled up. I told Curtis, "Take it easy on me, Racer-Boy."
Whereas I usually start out my single speed rides with some spinning on the flat, somewhat boring (but legal) multi-use trail on the south side of the lake, the team ride jumps right into the illegal stuff by traversing the cliff near the dam. This is the toughest climb of the entire ride, steep and rocky and loose, and it's right out of the parking lot. Curtis flew up it, his spinning tire spitting rocks backwards into my spokes. I barely hung on, thinking this was going to make for a long day.
As we descended down the backside, I easily caught up. Coming from a road racing background, Curtis simply isn't the descender I am.
The next few hills yielded the same result: Getting killed going up, catching back on going down. We were really flying, and I was very uncomfortable with the ungodly pace. It hurt. I tasted copper and lunch was lurking right behind my tongue.
On the next hill I went around Curtis and gave it everything I had to crest the top first. On the descent, a long winding one, I really let it go and put some time into him. This worked well, and was to be my strategy for the remainder of the ride. Using the gap, on the next climb I was able to climb comfortably at my own pace. And so on.
The trails were completely empty except for a couple other riders near Beal's Point. Curtis asked them if they knew they were riding on illegal trails. They didn't get the joke, but Curtis and I laughed anyway. Nope, no runners, hikers, horses or dogs. It was nice. A great afternoon for poaching. No harm, no foul.
On the way back I started getting my legs, bringing the hammer down on the climbs, descents and everything in-between. I was hurting Curtis a little bit, and it felt good. He said, "Take it easy on you? Take it easy on ME!" I felt a bit more confident that I could still ride with these guys who raced all year.
Sometimes, when you poach, things go terribly, terribly wrong . . .
The scheduled Sunday ride was supposed to be in Georgetown. Scanning the dead and dying bikes strewn across the garage, I decided that I didn't have a running machine up for the task. Georgetown is rough—trails maintained by motorcycles, basically. A rigid single speed and a cyclocross rig were the only living soldiers; neither was going to cut it.
I woke up on Sunday morning and saw an e-mail from Dave. It said the ride had been changed to El Dorado Hills due to the freezing temperatures that would make Georgetown miserable. Sweet, I'm in.
I scrambled to change the gearing on my 29er single speed to accommodate the ride at Brown's Ravine, a trail I've poached maybe three times in 15 years. I grabbed some food, changed clothes, and flew down to the pizza place where we park.
Due to the cold, the group was small. It ends up being me, Craig Peterson and a tatted up dude named Robert on single speeds, with Dave opting for his old Merlin geared bike. We took off and it was a little cold, but nothing like the temperatures we would have dealt with up in Georgetown.
Everyone agreed to a slow warm-up, but almost immediately Craig P. broke the truce and put the hammer down. I jumped on his wheel. Craig is a strong rider, but I was pretty much sitting in comfortably. Even so, we put a big gap on Dave and Robert, who actually stuck with the warm-up plan.
The trail was in prime condition from the rain on Friday, and we railed through the turns with seemingly endless traction. We regrouped at a crossroad, and Robert took the lead followed by Craig, Dave and me. We were going through a long series of downhill left turns followed by gradual uphill right-hand bends, over and over. So fun. Robert bobbled on one of the short, steep climbs, and Craig passed him. This would prove to be our undoing.
We continued in this order for a couple miles. I was actually spinning along very comfortably in back, enjoying the ride for the sake of riding. Sometimes it's nice to just cruise along with a slower group and not feel like puking.
Suddenly I came around a corner to catch the beginning of a discussion that was quickly escalating to an argument between Craig and an equestrian. She was in her early sixties, I'd say, with three dogs in tow. Craig had moved off the trail, to the downhill side, and issued a good morning. What he received in exchange was not quite as pleasant. Within moments there was a cussing and pissing contest involving who had been riding the trail longer, who did more for it, and who was more wrong—us for riding the trail or her for letting three dogs run wild. Since Craig lives right up the road, he rides the trail often, and claims to clear poison oak every spring, fix washouts, etc. She admitted to never doing any trail maintenance, giving Craig more ammunition against her, but this only pissed her off more.
The argument lasted for some time, and the old woman was really dishing out the profanity. Craig and Robert responded in kind, and quite frankly it was embarrassing to witness. Robert finally had enough and continued on. Craig finally did the same and issued one last "fuck you" as he rode away. Well, this riled her up again and she took that damn horse right down a steep ravine and up to the trail again, cutting Craig off. She positioned her horse right in front of him and said, "I could crush you right now and nobody would care because you're illegal."
Craig said, "Yeah, well I could shoot your fucking dogs because they're off a leash."
More arguing, more cussing. We tentatively went around her and tried to ride again. This time she decided to chase us while trying to call someone on her cell phone. Unfortunately, I was at the back and the fucking horse was running right up my ass. It was scary. I could actually feel the ground shaking beneath me and feel the horse's breath on my neck. I couldn't believe how fast she was riding that horse on the narrow trail.
After a couple minutes of this, I'd had enough. I was getting mad. What the fuck did I do to her? I hadn't uttered a word to this point. I started to brake and hoped she wasn't serious about stomping on someone. Thankfully, the horse did stop. I tried to talk to her, tell her this wasn't really a constructive way to spend a morning, but it didn't work. She only had eyes for Craig, and rode around me in the weeds, taking off in pursuit. I took off after her.
Riding behind her, I saw her feeble attempts to get a cell phone signal out there. Finally, as we neared the road, she registered a signal and stopped the horse. I blazed by. I knew I had to get back to the guys to warn them about the call she was about to make. Not a half mile later, I was descending down to the creek that runs under Salmon Falls Road, when I saw a ranger getting out of a truck. He told Craig and Dave to stop. Robert was nowhere to be seen. As I pulled up, the ranger, who looked like he was rousted from bed, asked, "What's this about you brandishing a gun, son?" Craig, who is normally pretty quiet and laid back, went off. You could almost hear the capillaries bursting in his eyes.
At this point Dave jumped off his bike and pulled Craig away, while I slipped in to diffuse the situation. Although the lady told him that shots were actually fired, I explained exactly what happened. The Ranger nodded knowingly, like this lady was a constant pain in his ass. Or maybe he was humoring me because he thought we did have a gun. I wasn't sure. Still, he clearly intended on giving us citations and we knew it. I think the fine was $500 back then.
Craig said OK, have a nice day, and started RIDING AWAY. The look on the ranger's face was priceless. He couldn't believe it, and he stood there frozen. Then Dave said the most brilliant thing: "Let's just ride back to Falcon Crest, get in the car, and go home."
Well, we were actually parked on the opposite end of the trail in El Dorado Hills. Dave and I slowly rode away and Ranger Rick didn't immediately come after us. However, I did see his radio come out.
Once out of sight, we regrouped with Craig. We agreed to ride up to a point where we could jump off the trail before Falcon Crest, where the posse was surely assembling, and come back on the road.
So we were riding along, and out of nowhere the psycho horse lady came flying in again. It was like something out of a bad Western movie. She was pretty mad that we kept getting away. She said, "If the fucking rangers won't do anything, I will!" She then started snapping limbs off of trees and throwing them at us. The situation had reached the point where all we could do was laugh.
We took off again in a hail of tree branches and put some distance between us. If she stayed within sight of us, it would make positively identifying the "shooter" very easy. Without her, we were just three guys poaching a trail. The terrain was flat and fast, and the horse couldn't keep up as well as in the tight woods. Craig suddenly took a hard left and went right off the trail and over the embankment towards the lake, diving behind a bush. I looked back and realized that she didn't see him bail. I let Dave ride for about a quarter mile before I whistled at him to pull over. She stopped briefly to ask us if we give up yet, and I said, "Nope, just stopping for lunch." She looked up the trail and headed out in pursuit of Craig, who was now actually behind her.
Dave and I sat there for a few minutes and shot the shit. All of the sudden, a new ranger on a horse appeared from the direction the lady just went. Dave and I quickly turned around and high-tailed it. We were hauling ass and the ranger was losing ground. He pulled his radio out, so he was probably calling ahead. We were getting boxed in.
I told Dave to hit it hard and look for a place to bail. After about a half-mile, we came to a faint cross-trail. We headed uphill and it became too steep to ride. We ran up the hill cyclocross style to who-knows-where. We ran under a line of trees and shrubs, and came to a barbed-wire fence. We ran along it for a while until we saw a break in it. We ran through and found ourselves on someone's ranch. We rode on a dirt road until we hit an asphalt road, which we took towards where we thought Salmon Falls Road might be. It ended up being a gated community, and we rode through it to a chorus of dogs barking; it was like they knew we were on the run. Residents looked at us like we were already in orange county jail jumpsuits. We found the gate and of course it's closed. And of course it's six feet tall with spikes on it. I carefully hopped over. Dave handed me the bikes and followed. An old lady watched us from her garage and pulled a cell phone from her robe.
Dave and I rode for a while on the road until we saw the Deputy Sheriff cruising slowly behind us. Luckily he was combing the woods to his right, so he didn't see us yet. I ducked down a dirt driveway and Dave followed. We hid behind some bushes and thankfully he drove right past us. We then decided that we preferred park rangers over El Dorado County Sheriff's Deputies, so we rode up to a trailhead and continued back on the trail where the first ranger stopped us. Screw it, we weren't going to miss the best part of the ride.
The last few miles were uneventful, and we didn't encounter a soul. Knowing we likely escaped a fine, arrest or being stomped to death made the curving ribbons of trail that much sweeter.
When we arrived back at the cars, Craig was there and Robert had just pulled in. Rob had ridden non-stop and went all the way through Falcon Crest to do the Sweetwater Trail before riding back on the road—a nice ride. He never saw a soul or knew of the chaos we were dealing with.
It was a wild day and I probably left out some details. One thing I do know is Brown's Ravine is one of the best single speed trails in the region. I had forgotten how great it is.
Sometimes you just have to poach.
Saturday, July 08, 2017
The Accidental All Star
Sometimes life presents us with great opportunities that were not necessarily earned. However, you can still grab hold of that good fortune, make the most of it, and prove to everyone that in the end the opportunity was deserved.
We were on our way home from my son's baseball game when I received a message from the Babe Ruth organization asking for a couple players to fill out the Sacramento 13U All-Star roster. I turned to my son in the back seat and asked, "Hey, you want to be an All-Star?" He shrugged and said, “Sure.”I answered the e-mail and within minutes he was on the team. I told him as a late addition he might ride the pine, and to be prepared for that. Just get a few at-bats and have some fun, I added.
The one and only practice was an hour-long affair at Natomas High School where the coach, Barry Worthington, tried to get a feel for each kid’s talents. Barry was the coach of the Natomas High School team, and had never seen any of these young Babe Ruth kids before. When he asked who pitched, only a few kids raised their hands. There were a few standouts during the short practice, but overall I thought Spencer could play with these kids. By the end of the session I had a feeling he would get the opportunity to contribute.
In the first game we faced a Woodland team that had probably been practicing together for weeks, if not longer, and it showed. They executed their infield practice before the game with precision and proficiency. It was impressive. I figured we might be in trouble.
Woodland pounded Sacramento to the tune of 16-4. Spencer threw well in relief, and was the only pitcher to slow the onslaught, but the third baseman and catcher combined for five or six errors and countless passed balls while he was on the hill.
In game two the next day against Elk Grove National, I was surprised to see Spencer walk out to start the game. He was definitely getting his chance to contribute.
There was a new catcher for this game and he was awesome. The little guy was a wall behind the dish, threw out a couple runners and called a great game. A different kid also manned third base, and he made a big difference. Spencer threw four shutout innings and Sacramento won 10-0.
Game three was against Elk Grove American. The good pitchers were either not available due to pitching rules (like Spencer) or tired. Fortunately both teams seemed to be in the same boat. Spencer played the outfield and reached base four times, driving in a couple runs. The somewhat ugly 16-15 victory elevated us out of the loser’s bracket.
In game four, as winners of the loser's bracket, we advanced to play the team that put us there: Woodland. They were good, no doubt, but I thought Spencer could beat them if given the chance. Because of his earlier performances, he was indeed given that chance.
Spencer took the mound coming off his great outing in game two looking poised and confident. He put up three zeros in the first three innings even though he was having trouble finding the very small strike zone. He mixed speeds and locations well, a credit to his fine catcher. Together the duo kept Woodland off balance most of the night.
At the plate, Spencer had an RBI single in the second and a bases clearing double in the fourth. He entered the fifth inning with a healthy 7-1 lead.
Woodland started finding their bats in the fifth and sixth, but Spencer did a great job of limiting the damage. He really battled and made good pitches when he absolutely had to.
Sacramento entered the seventh inning with a 7-4 lead with Spencer still on the mound, but he was running out of pitches. After a first pitch popup yielded a quick out, I thought maybe he had a chance to close it out.
The next hitter rifled a grounder past the mound that Spencer just missed getting a glove on. No big deal; he had been getting ground balls all night. One more and we win.
The third hitter chopped a ball to third with the runner moving. The third baseman should have thrown to first for the sure out, but instead threw late to second. Still, the mood in the stands was good. He had escaped a few of these jams tonight.
The next batter hit a perfect double-play grounder to short that should have ended it. The second baseman was at the bag waiting for the feed, but instead of getting the easy out 10 feet away, the shortstop inexplicably airmailed his throw over the first baseman’s head. My heart sank.
With the bases loaded and one out, and having thrown 96 pitches, the manager made the slow walk to the mound to remove Spencer. Spectators from both sides gave him an ovation.
Were it not for the pitch count rules, I would have left him in for one more batter. He still had bullets left, and he was getting ground balls all night. I really believe he would have wiggled out of it.
The next pitcher gave up hit after hit after hit. Woodland scored seven runs in the 7th and we lost 11-7. Spencer ended up with a no decision after battling his ass off for 6.1 innings.
After the game the home plate umpire sought him out and shook his hand. Three parents from the opposing team also came over and shook his hand. It was very inspiring to witness. One father approached me and said, “Nobody has ever shut us down like that. NOBODY.” He gave me a fist bump and walked away.
I later learned that this Woodland club was actually a travel team. They had played together for years, which made the performance of the Sacramento team with a single short practice all the more impressive.
After the awards ceremony, the coach asked Spencer if he was going to play high school ball. Spencer said yes, he was hoping to make the team. The coach laughed and said, "Make it? You are going to be their ace!"
It was a rough way to end the run, but overall a great adventure. I thought it was valuable experience for Spencer to stand atop the big stage and perform well. He will go into his summer travel ball tournaments with a lot of momentum and confidence, I'm sure.
Sometimes random opportunities are actually deserved, and help to earn your next shot.
Friday, March 04, 2016
Master of Puppets
Thirty years ago yesterday Metallica released the album Master of Puppets, one of the greatest and most influential metal albums of all time. For me, the album completely changed how I viewed music. Hearing it for the first time catapulted me from really liking music to a full-on love affair.
Everyone loves anniversaries. They give us the opportunity to reflect upon those "where I was when" moments. In 1986, at 18 years old, I worked as the night manager at a Round Table Pizza. This entailed closing at 11 p.m. on weeknights and an astounding 1 a.m. on weekends—an unheard of closing time these days. After the doors closed I did the books while my "closer" began cleaning up. Once I completed the bookkeeping, I joined in the cleaning fun until the restaurant was somewhat presentable. We then closed up and dropped off the deposit at a local bank. All told it was about a 90-minute process.Sometime in March, a couple weeks after the album was released, all my friend and closing partner Ben could talk about was the new Metallica album he had purchased the day before. He simply would not shut up about how incredible it was. My attitude was best characterized by the word, "Whatever."
To the general public, rock music was pretty much dead at the time. Current rock music certainly wasn't on the radio in Sacramento. We had a classic rock station, pop (now called '80s music), soul, oldies and probably multiple country stations. The year of 1985 was particularly dismal. Van Halen broke up. Previously great bands like Aerosmith and AC/DC released some of their weakest work (Done With Mirrors, Fly on the Wall) that year. If you look at the top 100 songs from 1985, you'll only find about six songs representing the rock genre, and half of those sucked. The other half were power ballads. It was a tough time to be a rocker.
I was listening to music like Van Halen, Motley Crue, AC/DC, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Ozzy and Dio. Not bad. I was also listening to stuff like Dokken, Ratt, Great White and Cinderella. Questionable. But all the music had a pretty common theme in that it was guitar driven. In my defense, even on the shitiest of my hair band albums, I gravitated towards the heaviest songs.
After we closed up on that Tuesday night, Ben and I both filled up our plastic one gallon pickle jars with Michelob Dark, Round Table's finest beer, and headed to his house to listen to Master of Puppets. Ben lived in the attic of his parent's home, and to us it was the coolest apartment ever. It was accessed by quite possibly the steepest stairs ever built, and you couldn't stand up in two-thirds of the room, but I thought it was awesome. The low ceiling just made the Arabian style décor that much better.
We assumed our positions on the floor pillows, beer between our legs, and settled in. Ben put needle to vinyl and handed me the lyric sheet. This was the proper way to listen to new music back then.
The music blew me away. Long, epic songs, hard and yet melodic at the same time, with huge changes in tempo and mood. Drum beats and time signatures that were hard to identity; definitely not standard 4/4 rock tempos I was used to. Lyrics that were not of the light "girls and good times" rock and roll fare, but much darker: drug addiction, war, religious hypocrisy, control, assault and mental disease.
The timing was right. I had survived a pretty bad rollover car accident a few weeks prior. Instead of being happy to be alive, though, I was in a very dark place. I was pissed off. The aggressiveness and darkness appealed to me. I bought my own copy the next day.
In the following weeks I listened to the album over and over. I really dissected it. I tried to figure out pieces of the songs on guitar. The music was so much more complex than anything I had tried to learn previously, and at a much greater speed. I couldn't play much of it, which only impressed me more. Cliff Burton's classical music background greatly influenced the complexity and depth of the music. He died later that year in the infamous bus accident.
I soon added Metallica's two earlier albums, and any import or bootleg I could get my hands on. I eagerly anticipated anything released thereafter, and I still do to this day. I have seen Metallica live more times than I can count, and I probably will again. At 48 years old, sometimes it seems odd to me that I still listen to Metallica, but I do.
Thirty years later the album still sounds relevant. It really was a masterpiece produced by a band hitting its peak. I listened to it just a couple weeks ago while working in the yard without even realizing this anniversary was approaching, and I had that very same thought.
You can debate forever where the lines are between different music genres. Personally, I have always called everything rock to simplify things, but most people say Metallica is metal. At any rate, Master of Puppets is widely acknowledged as the first metal album to go platinum, and they did it with virtually zero radio airplay. This opened the door for harder music to hit the mainstream. Now, some 30 years later, it is not uncommon to hear Metallica in a restaurant or department store.
Happy birthday, Master of Puppets. You still sound good.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Love's Labour's Lost
How easy it is for love to fade away if left untended. To let something slip slowly from your consciousness is to withhold its sustenance. This is what happened to me and my long-time affection for mountain biking. I ignored the love until it simply died.
I have been thinking about mountain biking a lot the past couple days. I had a good ride on Friday, one that helped me remember what it felt like to truly love something. Since then I have read two mountain bike magazines, cover-to-cover, still barely denting an unread stack that has piled up for years. I am plotting the next ride. I am thinking about the next bike.
I can make many excuses for not mountain biking—work, the yard, errands, the kid's school and sports, family rides, home projects, traveling. And these things are definite contributors. However, the main reason, the underlying truth, is a little more personal: it scares me now. A little.
For the first 24 years of mountain biking I was fearless. I lived a charmed existence. Attacking everything at full speed, I rarely made a mistake. I would go years between crashes. In the event that I did hit the ground, I always escaped with nothing more than a cut, bruise or road rash. After a while you can't help but believe in invincibility.
Then there was the crash, the one that shattered my wrist. It was a long time ago, but the memories are still so very fresh. The reminders come daily. The 12 screws, well, they refuse to let me forget. I awaken to a sore, stiff, immobile wrist. Every day. It never leaves. It never will.
When I was rehabbing, I couldn't wait to ride again. That is the carrot, of course. Work hard, do your exercises, let the nice lady at rehab put you though a tremendous amount of pain, and you can one day ride again. And I did.
But it wasn't the same. I couldn't do the things I did before, physically or mentally. I was broken.
I remember one ride in particular. My friend Doug and I were riding around the Sly Park area. I came around an exposed downhill corner—a steep, rocky chute with a cliff to the left. I balanced at the top for a moment, looking down at the obstacles before me. I was stricken with what I can only imagine was vertigo. I put my feet down. Once Doug was out of sight, I walked down the hill, hating myself for chickening out on a relatively easy trail.
Things improved over time, but not enough. Without the ability and guts to ride on the edge, to be fearless, I was left with an empty feeling. It wasn't fun anymore, wasn't the same. I rode more and more on the road, gravel roads, easy trails. I told myself I really liked "mixed terrain" rides.
After a while I entered a vicious circle: the less I rode my mountain bike, the worse I rode when I did mountain bike. My skills were eroding along with my confidence. A few summers ago I crashed THREE times during a ride in Tahoe, the last one a high speed washout in a left-hand sweeper that gave me a concussion. I was done.
Sure, I still put rubber to dirt. I rode the fat bike. I hit trails around my house. I rode places like Granite Bay, places that could hardly be considered difficult, technical or scary. Nothing I would consider real mountain biking. I put that out of my mind. I forgot about it.
Fast forward to Friday. Something clicked. Be it the new bike, a wrist that is finally "good enough," or simply forgetting to be scared, something clicked. I had fun. I rode hard. I rode without fear. I rode well.
It's only been a couple of days, but it feels a lot like love.
I have been thinking about mountain biking a lot the past couple days. I had a good ride on Friday, one that helped me remember what it felt like to truly love something. Since then I have read two mountain bike magazines, cover-to-cover, still barely denting an unread stack that has piled up for years. I am plotting the next ride. I am thinking about the next bike.
I can make many excuses for not mountain biking—work, the yard, errands, the kid's school and sports, family rides, home projects, traveling. And these things are definite contributors. However, the main reason, the underlying truth, is a little more personal: it scares me now. A little.
For the first 24 years of mountain biking I was fearless. I lived a charmed existence. Attacking everything at full speed, I rarely made a mistake. I would go years between crashes. In the event that I did hit the ground, I always escaped with nothing more than a cut, bruise or road rash. After a while you can't help but believe in invincibility.
Then there was the crash, the one that shattered my wrist. It was a long time ago, but the memories are still so very fresh. The reminders come daily. The 12 screws, well, they refuse to let me forget. I awaken to a sore, stiff, immobile wrist. Every day. It never leaves. It never will.
When I was rehabbing, I couldn't wait to ride again. That is the carrot, of course. Work hard, do your exercises, let the nice lady at rehab put you though a tremendous amount of pain, and you can one day ride again. And I did.
But it wasn't the same. I couldn't do the things I did before, physically or mentally. I was broken.
I remember one ride in particular. My friend Doug and I were riding around the Sly Park area. I came around an exposed downhill corner—a steep, rocky chute with a cliff to the left. I balanced at the top for a moment, looking down at the obstacles before me. I was stricken with what I can only imagine was vertigo. I put my feet down. Once Doug was out of sight, I walked down the hill, hating myself for chickening out on a relatively easy trail.
Things improved over time, but not enough. Without the ability and guts to ride on the edge, to be fearless, I was left with an empty feeling. It wasn't fun anymore, wasn't the same. I rode more and more on the road, gravel roads, easy trails. I told myself I really liked "mixed terrain" rides.
After a while I entered a vicious circle: the less I rode my mountain bike, the worse I rode when I did mountain bike. My skills were eroding along with my confidence. A few summers ago I crashed THREE times during a ride in Tahoe, the last one a high speed washout in a left-hand sweeper that gave me a concussion. I was done.
Sure, I still put rubber to dirt. I rode the fat bike. I hit trails around my house. I rode places like Granite Bay, places that could hardly be considered difficult, technical or scary. Nothing I would consider real mountain biking. I put that out of my mind. I forgot about it.
Fast forward to Friday. Something clicked. Be it the new bike, a wrist that is finally "good enough," or simply forgetting to be scared, something clicked. I had fun. I rode hard. I rode without fear. I rode well.
It's only been a couple of days, but it feels a lot like love.
Monday, January 14, 2013
The Bunt Sign
While eating dinner on a Friday night, my young son asked if we could go to the ballpark in the morning. “No, I have to do my long ride tomorrow,” I answered.
My wife lifted her head, made eye contact, and brushed the figurative bill of her ballcap—the bunt sign. I acknowledged that I received the sign and stepped back into the batter’s box, ready to lay down the sacrifice. “But I guess I can go riding on Sunday,” I added.
Before the cycling gods cursed my soul, dooming me to a career of racing mediocrity, I was a baseball player. A perennial minor league star, I played for seven long years. My diminutive size made it difficult to promote to the majors, and consequently I played with a huge chip on my shoulder. Never was this more evident than when the coach gave me the bunt sign. To put it bluntly, the bunt sign pissed me off. To me this was the coach saying, “You’re too damn small to drive the run in.”
I rarely bunted.
At first I would simply ignore the sign and swing away, usually with good results. Anger has always improved my focus. I remember one game in particular, back when I briefly lived in Ohio. The game was tied in the last inning, with one out and a man on first. The smart play was to bunt that runner over, which was exactly what the coach asked me to do. However, I ignored the sign. I swung away and lined a double into the left-center gap, driving in the winning run. While the team rushed to home plate for the celebration, I was rounding second knowing my name would be in the newspaper. As I trotted toward the coach at third base, he asked me if I had received the bunt sign. “Yeah, I saw it,” I replied. He benched me for the next game.
After that I became smarter about being selfish. I would play dumb if asked about seeing the sign. I would even miss a couple attempted bunts so the coach would remove the bunt sign with two strikes. Whatever it took. I just wanted to swing the bat and get my hits. You didn’t get your name in the local paper for bunting.
Mountain bike racing came just as my frustration with team sports was peaking. Racing was freedom to freelance, a lone man against hundreds, depending on no one and nobody depending on me.
They say that to excel at bike racing requires great sacrifice. This is true, but not in a noble sense. This is not a sacrifice of yourself for others, but really a sacrifice of others for yourself. The hours spent on the bike can be lonesome, of course, but those lonely miles cannot be called true sacrifice. While you might miss your family and friends, you are trading time with them for individual glory. What some might see as “dedication to your sport” is nothing more than selfishness. Not surprisingly, the supremely self-centered are often the ones who stand upon the top step of the podium.
At some point most bike racers have to grow up. When starting a family, you are essentially signing a contract to play team sports again. Having teammates is strange at first and difficult to get used to. At times it feels as if every look to the third base coach reveals yet another bunt sign.
In time bunting becomes second nature, and pretty soon you are dropping them down without even looking at the third base coach. You become accustomed to situational hitting and taking one for the team.
Every once in a while, though, the third base coach gives a tug to the sleeve—the sign to swing away. You dig in and hope for a fastball middle-in. On those rare occasions when you connect and send the ball flying over the wall, it’s nice to round third and see your teammates waiting for you at home plate.
My wife lifted her head, made eye contact, and brushed the figurative bill of her ballcap—the bunt sign. I acknowledged that I received the sign and stepped back into the batter’s box, ready to lay down the sacrifice. “But I guess I can go riding on Sunday,” I added.
Before the cycling gods cursed my soul, dooming me to a career of racing mediocrity, I was a baseball player. A perennial minor league star, I played for seven long years. My diminutive size made it difficult to promote to the majors, and consequently I played with a huge chip on my shoulder. Never was this more evident than when the coach gave me the bunt sign. To put it bluntly, the bunt sign pissed me off. To me this was the coach saying, “You’re too damn small to drive the run in.”
I rarely bunted.
At first I would simply ignore the sign and swing away, usually with good results. Anger has always improved my focus. I remember one game in particular, back when I briefly lived in Ohio. The game was tied in the last inning, with one out and a man on first. The smart play was to bunt that runner over, which was exactly what the coach asked me to do. However, I ignored the sign. I swung away and lined a double into the left-center gap, driving in the winning run. While the team rushed to home plate for the celebration, I was rounding second knowing my name would be in the newspaper. As I trotted toward the coach at third base, he asked me if I had received the bunt sign. “Yeah, I saw it,” I replied. He benched me for the next game.
After that I became smarter about being selfish. I would play dumb if asked about seeing the sign. I would even miss a couple attempted bunts so the coach would remove the bunt sign with two strikes. Whatever it took. I just wanted to swing the bat and get my hits. You didn’t get your name in the local paper for bunting.
Mountain bike racing came just as my frustration with team sports was peaking. Racing was freedom to freelance, a lone man against hundreds, depending on no one and nobody depending on me.
They say that to excel at bike racing requires great sacrifice. This is true, but not in a noble sense. This is not a sacrifice of yourself for others, but really a sacrifice of others for yourself. The hours spent on the bike can be lonesome, of course, but those lonely miles cannot be called true sacrifice. While you might miss your family and friends, you are trading time with them for individual glory. What some might see as “dedication to your sport” is nothing more than selfishness. Not surprisingly, the supremely self-centered are often the ones who stand upon the top step of the podium.
At some point most bike racers have to grow up. When starting a family, you are essentially signing a contract to play team sports again. Having teammates is strange at first and difficult to get used to. At times it feels as if every look to the third base coach reveals yet another bunt sign.
In time bunting becomes second nature, and pretty soon you are dropping them down without even looking at the third base coach. You become accustomed to situational hitting and taking one for the team.
Every once in a while, though, the third base coach gives a tug to the sleeve—the sign to swing away. You dig in and hope for a fastball middle-in. On those rare occasions when you connect and send the ball flying over the wall, it’s nice to round third and see your teammates waiting for you at home plate.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Waiting For Superman
Cyclocross season starts in two weeks, and once again I am not ready. The summer always seems to slip away so quickly. Lately I am riding more often, riding longer distances and putting in harder efforts here and there, but to call it training would be a stretch.
Every summer since the birth of my son in late 2003 begins with the best intentions, but the motivation often fades by fall. In 2004 I raced only twice, finishing mid-pack and frustrating me enough to quit racing. In 2007 I came back and raced once, placing fourth out of seven in the single speed class. Last year I raced once and was soundly crushed by younger and faster riders.
This year I will be racing as a 44-year-old. In cyclocross this is undoubtedly the cruelest year because the 35-44 age group is so varied. A male cyclist is at his fastest between 28 and 32 years of age, so at 35 you can still be pretty damn fast. At 44 you have slid really far down the backside of the mountain. That nine-year age difference is huge.
In the last seven years I have had very consistent but mediocre fitness. I still have my good days, the rides when I feel super, but for every one of those days there are three or four when I am merely mortal. It is completely normal to have good days and bad days on the bike regardless of fitness level. However, as fitness increases the ratio of good to bad days also increases. Being very fit makes it much more likely to have good legs come race day.
In 2003, at age 36, I was at my personal peak condition and a threat to win every 35+ B race. Although I never achieved that elusive win I piled up enough good finishes, including a second and third place, to lead the Sacramento Series for much of the year. I felt fast, confident, bulletproof—like Superman. My Kryptonite came in the form of a fat guy who stalled going up a steep hill. He fell on me as I attempted to pass, snapping some ribs with his elbow and ending my run at the title.
I go into this year knowing I will take my lumps, and my goals need to be more realistic than they have been in the past. I will not win a race. I will not even be near the podium. I think a top ten finish would be a tough but achievable goal if the planets align and I have a super day.
I am treating this season as preparation for next year, the lead-up to the season of hope. Until then I can only be a mere mortal battling young superheroes, waiting for next year, waiting for a 45-year-old to save me, waiting for the return of Superman.
Every summer since the birth of my son in late 2003 begins with the best intentions, but the motivation often fades by fall. In 2004 I raced only twice, finishing mid-pack and frustrating me enough to quit racing. In 2007 I came back and raced once, placing fourth out of seven in the single speed class. Last year I raced once and was soundly crushed by younger and faster riders.
This year I will be racing as a 44-year-old. In cyclocross this is undoubtedly the cruelest year because the 35-44 age group is so varied. A male cyclist is at his fastest between 28 and 32 years of age, so at 35 you can still be pretty damn fast. At 44 you have slid really far down the backside of the mountain. That nine-year age difference is huge.
In the last seven years I have had very consistent but mediocre fitness. I still have my good days, the rides when I feel super, but for every one of those days there are three or four when I am merely mortal. It is completely normal to have good days and bad days on the bike regardless of fitness level. However, as fitness increases the ratio of good to bad days also increases. Being very fit makes it much more likely to have good legs come race day.
In 2003, at age 36, I was at my personal peak condition and a threat to win every 35+ B race. Although I never achieved that elusive win I piled up enough good finishes, including a second and third place, to lead the Sacramento Series for much of the year. I felt fast, confident, bulletproof—like Superman. My Kryptonite came in the form of a fat guy who stalled going up a steep hill. He fell on me as I attempted to pass, snapping some ribs with his elbow and ending my run at the title.
I go into this year knowing I will take my lumps, and my goals need to be more realistic than they have been in the past. I will not win a race. I will not even be near the podium. I think a top ten finish would be a tough but achievable goal if the planets align and I have a super day.
I am treating this season as preparation for next year, the lead-up to the season of hope. Until then I can only be a mere mortal battling young superheroes, waiting for next year, waiting for a 45-year-old to save me, waiting for the return of Superman.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Time
I am getting old.
I know this because there isn't enough time to do all the things I want to do. If this sounds a bit too much like some Jim Croce lyrics, sorry. It was completely unintentional, although it did sound somewhat familiar as I wrote it.
So I am either a plagiarist, or the lack of time as you grow older is a universal truth, one that Jim and I and every other aging guy realizes at some point in his life.
I started this BLOG almost four months ago with every intention of posting to it with some regularity. Time, that slippery commodity--or more precisely, the lack of it--has prevented this.
OK, that isn't entirely true. There was time. Lots of it. I just chose to spend my limited time doing other things. Time is like money: it's all in how you spend it.
Unlike money, though, with time we all live on the same fixed budget. Every day you are given a meager 24-hour stipend to spend as you see fit. You will never get a promotion, a cost-of-living increase, or win the lottery. You get 24 hours, every day, week after week, year after year, until you punch out. How much time you are allotted after that is open to debate. I'm hoping for 100-hour days.
A younger guy, he might try four hours of sleep, eight hours of work, a couple hours for maintenance (showering, eating, ironing a dirty shirt) and a full 10 hours of fun. I did that for a time, while my young body could handle it, and it was great. Those were the days.
Now, at 37, with a family, you shoot for an hour of fun per day. If that.
Now before you get offended, especially if you're female--and REALLY especially if you're my wife--let me explain. There are many, many aspects of day-to-day family life that are enjoyable and fun. The trips to the park, the music in the car, the movies, the milk-out-the-nose hilarity at dinner, your toddler's developing personality, that hug when you get home from work, spending $700 on groceries at Costco, etc. All those things are great, and you wouldn't give them back for all the free time in the world.
Still, you ARE a guy, and as prepared as you thought you were for this new life, you wonder: Where the hell did my 10 hours of fun go?
Starting a family is like having a free-time garage sale. You haul all the contents of your garage out onto the driveway, pick up each item, and say, "Do I really need this?"
- Seinfeld reruns - out
- Fishing - out
- Drinking/pool/darts with the guys - severely limited
- Recreational reading - limited
- Watching or listening to 162 three-hour San Francisco Giants baseball games - out (I actually did this one year--all 162 of them)
- Watching 82 Sacramento Kings games on TV - in
- General garage tinkering - limited
- Weight lifting - out
- Riding bicycles - slightly limited
- Maintenance of bicycles - severely limited
- Racing bicycles - severely limited
So you trade in your Giants games, the ones that break your heart more often than not, for more meaningful things like changing diapers; both are entertaining in their own unique ways, and both often end with shit.
I'm better off without those losers anyway.
If this sounds like whining and complaining, so be it. But the truth is all these time restrictions are self-imposed, and I know that. Above all you want to be a DEVOTED HUSBAND and GOOD FATHER. I have no idea how to actually BE these things. I don't know that any man does right out of the gate. So far I'm about as good at these things as I am at juggling hamsters. I'm getting better, sure, but the pile of dead hamsters is getting frighteningly large.
The secret, I'm finding, is to not give anything up, but to keep at least a sliver of everything. Watch Seinfeld once in a while, go hang out with the guys once a month, and include your kids in your fishing and bike riding. Simple in theory, but it takes effort.
I used to ride my bike quite a bit. I've been riding my bike quite a bit for the better part of 20 years. The bike is an old friend, one I have known and loved since age four. As recently as two years ago, I was riding as much as 650 miles a month--pretty good for a guy who works full-time. And going back even further, when I was young and had those ten hours of free time, 1000 miles a month wasn't unheard of. This year my high month is 357 miles.
To a casual observer, that may seem like a lot of miles on a bicycle, and I guess it is. It's just not what I'm used to. It's not even the lack of mileage that I miss, it's the fitness level; I miss the speed, power and endurance I once had.
Cycling is a sport that only gets more enjoyable as your fitness improves. The feeling that comes from slicing through the air at a high rate of speed, the power generated with your own legs, is intoxicating. Cresting a tough climb without even breathing hard is a great feeling. Completing a long ride, and still feeling fresh at the end, is always satisfying. Those things come with lots of miles and time. Miles and time.
Every cyclist has at least a little racer in him. I have a little more than most, and that's what makes getting older that much tougher. I used to be very serious about racing, and I've even won a few races here and there. I still race a little, when the mood strikes me, in the VETERAN'S class. Yes, at 35 you are an old man as far as cycling goes, and banished to the vet class.
Whether they will admit to it or not, most cyclists imagine they are racing at some point during a ride. Sometimes you chase imaginary racers up a climb, other times powering away from ghostly pursuers on a long, flat road. Young and old, thin and fat, we all do it. It's just a hell of a lot easier for me to pretend I'm Lance Armstrong if my body looks more like his than John Goodman's.
Lately, more and more, I participate in those races of the imaginary kind. And, more and more, I'm feeling OK with it. I must say, even with my lack of training time, I win a lot. My invisible rivals are surprisingly slow and out of shape. If they expect to beat a guy like me, they really need to ride more. If they did 357 miles a month, like I do, they might just have a chance.
I know this because there isn't enough time to do all the things I want to do. If this sounds a bit too much like some Jim Croce lyrics, sorry. It was completely unintentional, although it did sound somewhat familiar as I wrote it.
So I am either a plagiarist, or the lack of time as you grow older is a universal truth, one that Jim and I and every other aging guy realizes at some point in his life.
I started this BLOG almost four months ago with every intention of posting to it with some regularity. Time, that slippery commodity--or more precisely, the lack of it--has prevented this.
OK, that isn't entirely true. There was time. Lots of it. I just chose to spend my limited time doing other things. Time is like money: it's all in how you spend it.
Unlike money, though, with time we all live on the same fixed budget. Every day you are given a meager 24-hour stipend to spend as you see fit. You will never get a promotion, a cost-of-living increase, or win the lottery. You get 24 hours, every day, week after week, year after year, until you punch out. How much time you are allotted after that is open to debate. I'm hoping for 100-hour days.
A younger guy, he might try four hours of sleep, eight hours of work, a couple hours for maintenance (showering, eating, ironing a dirty shirt) and a full 10 hours of fun. I did that for a time, while my young body could handle it, and it was great. Those were the days.
Now, at 37, with a family, you shoot for an hour of fun per day. If that.
Now before you get offended, especially if you're female--and REALLY especially if you're my wife--let me explain. There are many, many aspects of day-to-day family life that are enjoyable and fun. The trips to the park, the music in the car, the movies, the milk-out-the-nose hilarity at dinner, your toddler's developing personality, that hug when you get home from work, spending $700 on groceries at Costco, etc. All those things are great, and you wouldn't give them back for all the free time in the world.
Still, you ARE a guy, and as prepared as you thought you were for this new life, you wonder: Where the hell did my 10 hours of fun go?
Starting a family is like having a free-time garage sale. You haul all the contents of your garage out onto the driveway, pick up each item, and say, "Do I really need this?"
- Seinfeld reruns - out
- Fishing - out
- Drinking/pool/darts with the guys - severely limited
- Recreational reading - limited
- Watching or listening to 162 three-hour San Francisco Giants baseball games - out (I actually did this one year--all 162 of them)
- Watching 82 Sacramento Kings games on TV - in
- General garage tinkering - limited
- Weight lifting - out
- Riding bicycles - slightly limited
- Maintenance of bicycles - severely limited
- Racing bicycles - severely limited
So you trade in your Giants games, the ones that break your heart more often than not, for more meaningful things like changing diapers; both are entertaining in their own unique ways, and both often end with shit.
I'm better off without those losers anyway.
If this sounds like whining and complaining, so be it. But the truth is all these time restrictions are self-imposed, and I know that. Above all you want to be a DEVOTED HUSBAND and GOOD FATHER. I have no idea how to actually BE these things. I don't know that any man does right out of the gate. So far I'm about as good at these things as I am at juggling hamsters. I'm getting better, sure, but the pile of dead hamsters is getting frighteningly large.
The secret, I'm finding, is to not give anything up, but to keep at least a sliver of everything. Watch Seinfeld once in a while, go hang out with the guys once a month, and include your kids in your fishing and bike riding. Simple in theory, but it takes effort.
I used to ride my bike quite a bit. I've been riding my bike quite a bit for the better part of 20 years. The bike is an old friend, one I have known and loved since age four. As recently as two years ago, I was riding as much as 650 miles a month--pretty good for a guy who works full-time. And going back even further, when I was young and had those ten hours of free time, 1000 miles a month wasn't unheard of. This year my high month is 357 miles.
To a casual observer, that may seem like a lot of miles on a bicycle, and I guess it is. It's just not what I'm used to. It's not even the lack of mileage that I miss, it's the fitness level; I miss the speed, power and endurance I once had.
Cycling is a sport that only gets more enjoyable as your fitness improves. The feeling that comes from slicing through the air at a high rate of speed, the power generated with your own legs, is intoxicating. Cresting a tough climb without even breathing hard is a great feeling. Completing a long ride, and still feeling fresh at the end, is always satisfying. Those things come with lots of miles and time. Miles and time.
Every cyclist has at least a little racer in him. I have a little more than most, and that's what makes getting older that much tougher. I used to be very serious about racing, and I've even won a few races here and there. I still race a little, when the mood strikes me, in the VETERAN'S class. Yes, at 35 you are an old man as far as cycling goes, and banished to the vet class.
Whether they will admit to it or not, most cyclists imagine they are racing at some point during a ride. Sometimes you chase imaginary racers up a climb, other times powering away from ghostly pursuers on a long, flat road. Young and old, thin and fat, we all do it. It's just a hell of a lot easier for me to pretend I'm Lance Armstrong if my body looks more like his than John Goodman's.
Lately, more and more, I participate in those races of the imaginary kind. And, more and more, I'm feeling OK with it. I must say, even with my lack of training time, I win a lot. My invisible rivals are surprisingly slow and out of shape. If they expect to beat a guy like me, they really need to ride more. If they did 357 miles a month, like I do, they might just have a chance.
Monday, February 07, 2005
One
I suppose it's the non-conformist in me that took an immediate dislike to this blogging nonsense, yet it appears I am now posting to my very own BLOG. Wee. I'm somebody now. Look at me.
I'm not sure why I'm doing it, or what changed my thinking, but I guess I am going to find out. This may be the first and last post. Too close to call at this point.
I've always fancied myself as a writer, and I have enjoyed writing at various times in my life. At least I think I enjoyed it. Maybe, just maybe, I enjoyed the praise from readers more than I actually liked the writing.
I remember the very moment when I realized writing was merely a dream, a fantasy. I was in a bookstore scrounging through the bargain bin when I came across what looked like a nice hardback novel. The title escapes me now, but I can still picture the author inside the dustcover. He was about 30, average looking, posing on a split-rail fence, the ocean behind him. He had that "I'm on top of the world" grin on his face, the one that says, "I made it." It was his first novel. The original price was $24.95, but the book had been marked down to one dollar. A buck. This guy's crowning achievement, what may have taken years to complete, was worth a whole dollar.
THAT would have killed me. I couldn't even imagine walking into a bookstore and seeing my work reduced to bargain bin filler, a paper weight, a doorstop. My brain is not wired to handle that kind of rejection. At least it wasn't back then, back when I was writing.
The dream never really dies, though. Sure, you're never going to be paid to write, but you get your fix here and there, whether it's telling your buddy a story through e-mail, or making the driest software manual somewhat entertaining, it never really dies, this dream. Like that girl next door you grew up with, one day she just looks different. She was always there, but now you really see her.
Now I'm 37 and my first child is 15 months old. I've been in the computer industry, the path I stumbled upon when the writing stopped, for 14 years. For some reason, on this day, things seem a little bit different. Perhaps it's my age, or fatherhood, or my computer industry shelf-life expiring, or simply this blog giving me the outlet. I'm not sure what it is, but today the feeling is different. Today I think I can write again.
So I type on the keyboard, just like I do every single day. Yet today, these words, they just look different.
I'm not sure why I'm doing it, or what changed my thinking, but I guess I am going to find out. This may be the first and last post. Too close to call at this point.
I've always fancied myself as a writer, and I have enjoyed writing at various times in my life. At least I think I enjoyed it. Maybe, just maybe, I enjoyed the praise from readers more than I actually liked the writing.
I remember the very moment when I realized writing was merely a dream, a fantasy. I was in a bookstore scrounging through the bargain bin when I came across what looked like a nice hardback novel. The title escapes me now, but I can still picture the author inside the dustcover. He was about 30, average looking, posing on a split-rail fence, the ocean behind him. He had that "I'm on top of the world" grin on his face, the one that says, "I made it." It was his first novel. The original price was $24.95, but the book had been marked down to one dollar. A buck. This guy's crowning achievement, what may have taken years to complete, was worth a whole dollar.
THAT would have killed me. I couldn't even imagine walking into a bookstore and seeing my work reduced to bargain bin filler, a paper weight, a doorstop. My brain is not wired to handle that kind of rejection. At least it wasn't back then, back when I was writing.
The dream never really dies, though. Sure, you're never going to be paid to write, but you get your fix here and there, whether it's telling your buddy a story through e-mail, or making the driest software manual somewhat entertaining, it never really dies, this dream. Like that girl next door you grew up with, one day she just looks different. She was always there, but now you really see her.
Now I'm 37 and my first child is 15 months old. I've been in the computer industry, the path I stumbled upon when the writing stopped, for 14 years. For some reason, on this day, things seem a little bit different. Perhaps it's my age, or fatherhood, or my computer industry shelf-life expiring, or simply this blog giving me the outlet. I'm not sure what it is, but today the feeling is different. Today I think I can write again.
So I type on the keyboard, just like I do every single day. Yet today, these words, they just look different.
Thursday, July 17, 2003
Alive and Kicking
Today is my birthday, and these little milestones often provide the catalyst to reflect. I have reached 36 years old, and sometimes I wonder how on earth I have made it this far.
I narrowly escaped with my life on Saturday. After five days, I'm just now getting to where I want to talk about it.
I was descending the hill on Deer Valley Road—a narrow, quiet country road I use often—doing about 35-40 miles an hour. I was in the middle of the traffic lane, as the rough surface dictates you need options right and left because of the broken pavement, patches and potholes. There was nobody anywhere behind me, so I felt safe and comfortable. It was a warm, sunny morning, and I think I was probably smiling a little as I flew down the hill.
I came around to the little S-bend turn at the creek crossing and a car was coming right at me with all four tires in my lane. All I can remember is it was a maroon sedan with a chrome bumper. They were doing about 70, tires squealing, and probably misjudged the turn. Unfortunately we met right at the little bridge, which narrows so two cars can't easily pass. The guard rail prevented me from bailing into the ditch. I hit the brakes hard, locked up the rear end a little, and angled to the right, squeezing as close as I could to the railing.
The driver saw me at the very last instant and cranked the wheel. All I remember seeing was the oncoming bumper. It went right past my left shin. So close. I barely cleared the guard rail and went into the ditch, crashing into some scrub oak and bushes. Thankfully, it was a fairly soft landing. I jumped up and shook my fist and screamed a little, but he/she/they were long gone and out of my sight line.
No license number, make of car, anything. It happened too fast.
I was really angry, and that anger carried me all the way home. It wasn't until I got home, went upstairs and hopped in the shower that the seriousness of the situation really hit me. I was a bit shook up. It was a very close call. Very close.
The collision could have killed me simply because of the combined speeds. At the very least I would have lost a leg or two. I have to think my handling skills saved my ass. It really was a nice maneuver, if I may say so.
Anyway, I only received a small scratch on my forearm and skinned my knee. The sidewall on my rear tire is cut, and there's a little flat spot from skidding. The rear wheel (brand fucking new!) needed a true job. That's about it for damage.
The incident prompted me to order my Santa Cruz Blur. I have been going back and forth for months trying to decide if it's the right bike for me. Now I figure it's time to get back on the trails and do more dirt riding. The roads get crazier every day.
I realize that the incident could have happened anywhere, even my old favorite roads in Auburn, but I am now even less enthused with where I am now living. Narrow roads, rednecks, speeding SUVs and cyclists just don't mix. I can't quite put my finger on it just yet, but the people here in Shingle Springs are different. Every ride I feel like a foreigner. They do not want me here.
I drove down to Folsom and rode on the bike trail a couple times before I finally got the nerve to go out for a local road ride again. Once I got out there I didn't really trip out on it too much; it was fine. I rode the Jergens/Luneman roads. The ride was nice and hard, and that kept me from thinking about it too much. I must admit I crept down those steep hills, though. I was no Paolo "Il Falco" Savoldeli, that's for sure.
Anyway, that's the story. I didn't really let on how close it was to my mom or Jennifer, although Jenn definitely knew something was wrong when I got home. Man, I already miss that boring WeeFun bike trail.
Like a very wise man with big, big hair from the legendary band Cinderella said: "Don't know what you got, 'til it's gone . . ."
Later.
Saturday, July 12, 1997
Thirty
I am turning 30 in a few days. I couldn't be more excited about it.
The occasion is not altogether unexpected. Many people do actually reach this momentous milestone of age and wisdom. If you need any sage advice, I am your guy. Soon.
Today, however, I am still in my twenties and possibly still a little bit young and reckless. At least, my legs may tell you that as I sit here suffering from fatigue, soreness and cramps.
I have been working full time now for about 10 months. It's been fine, I guess. The stable pay and benefits are nice, and the promise of a pension someday is good. The idea of doing this for 25 more years is a bit daunting if not depressing, though.
The transition from slacker student with a cycling habit to industrious worker has been at times very easy and also extremely difficult. It's been almost a year and I haven't missed a single day of work. Yet during each of those days I probably think of faking sick and leaving for a ride 10 times.
All of these things were swirling around in my head this morning when I woke up. The only logical thing to do (according to my pre-wisdom brain) was go on an ill-advised ride in the hills and heat to prove to myself I still had some life left in these aging legs.
I rode from my apartment in Sacramento up the bike trail to Folsom, into the foothills past El Dorado Hills and Rescue, through Lotus and Cool, and into the canyon. I climbed up to Auburn, rode down the long, gradual descent back into Folsom, and spun back up the bike trail to my apartment. I ended up with 93 miles, a mild heat stroke and a tiny bit more wisdom.
The reality is I am still very much a cyclist, but it's now my side job. There was a time when these two things were reversed, and I rode more hours than I worked. Ah, to be young and fit and fast. Those were good times. My brain still holds tightly to the memories of the young guy who could easily ride 100 miles and still have more left in the tank. I really liked that guy.
It is the 12th of July and today's journey was only my second ride of the month. It's been very hot, and I have been lazy after work. To think I could go out and ride nearly 100 miles in the heat with my current level of fitness was foolish. You might say unwise. Maybe in a few days I will think differently. You know, when that wisdom kicks in.
On the other hand, perhaps testing yourself periodically leads to insight and knowledge. Even though the "thirty" number I am obsessing over is merely a human construct based on the way we perceive time, the ability to measure oneself at these milestones has merit.
Though I struggled today, I proved to myself once again that I still truly love riding a bicycle. And that struggle taught me so much more than resting could have. After a trying week at work, spending a long Saturday in the hills was the cleansing journey I needed.
I have to find a balance between career and private life. Right now the scale is tipping perilously toward the work side. I think piling on some riding weight will help even things out and ultimately assist me in finding a healthy equilibrium.
As I read back what I have just written, I see little bits of wisdom. I can't help but wonder if I turned 30 today.
Later.
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