Time Travel, Part Two

The next stop on our Google Earth tour is the great state of Ohio.

I moved to Fairborn, Ohio in 1977. My family spent over two years in the Buckeye State while my dad was stationed at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, and I have fond memories of our time there. After living my first 10 years in California, I had never experienced things like fireflies, blizzards, humidity, spectacular lightning storms or tornadoes.

We lived in a condominium complex that was built in the middle of nowhere. Except for the convalescent hospital across the street, there wasn't much of anything but farmland in all four directions. Even today, 30 years later, the area surrounding the complex is relatively undeveloped.

When we moved in, the complex was unfinished and half the size of what you see now. The ongoing construction made for great exploring and play opportunities, and it's a wonder nobody was killed. As soon as the construction workers left for the day, the kids would swarm into the site and everything was fair game. We climbed up in unlocked dump trucks and earth movers, took wood to build forts, and used unfinished condos for hide-and-seek. It was great fun.

I could tell stories for days--about the lightning that split a tree right behind my dad and I, about the blizzard of '78, all the times in the crawl space hiding from tornadoes, the Midwest's love for Little League, the homicidal cat, the summer adventures--but I don't have the days to tell them.

Here is a picture of me riding my 11th birthday gift in July of 1978. The grass area you see behind me . . .



. . . is circled in the photo below.



It's incredible to think we can now make that kind of connection in time and space with a few clicks of a mouse, and bring back such a flood of great memories.

Later.

Time Travel, Part One

I downloaded and installed the newest version of Google Earth last night. After checking out the sky, the moon and Mars for a while, I started putting in the addresses of all the places I have lived. It was interesting to see what has changed over the years, and what has not.

The area around my first house in Citrus Heights has changed drastically. I knew that of course, since I still live in the Sacramento area, but to see it from the air made it very clear.

Our house was right on I-80 near Antelope Road. If you're traveling east, the last Antelope Road exit sign you see was right over our back fence.

A little to the west were the truck scales. As the big rigs left the scales, you would always hear them going through the gears as they accelerated up to highway speed. It was a pretty noisy place to live, but like anything, you just became used to it.

Back then, the area north of the highway was wide-open field as far as you could see. As you can see now, it's all developed:



The most indelible memory from that house is the morning my bedroom window exploded. I was only five years old, but it's pretty hard to forget a day when 6,000 bombs go off.

Most people call it the "Roseville Bombing," but the disaster actually occurred at Southern Pacific's Antelope Receiving Yard. On April 28, 1973, eighteen boxcars loaded with Vietnam-bound MK-81 bombs somehow caught fire and exploded all day and well into the night. Over 5,500 buildings were damaged and 350 people were injured. The small community of Antelope was flattened. Amazingly, no one was killed.

It started early that morning as I slept. My bed was situated under the bedroom window, which shattered inward. The glass landed on the bedding, and I escaped without a scratch. My parents and I went out to the backyard and watched as mushroom clouds filled the sky.



Each blast was powerful. I remember feeling the concussion of the blasts move my pajamas as I stood in the backyard.



At one point my dad went up on the roof to take pictures. While up there, a piece of shrapnel struck the roof. I still have the chunk of metal on my desk, and it still has the tar and sand on it from the roofing material. It weighs a couple ounces, and I shudder to think of what it would have done if it hadn't missed my dad.

We spent most of the day at my grandparents' house and returned home late that night to find a completely windowless house.





I remember driving around the area a day or two later and peering out the window of our car to see the flat spots where houses used to be.

I found a number of old snapshots taken by a rail yard man. They illustrate the extent of the damage far better than a five-year-old's memory can:











More to come . . .

Later.

Baby Einstein

I took my son out for a ride on the bike trail the other day. This is always a big undertaking. By the time we leave the house, it looks like we're going camping for a week—bikes, clothing, towels, water bottles, food, shoes, helmets, sun glasses, gloves, sun screen, tools, spare tubes, backpack, etc. Lots of things to remember. It was only a matter of time before I forgot something.

Unfortunately, when I did forget, it was something important . . . the boy's helmet.

I cursed under my breath and tried to decide whether we would drive back home for it, or just bag the ride altogether. When I told him I had forgotten his helmet, he asked, "Can I use yours?"

I just smiled at him like adults do, with the "you're-so-cute-but-you-just-don't-get-it" smile. I playfully placed my helmet on his head and shook it around.

It didn't move much. At all.

His mother and I have always joked about his head, and how his huge brain will one day bring great things to the world. I just didn't realize it was THAT big.

With a couple clicks of the ratchet system in back and a few inches of chin strap taken in, we were in business. It didn't even look that big on him:



I threw on a ballcap and off we went. I don't like riding without a helmet, but I didn't want to drive back home, either. We did stay on the flatter portion of the bike trail since it was safer.



The boy pounded out a personal best of 25 miles. We followed it up with burritos and a swim when we returned home. Another great summer day.

Later.

Reality Check

Yesterday I went out for my first ride in Tahoe in over two years. It was hard. I suck.

My original plan was to climb up Mount Rose to Tahoe Meadows, take the Rim Trail to the Flume, circle around Marlette Lake, climb up the Rim over Marlette Peak, then descend the Rim and Tunnel Creek Road back to the condo. In the end, I cut out the loop around Marlette Lake.

The ride starts with a constant 8.5-mile climb right from the condo. The climb begins with a steep 3.5-mile road section, then gets much harder in the middle as the road steepens and turns to dirt. The grade lets up a bit towards the top, and then the last singletrack climb gets steep and technical. It was here that I realized my wrist was going to be an issue; I didn't have the hand strength to power up and over obstacles. It was also at about this point that I realized my fitness level sucks.

The rest of my ride was mostly downhill, but it still took a lot out of me. The deep sand, technical downhills, and frequent little climbs tired me out. I think worrying about crashing was more draining than the ride itself.

I walked a number of technical features that in years past I didn't even think twice about riding. I have little confidence in my technical skills, and I get the occasional flashback of snapping my wrist on any rock formation that resembles the one I crashed on. I had one close call when my left hand nearly slipped off the bars. The grip strength isn't quite there yet.

In the end I made it through the most technical ride so far without hitting the ground. It was nice to get back out there, and hopefully tomorrow I'll ride with a bit more confidence.

Obligatory Tahoe shot:

One with more face content:

Later.

Enter the Dragon

What do you do when you're heading out on a mountain biking vacation, your first one since breaking your wrist? Your first foray into "real" mountain biking, rides with descents that are leaving you a bit nervous about your ability to hold on?

Build a new bike you are completely unfamiliar with! One that you completed in the middle of the night, and you're not quite sure all the bolts are tightened!

Feels good in the driveway. We'll see how it goes.

Later.

Hell On Earth

Satan is winning.

Of course, you knew that. How else could this have happened?

Another sign of prevailing evil is the existence of these little guys:



They’re called goatheads or puncture vine by most people, but when I look at them I see something more sinister. Could it be . . . Satan?



They grow on an innocent-looking weed like this one:



And turn into hateful little demons who deflower your virgin tubes:



Now isn't that special?

Created in his own image, these dedicated devil minions descend (ascend?) upon us every summer, and cyclists employ a number of different defenses in a vain attempt to deal with them. I have tried Kevlar-belted tires, plastic tire liners and inner tubes filled with sealant. Nothing can totally stop them.

They can't be stopped.

By mid-summer, flat tires become routine. And by the looks of things, this summer will be the worst in recent memory. Our weird spring, with repeated heating-cooling-raining trends, has left the weed population very green well into July.

Here's a recent picture of a road near my house:



The darker green you see going all the way up the road is puncture vine. Each plant produces hundreds of thorns. In a few weeks this road will become completely impassable.

Say a prayer to la Madonna del Ghisallo for me. It's going to be a long summer.

Later.

Stage 15 Post-Mortem

Looks like my favorite writer, Julien Pretot, simply submitted his story about nine days too early. Everything I said Contador didn't do in my previous post, he did at the end of Stage 15 today.

Stamped his authority? Check.

Left Armstrong trailing in his wake? Check.

Astana's sole leader? Check.

That said, this Tour is a long way from being over. There is still plenty of time for Lance to spike Contador's food with PEDs before a post-race dinner. No worries.

If Lance doesn't want to go the drug route, he can always ride his bike. Still to come are three tough mountain stages, followed by the mostly flat 40k time trial, and then the Stage 20 finish on Ventoux. The smart money is on Contador, but anything can happen. We've seen guys have one bad day in the mountains and lose 10 minutes, so a 97-second deficit is nothing to worry about just yet.

Winning feels like this:



Losing feels like this:



Later.