On Saturday night I witnessed one of those rare moments in life where everything happens the way it should. While walking down sleepy Grand Ave in Los Olivos, a speeding BMW swerved into the on-coming lane pointed in the direction of some innocent kids, (scratch the word innocent), some kids hanging out near the curb (Oakdale style). The driver acted as if he were going to run them down, but with Jerry Rice-like reflexes, swerved back into his lane and went on his way with a hurricane of dust and straw in his wake. Greg Pleiss and I looked at each other in amazement. Before I could say, “Did you see that asshole?”, the planets aligned and a hidden cop car pealed out of the sky. In an instant, we were watching COPS Los Olivos.

The driver was young (junior college age) and so were his female passengers. The Statey cuffed the felon, but didn’t knock his prisoner’s head on the outside of his squad car while shoving him in the back seat. Bummer. Sloppy police work if you ask me. No doubt the influence of our current governor. But I digress – the important part is that, if for just one evening, there was one less BMW driver on the planet and the sleepy town of Los Olivos was safe.

Back to Dinner...

On Saturday night, Trevor, Greg, Christie & I dined at the Los Olivos Cafe’. The Pleiss’ had eaten there a few years ago (before they were the Pleiss’) and since then the café has been the stage for a few scenes of the movie Sideways. No one in our party refused a glass of wine, but we couldn’t help but notice the lack of vino on the table of self-proclaimed wine aficionados, JHK and Mrs. JHK. No red wine, no white win, no pink wine - just a pink t-shirt worn by the eventual runner-up of Sunday’s XC Race.

I would have ordered my own pink t-shirt that evening if the San Marcos Motel in Buellton had wireless internet. They did have a hundred cable TV channels (including HBO & ESPN), so I made Trevor watch Sherman’s March. Sherman was a bad dude. I secretly vowed to race the next day’s event with the same passion and furry of the great general, burning or destroying everything or everyone in my path. Instead, I fell a little short – landing somewhere between Sherman’s March to the Sea and a full Confederate Army Surrender. Fifth Singlespeed O/A. I’ll take it.

World News

The witch hunt continues

Ryder is 2!

It seems like just yesterday I was three-quarters through a bottle of wine and working on bikes in my plush Raven Way garage when Denise waddled in and misdiagnosed her water breaking as an uncontrollable pregnant-pressured bladder. Destiny told me to skip my ride that evening and spend some time working on, a bottle of wine, and badly neglected bikes. I was numbly on my way to finishing both jobs when I stopped to mop up the garage floor, pack an overnight bag and drive my contracting wife to Redlands Community Hospital: a drive that she chauffeured on many occasions due to my string of random injuries, aliments and surgeries. Even pickled, I was familiar with the drive from our Grand Terrace home to the hospital.

Back labor forced Denise to stand on the cold delivery room floor through her painful contractions, and me to serve as her pillar. (Note: the one and only time I’ll refer to myself as a pillar). Eventually all that standing, all that heavy breathing and all those massive contractions gave way to all that wine and all that void of dinner in my stomach. Spotting a potential embarrassing moment that I’d never live down (interesting fact - woman faint, men pass out), soon-to-be Grandma Suzie assumed the pillar position while soon-to-be Grandma Cindy assumed that a Del Taco combo burrito would get me through the rest of the birthing. Sure as the sun rises, the from-concentrate beans and oatmeal meat gave me the strength and nourishment to see Ryder born (viewed from the dry end of the bed) as the sun rose on April 21, 2005. Including everyone in the delivery room like Denise, our family, the doctor, the nurses and of course, Ryder, I owe those precious moments to Dan. I think I may have just figured out Ryder’s strong obsession for beans.

Great Grandma Joyce holds the birthday boy. Mint chocolate chip birthday cake, cheese cake or beans? “Yes please,” says Ryder. He loves his sweets and his beans equally.


From the left - Evan, Ryder, James, Brandon & little Destry kick it backyard style.



Attached in the email reminding me that he’ll be in the states on Monday, my good Czech friend, Robert, sent some photos of his new custom painted Prodoli road bike. Apparently decades of communists oppression helped produce a storm of custom-painted creativity. Czech out the detail to the water bottle cages, seat tube & top tube. It’s like a Trek Project One. I call it a Commie One. Anyway, the bike looks as fast as a Russian Mig.

The only thing this bike is missing is this.

Leaves of 3, Let Me Be

My trophy from Sea Otter: Poison Oak. My left forearm got the worst of it, but even after nearly two weeks, little spots keep popping up on the rest of my body.

Here’s my daily routine since getting the poison oak: get up from a horrible night’s sleep and start drinking lots of coffee to level out the 8 AM Benadryl. By noon, I’ve changed the dressing on my arm at least twice and the morning Benadryl buzz has worn off, so it’s time to take another. At 2 pm I’m a complete zombie from all the drugs and from coming down off the coffee. By 4 or 5 the drugs are starting to wear off again, but I’m usually able to get on the bike by that point, so the discomfort is temporarily replaced by the high of riding. After the ride, I come home, shower and reapply calamine lotion to all my spots and sometimes take another Benadryl, chased by, at the very least, a couple of beers to kill the pain. Even so, I still can’t sleep well because the goo seeping out of my arm wets the dressing enough that it wakes me and I reapply calamine & dressing. Lately I’ve been cutting the toes out of old tube socks and wear those to bed like a poor man’s arm warmers. And the day starts all over again…

The outbreak on my legs is strategically positioned on both sides of my inner thigh and either rubs on my pants & shorts or on the outside of my saddle while I’m riding. The spots on my back are right where my heart rate monitor is supposed to go and the blisters near my armpits are where all my shirts lay against my body. But the left forearm – oh, the left forearm. God help me.

What Would Jens Voigt Do?

I've Been Busy

Since the big New Year's freeze of '07, I've been busy. Too busy to blog at least. Just working, hanging out with the kid & riding. And a little racing here and there too.

Here's some good stuff of Ryder.

December of '06 at a cross race in Torrance. Ryder had a lot more fun than I did. At this race I punctured while running fifth (again).

Ryder likes hippos. Especially ones that swim and are the size of compact cars.

He likes snakes too.

Back at the cross race - Denise is responsible for the feed and Ryder is responsible for packing up the trainer after I'm done warming up. I'm responsible for flatting. Everyone does their job well.


Back at the zoo - "Echo, echo, echo, echo, echo!"

New Stuff from Brandon Bird

Battle of the Heroes

"I always pick Dauber, on the account of his speed attacks," says Brandon. Brilliant.

T-Mas

That's all I can muster for now. Photos of Ryder's 2nd Birthday, racing & random B.S. soon.