Month: June 2019

Woosh is a sound we might associate with going fast. Woosh….! 🚴‍♂️

I live on College Avenue in Fallbrook California. My house is located about one-third of the way up a street which is roughly a one-half mile long. Coming off Main Avenue, College Avenue begins as a T and concludes as a dead end. My street is a fairly steep gradient.

That means when I pull out of my driveway to ride each day, I immediately go downhill — woosh…! 🚴‍♂️

That initial woosh 🚴‍♂️ though, only lasts for a few seconds because at Main Avenue I must go left or right. Main Avenue is flat. More on that later.

Near the top of my To-Do list for the last month or so was the following bullet point…

– Pull brakes, BTK

That was a note reminding me to increase the brake tension of my Trek FX2 bike, aka, Bomer The Kreeps.

Pulling in the brake tension cable would help provide a quicker response when engaging my brake levers. It’s been on my to-do list for a while because along with pulling in the brake cables, there are a half-dozen little adjustments that also need to be made and tested. It can be a time-consuming process.

Due to a cancellation in my work schedule yesterday, I finally had a chance to pull in those brake cables and make all the appropriate adjustments. It felt good that I had done a proper job.

Pulling out of the driveway last night to begin my ride, I decided I would turn left at the bottom of College Avenue and head south toward the town of Bonsall and later Oceanside. This would set me up for a 30-mile round-trip

Woosh…! 🚴‍♂️

I didn’t take long though, before I realized the final adjustment I needed to make after pulling my brake cables in — was never adjusted.

There is a small knob on the inside of each brake mechanism which can be turned between the thumb and index finger to adjust the tension on the brakes, slightly, if needed. I had released the two finger dials after the final brake adjustment so I could spin the tires and ensure the brake rotors were lined up properly.

On completion of that alignment test, I never turned those knobs back in.

That’s a long-winded way of letting you know that by the time I hit the bottom of College Avenue last evening to turn left and head toward Bonsall, I was going roughly 30 mph headed into the busiest street in town — at 5 PM, which is rush-hour in my little town.

Woosh…! 🚴‍♂️

The whole circumstance unfolded in roughly 3-5 seconds. All I could do, without any brakes, was to hit Main Avenue and bank right instead of left, to turn as sharply as possible, and hope that no cars would be headed my way.

A number of cars were headed my way.

At the speed I was traveling, there’s no way I could have made a sharp right turn. So I headed into the northbound traffic lane banking a wide right when a mustard yellow Ford Focus saw me and laid on the horn.

These things which last for seconds always feel like slow motion. Decisions are made instinctively and without an ounce of reason.

As I saw the yellow car headed my way, I was prepared to jump off my bike to avoid a collision. With a split second to spare, I decided to bank to the left after all rather and cut to the inside (passenger side) of the Ford Focus as it sped past me. Free and clear of the yellow car, And all other cars, and with my heart in my stomach, I pulled into the 7-Eleven parking lot. I got off my bike, checked my pulse, and proceeded to adjust the brake pads so they would catch the rotors.

Somewhat days to, I am mended my route and headed out for roughly 26-miles, but kept reliving that woosh moment over and over again in my head.

I truly could have died.

This August 13th will mark 2-years of me being emergency room free. I kept thinking about that while I was riding last evening — of how lucky I was. However, one other thought consumed me even more — the mustard yellow Ford focus that narrowly missed hitting me.

Mustard yellow is not a stock color for Ford. That means some douche bag spent roughly $20,000 on that car and immediately turned around and put a couple thousand dollars more into that wretched paint job. And you think I’m the dumb one.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

This Week By The Numbers…

Bikes Ridden: 5
142 miles
7,100’ climbing
14.7 mph avg
8,200 calories

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there is this from Dave Edumds. Enjoy…

This is the story of Sam, not his real name. Sam is a military officer, a former cyclist, and a former triathlete who competed at a very high level.

Sam’s story is one I think about nearly every day when I ride. This story was told to me secondhand, by Sam’s mother, who was a friend and client at the time this took place. To the best of my ability, I’m relaying this story with accuracy. Though there may be some discrepancies in how I present this versus what actually happened, I believe any disparity is minimal.

Sam was an Air Force B1 pilot in the mid-2000s. He flew regular missions over Iraq and Afghanistan. At some point, as those conflicts evolved and as the technology of war evolved, Sam was reassigned to the drone program and stationed near Las Vegas Nevada. This reassignment allowed Sam to spend his nonworking time training for triathlons, something he aspired to do at the highest level.

One afternoon, I believe in 2012, Sam was on a training ride roughly 20-miles outside of Las Vegas, riding alone on a rural road.

Far from civilization, and with no witnesses to see what took place, Sam was struck from behind by a pickup truck. The driver of the truck saw there were no witnesses and rather than stop, she continued on, leaving Sam for dead. Sam, however, survived the accident.

After being struck and probably unconscious for a while, Sam would awaken to the sensation of several goats licking blood off the back of his head. As part of the trauma, Sam had suffered a laceration at the base of his head, extending from ear to ear.

Additionally, Sam suffered a broken leg on one side, and what his mother described to me as a “shattered” ankle on the other leg, though I don’t recall which side was which.

Sam was not left on the side of the road though, as the woman who struck him believed.

After being struck, Sam had tumbled over the cab and landed in the bed of the truck which hit him. The truck was carrying several goats, and the woman driving the truck was unaware that Sam had landed in back.

The driver, who was later determined to be intoxicated at the time she hit Sam, continued on to her home, a small ranch outside of Las Vegas. Parking her truck and still thinking she had left Sam on the side of the road, she entered her home and continued to drink, presumably to help settle her nerves.

As Sam began to gather his senses and attempted to figure out where he was and what had happened, he was able to drag himself out of the truck bed and crawl to a neighbors house to request help.

Help arrived and Sam was taken to the hospital at Nellis Air Force Base near Las Vegas. As Sam was being taken to the hospital, police apprehended the woman, a veterinarian with a history of DUIs, and processed her through the system. She would be released within 24-hours.

Over the next few days, Sam would be assessed and a series of surgeries would be scheduled to repair his ankle and a broken leg.

Shortly after being released from police custody, the woman who hit Sam injected herself with Euthosol, a compound veterinarians use to euthanize animals. She died at her home.

Shortly after this happened, I lost touch with Sam’s mother, though I do know he was on his way to making a strong recovery. To the best of my knowledge, Sam remains an officer in United States Air Force. I don’t know though, whether or not Sam’s recovery was complete enough that he was able to return to cycling and triathlons.

Each day when I ride, I think of Sam’s story. I know that there’s always risk involved in riding on these rural roads. It’s a risk I accept though, in exchange for the reward. The reward is simply decompression and peace of mind — I guess.

Again, to the best of my knowledge, I have conveyed Sam’s story accurately, as it was told to me by his mother.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

This Week By The Numbers…

Bikes ridden: 6
173 miles
6,700’ climbing
14.5 mph avg
10,000 calories

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there is this from The Thermals. Enjoy…!

On the Night my father passed away, he was in an assisted living facility in Las Vegas and I was at home in San Diego. A caregiver told me he wasn’t expected to make it through the night. She held the phone to his head for me and said he was able to listen but not able to speak. Knowing these would be the last words I would ever speak to my father, I thanked him for the upbringing he provided and for the tools he gave me to prepare me for life. I then told him that I loved and said goodnight.

The next morning when I was notified he passed during the night, I realized I forgot to thank him for the most important thing — the sense of humor he instilled in me. To this day, in my morning prayer, I always thank him for that sense of humor.

My dad enjoyed laughing, but he enjoyed making others laugh even more — or at least trying to. He loved a good joke. He was always quick with the typical dad joke…

Dad, I would say to him, I’m going to jump in the shower now. His reply was always, “don’t jump too high, I don’t want you to slip and break your neck…”

Or

Dad, I’m going to run to 7-Eleven and get some candy. “I bet you don’t make it 2 blocks before you stop to catch your breath…”

Hardy-har-har

Maybe those were comical retorts more than jokes, but he did like a good joke too. One of his favorites was this…

“Son, did you know a slice of apple pie is $3.00 in Jamaica, $4.00 in Barbados, $6.00 in the Bahamas…?”

No I didn’t, I would tell him.  Then I would cringe and wait for  what I knew was coming…

“Those are the pie rates of the Caribbean…”

Bud-dump-bump

Dad, a former English teacher and one-time journalist, loved language, loved a good pun, and enjoyed word-play.

Across the dinner table one evening when I was maybe in the 3rd grade, he stopped cold, put down his fork, just looked at me dead-faced and asked…

“I know what the capital of Alaska is —Juneau…?“

I didn’t get it, because I didn’t know what the capital of Alaska was when I was in the 3rd grade. He had to explain it to me. Of course the next day in school, I attempted to use that joke all day long. None of my friends knew the capital of Alaska either, so I didn’t get anymore traction with that joke than he did with me.

Later in life and well into retirement, April Fool’s Day became his high-holy day. I was in my early 30s when he called me on the phone one evening and suggested I sit down if I wasn’t already seated. He was in his late 60s at the time. His voice was actually haunting and I could tell something was wrong. I knew this was not going to be good news and I expected him to tell me of heart disease, cancer, or worse.

He then explained to me that during a lapse of judgment, he had gotten pregnant a 17-year-old girl who lived in his condominium complex.

I was stunned, but I was immediately steadfast in wanting to be there for him. I explained that I supported him no matter what. I remember clearly asking him how I could help him.

“Well“ he said “you can start by telling me what day it is…“

Huh…?

“What day is it today…?“

April 1st, I told him.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…!

You got me, I told him. I might’ve called him an asshole, a son of a bitch, or both. Maybe it was both. I don’t remember, but I remember using foul language and in an instance when I could get away with it.

Yes, my father raised me with an appreciation for the English language. He raised me with a good workout ethic, to be polite, to be a gentleman, to hold doors for women, and to say please and thank you to everything that moved. He taught me to write thank you notes, how to tie a Windsor knot, and he indoctrinated me on Dixieland jazz, big band, and swing music.

My father taught me to make my bed with hospital corners, how to polish shoes, how to mow the lawn in opposing angles each week to make the grass stand up straighter, and he taught me how to properly cook a steak over charcoal.

The most enduring lessons he taught me though, was having a sense of humor — of appreciating laughter and being able to make others laugh.

I’m not suggesting in any way that my father could have had a career as a comedian or a comedy writer. Most of the time he wasn’t that funny or he was just plain corny. He tried often though, to be funny, and that made a huge difference in an otherwise tense household.

Humor was a part of nearly every meal, every road trip, and even when we were in the backyard pulling weeds side-by-side, there was always…

“Son, how many rabbis does it take to screw in a lightbulb…?

I don’t know dad, how many…?  Cringe…

“Ve don’t need any lightbulbs. The oil in the lamp will last us least 8 days…”

Oy

In some ways I think I was equally unsuccessful at making my own daughter laugh, but just as successful at teaching her the value of having a sense of humor.

Hey Dad, remember that day when I was in the 8th grade and when you walked into the house house only to find laying on the floor spread out like I was dead and I really wasn’t…? I was just playing dead to get you to laugh. Psyche…! I learned it from you okay, I learned from watching you. Sorry I scared the crap out of you.

To all you dad’s out there telling corny jokes at the dinner table, while driving to practice, or standing beside the swing-set — please don’t ever stop telling those horrible jokes. When you’re no longer around, those jokes might be the first thing your kids think of when they think of you.

This is what I think about my ride… Jhciacb

This Week By The Numbers…

Bikes Ridden: 5
171 miles
7,900’ climbing
15.0 mph avg
10,000 calories

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there is this from Razorlight. Enjoy…!

“Idealism, in any quantity, without an equal quantity of intentional contribution to society, is the epitome of selfishness.” Me

I never bought into the dream. From an early age, the idea of the house, the gray flannel suit, and the shiny sedan failed to capture me. It’s not that I was opposed to work, and hard work at that, it’s been more about what I get in exchange for that work. Hiding behind a fence and a TV set have always seemed like little reward for a life of hard work.

Though I have a failed to live it up to this point, I have come to begin planning and preparing for the next phase of my life — living in and out of a small motorhome, possibly in the next several years.

Last night I watched two documentaries films about working age adults living on the road. I watched the two films in a staggered fashion. I watched roughly 10 to 15 minutes of one, followed by 10 to 15 minutes of the other. At 75-minutes each, it timed out well.

In 2 1/2 hours, I toggled back and forth between, and was exposed to a couple of very different approaches to life on the road. Both seemed selfish and left a bad taste in my mouth. Processing it all after the fact, I began to wonder if my own plan to live such simple life would be indeed as selfish.

I came to no conclusion.

One film was the story of a husband, a wife and their small child. Wanting more from life, they put their large suburban house up for rent, loaded up a Class A motorhome, and went on the road to explore life‘s rich pageant.

Their adventure was funded by multiple income streams — the rental revenue from their house, as well as the earned income from the husband’s business as a filmmaker and editor. He was in the fortunate position to be able to take his business on the road. So long as they were connected to Wi-Fi, he had the ability to work.

Their travel agenda included pristine and picturesque places throughout the American west, Northwest, and even extend into Western Canada.

They cooked and ate almost exclusively organic foods, and made a point to stock up on those items as they were available. They looked like a rolling advertisement for Whole Foods, PBS, and the only thing missing was a James Taylor CD on the dashboard.

They spoke of the road less traveled, of the experience of travel for their child, and of the impact, both positive and negative, that life on the road would have on their marriage.

Despite their tight quarters, some personal ups and downs, the family appeared to live a comfortable and aesthetic life, and wanted for very little. Each sunrise filmed looked like a TV commercial for a yoga studio. They had a dog along for the ride.

It all seemed so lofty to me.

The other film focused on a small group of young people in their late teens and early 20s. They were down and out misfits — runaways who chose a life of homelessness and riding the rails over the toxic and abusive home lives they claimed to have left behind.

Their agenda was more about connecting with other kids, like themselves, and less about seeing pristine and picturesque places.

Their income came exclusively by stopping along the way and “flying signs“ — the act of standing on a street corner holding a cardboard sign and asking for assistance from passersby.

Their dietary requirements were less stringent than the family traveling in the Class A motorhome. They ate what they could get, and ate as much of it as possible when it was available, for the not knowing of when they would have the opportunity to eat again.

They drank alcohol, used drugs, and during interviews, could scarcely string a sentence together without including several curse words.

They were unkempt, looked exhausted and sick most of the time, and seemed to be taking more from society than they would ever be willing to put back into it. They too had a dog along for the ride.

It all seemed so lofty to me.

When I had completed the two documentaries, I sat up in bed trying to take it all in — processing which one I thought was the most genuine lifestyle. I questioned if my own would-be life on the road would be his lofty.

To have watched either one of these individually, without the context of the other, I’m certain I would have been more inspired by each, and less critical. It’s not that I wouldn’t have seen the negative aspects of either one. It’s just that seeing them superimposed over one another in the way that I watched them allowed me to correlate the ups and downs of each a little bit better.

I was left with more disdain for each than inspiration. When I asked myself where that disdain came from, I realized it’s because both the family and the group of young people seemed to taking more from the world than they were willing to give back. They lived me-centered lives.

Someday I will live in that small motorhome. I will continue to work, because work is what we are here for. I will probably live a me-centered life also, because most of us tend to do that. I will hope though, that I will continue, each day of my life, to reach beyond me and to give to others. Because along with work, relationships are what we’re here for, especially when those relationships are fueled more by giving than by taking.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

This Week By The Numbers…

A bad week. I only rode 4 days due to illness. As I write this, I know I’m not going to ride  today and maybe not again for several days. My lungs rattle when I breathe, my head is congested, my fever has come down, but is still present.  My 18-month streak of riding at least 100-miles per week will probably come to an end this week.

Bikes Ridden: 4
104 miles 🙁
3,000’ climbing 🙁
15.8 mph avg 😬
6,000 calories

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there is this from Atomic Rooster. Enjoy…!