Texas.

I just found out that I am going to Texas. Saturday. For about a week and a half.

Why?

Ja'ar@Ja'ar's E-mail.com: Come visit me while I am in Texas for three weeks training.

Toad@Toad's E-mail.com: No.

Ja'ar: PLEEEEEEASE come visit me while I am in Texas for three weeks training.

Toad: Buy the tickets, And I'll come visit you. Hah.

Ja'ar: "American Airlines: We're writing to confirm your flight out of Albany International Airport on Saturday the 17th at 9:30 PM to San Antonio, Texas, returning Monday, the 26th at 10:46 PM."

Toad: What.

You all realize what this means, of course. Toad Pizza, sponsored by Team Three-Day-Old Enchiladas, shall be broadcasting Live from the Best Western in San Antonio, Texas for a while.

Definitely Muskrats.

Thanks to all the sleuthing of the commentators, especially Serf 'Rett, I have postively ID'd the Things from my last post as Muskrats. Look at 'em. Flithy, stinking, buck-toothed, dirty, hairy, unclean, vermin! Bruti! I-hate-'em-I-hate-'em-I-hate-'em!! GAH.

Wedding Ringbearer Pillows.

A few months ago-- Okay, last year, one of my old chums from the Seattle era called to inform me that she was tying the Big K. She wanted me to fly down for the wedding (which is the seventh of next month), and also asked me to make the Ring Pillow. "You're Artsy," Said she, "I know you can make one better than what we could buy." I write, I play a flute, and I sketch. I offered to write a screenplay for her about the most beautiful pillow ever, for which I would do the soundtrack, and draw the movie posters, but she said that she kindly would rather the pillow.

In the end, it wasn't hard, though I spent all of last year procrastinating. It only took about three hours, plus roughly a week to find a little silver dolphin charm with some kind of blue in it (either a gemstone eye, or inlaid, or whatever). I wanted to add that to make it a more personalized thing. I recall that she really has a thing for dolphins, and then, you know, the blue.... Something old, something new, some borrowed, something blue. The way I did it, I used a really nice silver chain for putting the rings on, so that she'll be able to take the dolphin and chain off and use them as a necklace.

My New Saddle.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..... Much better.

Six Items I worry about before a "Date" Are....

...The time. I am never correct as to the time that a "date" is set for. Usually this means that it's noon and I'm ready for a matinee at The Mall, when, in fact, I am supposed to be going to a nine o'clock showing.

...What the date actually is. Because =sometimes= it turns out it isn't a movie at all, rather Put-Put golf and dinner. And it's not nine, but five.

...Do I look like a Scumbag? My grandmother says "Yes."

...Do I look like a man? My grandmother says "Yes." But this might have more to it than my general scumbagginess. Seven different people on seven different occasions, independently of one another, have said that I look like a cross between John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Independently. How can this be? Well, I went to this online website where you upload a picture of you looking straight at the camera with a deadpan expression, and the Site matches your facial structure to those of celebrities. I had hoped to settle the issue once and for all. Not only was every match a man, excepting the very last one (54%) which was Hillary Clinton (I'm not bagging on Hills here, I love her dearly, but this is really what it said), but the number one hit (87% match) was John Lennon. The next were John Cusack, Keanu Reeves, David Schwimmer, and some East Indian guy named Rangeesh or something. I guess I'm just that butch. Gah.

...Did I lock up my bike? (Ok this is after I have already left.)

...Is it ethically wrong for me to post about said "Date" in the morning? Hmmmm....

Mr. S, the Aural Skills/Theory Prof. from Last Year who sometimes reads this blog.

Random thought? Yes, but actually not so much, as I think that L, whilst celebrating his 21st, may or may not have erm... Called everybody on his cell phone list, including Mr. S, at three in the morning about five nights ago.

Sorry Mr. S.

I was going to write about how much I like my new bike, Salt Peanut, today. Instead, I can only ask:

What is this????

(This is an official rendition, based on my description, by famed police sketch artist, Zelda Dinwitty.)

Until I had moved to the East Coast I had never seen one of these, and even then, only once in a great while. They look a little bit like huge hamsters, only with short rat tails. Or perhaps diminutive wombats. I tried to describe them to my esteemed colleagues here, but they too were at a loss.

These mysterious critters were out in numbers today. I saw, like, a hundred and seven of them. A veritable army of steroid enhanced hamster-wombats. And, when normally they have been passive, slow creatures, today, they were fast, skittish, squirrel-like, even. Especially in that they thought that I was a large predator coming for them, and if they ran directly at me, in a zig-zag pattern, they would confuse me and I would leave them intact and unharmed.

If only they might take better care to do me the same courtesy. I have never had a more stressful ride than today's, as not only did I have the regular kamikaze fauna to deal with-- the squirrels, rabbits, and chips I documented some months ago-- but now these whopping big vermin. One finally got me just a few miles from home. When he leapt from the brush, I had about point-oh-three seconds to decide on a course of action. Natch, I wrecked as fantastically as possible.

But listen. These things; they're bigger than bowling balls. The one that finally did me in, big he was, and even then, only medium-sized-- easily a pineapple. Some of them are almost small dogs. Mothers, watch your children lest they be devoured by the EPO Gerbils of Bog. Gah.

By The Way: Here's a picture of Salt Peanut, for scale.

Links:

Bat.

Endangered.

Missing.

Awesome Programming.

All right, North East, with your snow, and your ice, and your freezing rains... and your... frozeness. I get it. It's cold. It's slippery. It's not meant to be pleasant. But once you get over the slip 'n' slide aspect of cycling in New York in winter, it becomes kind of a hoot. You what it reminds me of? Did anyone ever play that one Super Mario Bros. where there's the Ice Level, and you have to avoid smacking into the little evil koopas or flinging yourself off a cliff? It's like that, only with cars instead of Koopas. You know, it makes it harder, but that's also kinda fun. And I'm doing okay for a SoCal Kid. Granted, it takes me an hour to go fifteen miles, and sure, at least 3.75% of that is going downhill, sideways, on my face, trying not to skid into the rapidly solidifying Mohawk but, it beats the heck out of riding the trainer for days on end.

Yesterday was very icy though, and admitedly, I was concerned about Hilde's tires and whether they were quite suited to the task of maneuvering through the ice, given that the only other bike tracks I was seeing were about three inches wide and super knobby. But Hilde can handle it; she's a trooper. And me, well I'm not a trooper... But again, Hilde is, and, like the TV dog, she can call the authorities if I get into trouble. Shh... If you don't deny it, it won't cease to be true.

Alas, now that I am finally finding my ice-legs, the temerature is on the rise. By tomorrow (as we're expecting highs in the fifties) every last bit of ice shall have melted. And by next week, all the melted ice will have re-solidified into vast frozen planes, as opposed to the fairly bumpy patches it has been in thus far, and I'll have to learn all over again. It'll still beat the trainer.

Well, looks like a short post today. I've got a recital tomorrow, so I must get some shut eye (I think passing out during the rests is an auto-fail). Mr E, the main piano professor here, is bad ass. My original student accompanist... abruptly retired... without a word, and he, with one week to go before the recital, was nice enough to take over the part. Luckily, somehow, we were able to get in three rehearsals before go-time, and in the morning we're rehearsing one last time. you know, I would cry if ever I had to get something up to snuff in a week. Poor Mr E. But he's bad ass, so I think everything will work out in the end.

So. Now I swear that I am going. After all, I need to get up early to iron a shirt, apply eyestick (that's the only make-up I know how to do...I'm so proud of myself), and run through to piece a few times before classes start, since I won't have any other time to warm up. (What an incredibly cruel thing to have to go straight from Spanish to Mozart!)

Well. I know I cannot possibly compete with fatty's latest exploits down in Moab, but I have finally begun to pass more people than I am passed by on the trail. Which is happy for me, considering that my cycling is down to about 40% of what it was in August. I suppose really all that says is that every one else has been kept out of the saddle even more than I have, but leave me to my delusions of cycling prowess, if you will.

It occurred to me that I have finally improved a little, when I had to pass a roadie. I have a hybrid, and I really don't like to pass roadies who look like they're just takin' it easy, because, duh, they'll just pass me back, and I'll feel dumb. Truly, I am the anti-competitor, and will go to great lengths to avoid being mistaken for some young uppity whipper-snapper type. But, nonetheless, I found myself hanging back behind this fit looking guy on a Giant, under the assumption that any minute he'd take off, and I could return to un-self-conscious riding at my regular pace. But after ten minutes or so of no speeding up, and the guy looking behind himself wondering what the hell I was doing trailing him, I sped up and passed him on the next hill. 'He was probably bonked,' I thought, 'I bet he just rode, like, a billion miles or something, and only ate one Powerbar.' Moving on.

On the way down that same hill, in the distance, I saw a guy on a moutain bike. I caught up to him fairly quickly (only because Hilde, bastard Hybrid though she is, is more suited to the paved portions of the bike trail than a MTB), and again was reluctant to pass. But I did, and I was very guilty about it. Good lord, I'm such a dork. I can't imagine what people must think. I only am hesitant to pass because I figure it'll save time in the long run if they don't have to navigate right back around me on the climbs. But the thing was, he didn't catch me until I slowed down to see if he wanted to pass me (because I could hear him behind me and I thought I must be in the way), and even then he didn't pass, but instead told me that I was faster than him on the flats and even on the climbs. He asked how far I was going, 38 miles. He was going along basically the same route, but only for nineteen, so we went the rest of his portion together. (Yay! I always have to ride alone, because none of my chums ride.)

I'm very sorry to admit it, but I was pretty pleased to keep an easy convo going, at a pace I thought was comfortable, with this guy, who was clearly way better than me (observe the tan, calves, much better bike, etc), yet looked, maybe just a little, like the pace was too fast. Of course I should point out, as I did at the time (when he said that he maybe-- like there's any doubt-- could catch me on the flats if he had a road bike), that were he on a road bike, he'd clean my clock soundly. But compliments from another cyclist are nice, they indicate that maybe I'll be able to do a century by next spring afterall. Teehee and yay.

UPDATE: I don't know what to do about the Trundler. Luckily it hasn't started snowing yet, but it will soon, and Trundie can't take any regular kind of mountain bike brakes that I've ever seen. The brakes on there almost look like very shoddy road bike brakes. Yet they aren't. That's the thing. Oh Trundler, shall I just give up on ye, and stick some fenders and knobbier tires on Hilde? I'm thinking that might work since I'm going to be trying to get an Allez in a few months anyway, leaving Hilde as a for-communting-only. It's just too bad that I'll get Hilde all covered in road salt.

PHOTO: What are these brakes...? I need to replace them, or I will die. Aghk. (That's what it sounds like if I die. And, by the way, yes, I realize that the Trundler is... aghem... a bit under-average. She was $25. She sat in a garage for a decade. What do you want? She's the sacrificial, get-eaten-by-road-salt bike. You know how we roll. )

All right. For months now, I have been planning this ride up to the Adirondacks. My grand'rents have a cabin, The Camp, up there. I was waiting for the foliage to change, as it is a truly awesome thing to see the mountains look like they're on fire, and now should've been the perfect time. But due to the inclement weather we here in the North East have been getting, it looks like it'll be postponed for a while (The roads are dangerous, even on a good day-- all full of speeders and drunks, and not without a good amount of exposure-- so I want ideal road conditions. Besides, I've never done this ride before, and I've only driven myself there once, with my uncle giving me directions the whole time; I might get lost if I can't see very well).

Nonetheless, I remain psyched just thinking about it. Running over the course in my head when I ought to be learning about those crazy Hyksos and how they took over Upper Egypt. Day dreaming of it whenever I have a longish rest in a Wind Ensemble piece (may I just say, in my defense, I can day-dream and sub-divide at the same time. please don't flunk me). Even rehearsing the "Yay, I didn't get run-over on the way up here" face that I would make upon arriving on the property. Stupid crappy never-ending rain.

It would be 90-100 miles, round trip, unless I had somebody drive up to meet me and take me home; not something I'd really want to do... But that'll be quite a ways for my wimpiness to hold out. The longest ride I do with any kind of regularity is about sixty, and definitely, there's not as much climbing as there would be on the way up to the Camp. Then again, on that ride, there's not a cabin in which I can stop for as long as I want and hike around, sit on the dock and look out on the lake, or go to the local general store for some re-fueling. And the whole way home is downhill, except for two pretty wicked-steep spots where the road dips down and comes back up.

More of a concern than the distance (after all, I could, theoretically, just spend the night if I really didn't think I could make it back), is the traffic. There isn't a lot of it, but, as I said, what of it there is is right drunk, and probably speeding. The roads are narrow, mostly, and if memory serves, without passing lanes, and you can either be smooshed against the jagged rock face left from when the road was cut into the mountain (on the way up), or pitched off the side of a cliff (on the way down). I think if I left early enough, I could miss the people all together. There might not even be too many anyway, this time of year, as all the party monsters are back in school by now, and the mountain folk ought to be going into hibernation.

Something that I've been day-dreaming about almost as much as the ride itself, is what I'd bring with me. I always love planning what to bring with me on trips; bike trips, road trips, to school, to work (when I was working for the Archeo. Firm), in suitcases, in back packs, in my little geek bag that clips on under the saddle. I don't know why... I just lust for self-sustainability. Someday, when I don't suck anymore, I'm going to try a multi-day trip, at least across state lines to visit my relatives in Massachusetts. I'm already thinking about what to bring with me.

Anyway, I have to be able to fit everything into the geek bag and my backpack (which is just a regular bag, and a cheap one at that, that cuts off circulation to my arms after a while, so I don't want to pack it to the brim). For gear, besides everything I normally have (e.g. chain-tool, spare tube, pump, allen wrench multi-tool thing, pressure gauge, quick chain-link-ma-jig, etc.), I'm thinkin' maybe four spare tubes (bottle glass is abundant), first aid stuff (uhh...duct tape, Bactine, and gauze. If I can't fix it with these three things, I'm probably no longer in any condition to fix it myself anyway), rain slicker, arm and leg warmers, and a camera, but not my good one. I might fall on it. For food...hmm. Maybe a pack of GUs, a couple Powerbars (I like Powerbars, why doesn't anybody like Powerbars?), a Snickers and Candy Corn (Okay, I never would've thought to bring the candy, but I just read in an article that candy can give you just what you need sometimes, and I want to try it out. The article said the peanuts and nougat stop sugar from emptying into your blood stream too fast, and) that the honey in candy corn is just as good a GU. This, I gotta see), two bottles of water and a bottle of watered-down apple juice (I have no idea if this is recommendable or not, but it seems to work okay for me on my longer loops). The thing that I am not taking, but would if I had one, is a cell phone. Luckily, there are plenty of motels and restaurants once you get into the mountains, so I'd probably be okay.

I wish I could make a photo album-- I'd post a bunch of my favorite pictures I've taken from up there-- but that feature isn't available to Mac-users. If I get ambitious, I might load some snaps onto CD and make an album at school. Meanwhile, please be sated with what I can attach to a blog entry.

Whoa. Have you kids seen the What's Your Story page today? The Errorista and I have broken out, we're cookin' with gas, playin' big league; we've clawed our way to the top in a blog-eat-blog world, overcoming adversity and.... uhh... that's enough of that. My statistics page just had an aneurism.... this is amazing. I hereby declare that the The Fat Cyclist, without whom today's massive, head-inflating ego-boost would not have been possible, to rule. Rule, I say. Now, as I wasn't kidding about the PSI of my head being greater than that of Hilde's wheels, I move on.

Eh heh heh.

Okay, I'll admit it-- though you readers wot are cyclists will verbally flog me with pejoratives for it-- with school in right now, I have let Hilde (bike) go a bit too long without regular, daily maintenance, as I was wont to give her not too long ago. Today, I saw just how laxed I have become when my legs were burning, after only riding home. Then I checked the tire pressure: forty in the front and-- sheezuz--- thirty-five in the back. Don't ask. I don't know. Well, no, I do know. I had a flat a while back, and only pumped up the tire with my emergency hand pump, instead of the big floor pump in the garage. I don't think I even bothered to check the front wheel... This is because I am rather lazy, but prefer to tell myself that I am rather busy, and so don't have enough time to do silly little things like go to the garage and get the pump. Ahh, well done me. Bah, what a dork.

After guiltily pumping the tires up to respectable levels, I cleaned and greased the chain, tightened up the cables and went for a quick jot around the block. I tell you, the difference a little bit of TLC can make in a bike is astounding.

Now, I must be away, enthralled though you probably are with this post, for there are evil licks afoot in the Wind Ensemble piece by Kessler, and, unless I want to be stabbed in the eye by Mr B, the conductor, next Thursday at rehearsal, I had better get them hashed out.

PS: Thanks to MuMo for the logo. I need this mofrappi on a t-shirt.

Well, Squirrel, tell me, am I going to swerve this time, so as not to squish you, or am I gonna stay the course, whether or not you decide that you simply cannot wait the extra three seconds for me to pass before darting out onto the bike trail? I guess it comes down to this: Are you feeling lucky? Well, are you, punk?

And then the beastie darts out in front of me, and I swerve, and no one else on the bike trail sees that I swerved to avoid the squirrel, instead thinking that I've just lost my mind, and, great, now they have to get by me while risking that I might spaz-out again. I tell you, this happens so frequently, that there must be some sort of organization amongst the squirrels. They must set out with the intent to cause mayhem and chaos. Personally, I am of the opinion that there must be an evil Squirrel Queen telling them to do this.

But the Squirrels aren't expecting me not to swerve. What if I stopped swerving? What if I just ran the Squirrels down, like the prey they were meant to be? I could eat them, whole, raw, right there on the trail. I feel that this would increase my level of fearsomeness. I could arrange a series of hooks on my top bar, from which I could hang the tiny carcasses until I could get them home to be gutted and fed as vidals to my kin. I could make a hat. Then I would have a fake-dead-yak hat and a real-dead-squirrel hat. I could use their skulls as wind chimes. I could leave little Squirrel bodies on the doorstep of my neighbors. I think they would like that. There are many choices.

Not that I will cease trying not to kill the wee creatures of the forest. I'm just supposing...

But, you may ask, for goodness' sakes Toad, what on earth has this got to do with anything? Were you really so unable to think of something better to write about today? Is this not just a bit o' randomness whose only purpose is to provide an entry, any entry for the day? Is it because you are trying very hard to finish some lame story about a U-Haul, but can't think of how to make it less verbose? Well, and the answer would be "no." What none of you know yet is that since last Sunday, I have been conducting a little experiment with the native fauna around here. In particular, the cute, fuzzy, marauding Bambi-esque critters, e.g. the deer, chipmunks, squirrels and rabbits. And the U-Haul tale is not "verbose" just a touch longer than I would've expected.

I wanted to count just how many times over the course of one week these cutesy, lovable, incredibly dumb/suicidal creatures wait by the side of the trail for me to draw near, then fling themselves, with reckless abandon, directly in front of my bike, without reason or warning. Final tally?

Twenty-Three Squirrels

Ten Chipmunks

Five Rabbits

One Deer

Darwin would be proud. And I mean that with all possible sarcasm. Having done away with all the natural predators in Upstate New York, can it be that we have also given rise to generations of ever-dumber fodder animals? Argh. I'm telling you, the wee bastards are lucky they aren't made of tofu. If squirrels were made of tofu, I would not only not swerve, I would seek-out, destroy, and consume all squirrels. They're lucky they aren't made of cheese either, for that matter.

Incidentally, there were also two garter snakes, but they were sun-bathing in the road, and it's not like they can just leap out of the way, like some of their furrier counterparts. I suppose I'll always try a little harder not to smoosh these guys. Death to squirrels, and their evil Squirrel Queen. Long live the garter snakes.

Thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump....

This is the exact noise Hilde's rear wheel made after Wind Ensemble this evening. I had just begun to weave my way out of the S. College parking lot, when I was struck by how bumpy the lot had become. And how odd it was that each bump was exactly the same distance from the last bump, almost as if it were in the wheel, not the road. Sighhh. It seems I rode over a bit of pointy this morning, and Hilde's rear inner tube suffered for it.

Happily, I had my tire-patch-kit-thing in the geek bag. Unhappily, after going to all the trouble of pulling off the tire, then finding the leak in the tube, then patching the leak, then putting everything back together and re-inflating the tire, the patch didn't hold, and I had to do it all over again. I don't think I scratched the tube enough for it to stick. Unhappier still, it wasn't until after seven that I finally left campus, and I don't have any lights on Hilde yet (which led to a stressful ride home to say the least). Someday, I will discover the secret to getting those patch-things to stick on the first try. Today however, I discovered only that I am more near-sighted with poorer low-light vision than last year, and I look like a total jackass sitting under a street lamp, on the sidewalk, in neon green lycra, squinting at a tube, surrounded by pieces of bicycle and all the contents of my geek bag, which I had to empty in order to dig out the patch-kit. Nonetheless, jackass though I may've looked, my ego puffed a bit with a sense of self-satisfaction when I had (after a good half hour) successfully fixed the flat. It puffs whenever I successfully fix an injured bicycle. It's always very good about that. It's also very good at ignoring whatever dork-thing it was that I just did that hurt the bike in the first place, but that's okay.

Another thing I discovered, since it was the rear wheel in question, was that the thing's skewer is bent, right in the middle. Luckily, I have a spare, but it was pretty comical to be holding onto the nut-thing on the opposite end of the skewer from the quick-release and feeling it wobble a quarter inch as I turned the lever. I wonder when and how that happened? I fixed the flat right away, so I doubt that would've done it. I think it must've been during my pole-to-face acrobatics, I just don't see how. It was something dumb that I did though, I know that much.

In other news: Yay! My baton came in today. How exciting; now I can conduct poorly with a stick, in case my unfortunate looping habit wasn't evident enough without it. I probably paid way too much for it (it was about $25... That's not too bad when you consider that a real conductor would have one that costs over a hundred dollars), but I was trying to find one with just the right handle, length etc. I'll take it in to Mr. B, a real conductor, tomorrow for approval. I have to go in tomorrow anyway to work over some picc stuff that was just hideous at rehearsal today, and I also need to copy some music for the other flute, who we'll call, the Other Flute, because I can't remember anymore arbitrary initials.

I have just gotten home from the ER, having been cleaned up and brain scanned. Don't worry, 'sonly a mild concussion. I. Am. A moron.

Somehow, I rode into a pole and knocked myself right out. Good lord, I get a cookie. I see this pole everyday, and yet today somehow, I thought I was a foot further to the right than it actually was. I was just going past the baseball field, and, maybe, I was looking at the sky, or the river, or, I don't know, a bunny or something, and then: Pole.

Right into a friggin' pole. Splat. Didn't this just happen a month ago? I blame poor peripheral vision. For a moment, I laid on the pavement, dazed. Sitting up to look around, it felt like I knew where I was, but suddenly nothing looked the same anymore. When I noticed a significant amount of blood dripping on my shorts, I rode to a park restroom and looked in the little push button on the hand dryer. 'Wow! That looks horrible,' I thought, 'Where the fook am I?' I rode back and forth in front of the bathroom trying to recall what direction I had to go in to get home again, but, while everything looked equally familiar, it remained unrecognizable. There was the "Blatnik Park" sign. 'Good, so I'm only a few miles from home, I think I can make it--' swoon, 'Or maybe not...'

I'm pretty sure that at this point I rode around in a circle in the parking lot for a few minutes, though I'm not sure if this was because I was waiting for another cyclist to come by, if I was trying to shake it off, or if, and this is probably it, I just kept forgetting what I was doing in a parking lot with a head wound. Eventually, I wandered back over by the baseball field, where most cyclists park their cars. There was a guy putting a bike in his truck. I pedaled over.

"Um, excuse me, can you help me?"

The guy, whose name was, I think, Kurt, gave me a Gatorade and a lift home. Somehow, I gave him directions to my house, between random mutterings and musing over my inability to remember where I was.

Naturally, I knew the first thing I had to do when I got home. No, it wasn't go to the lavy and wash up. Nope, not find alcohol and a band aid either. Nuh-uh, not even worry about the insurance I don't think I have (I might, no one really knows for sure). I'll tell you what I had to do: I had to take a picture. So I did. And here it is. That glazed over, whimsical look I have is the concussion. I took another picture when I got home, too. It really looked much worse than it was. The doctor says Sunday I can go out again.

Man, every one (see today's edition of Bob's Top 5) has these crazy stories about how they wrecked. Not that I WANT stories like this, being that I am a huge wimp, but at least, if I must wreck, must it always be by running into a pole? Is this my accursed destiny-- death by pole? Just once, I'd like to be trying to do something hard when I injure myself. Granted, I don't do anything more impressive than some of the very wimpiest trails and access roads around, but at least I would like to wreck doing a more technical maneuver than not running into a pole.

By the way: Thanks Kurt! Sorry about the blood in the passenger seat-- I hear ice and bar soap works wonders...

This morning I had to wear leg warmers on the ride into school. This got me thinking about how little time there is until the snow starts falling, and how this will effect my ride in.

Hmmm. This could become complicated. I might just wait and see what other winter-weather bike-commuters do, then copy them and hope for the best. Of course, I'm happy to take any suggestions. (Aghem...comments...? Aghem.)

The Flaggschiff Enchilada Trundle Thumper, a.k.a. The Trundler, is a badass bike. She may not look it next to Hilde, the much nicer, newer Trek, but beneath the mountain-bike-bought-for-getting-into-shape-then-left-to-rot-in-a-garage facade, there shifts the gears of a badass. Ok, maybe not quite badass, but rude or unpleasant-ass? You bet!

For, I believe, about ten years, Trundie lived in the garage of a secretary I know until I bought her for a mere $25. She's proven she's worth every cent since the day I picked her up. That afternoon, on the nerve-wracking ride home, the first thing I noticed (that'll be at a largish intersection) was that her rear break pads offered more of a gentle supplication to slow down than they stopped one from riding into traffic (which I did), and, though I had been told that she was a ten-speed, years of neglect, combined with fraying, crusty, loose cables brought her down to three. Orange-brown rust had fused the most obtrusive kickstand ever onto the frame, and it almost put me into traffic a couple times by grabbing my pedal. The front derailleur had been adjusted out so far to the right that switching between rings was at best impossible and at worst dangerous, and the left shifter apparently had been filled with either rubber cement or all-natural peanut butter. As I rode down route 146 with the seat post rusted in place as far down as it could go, causing me to look more like I was riding a tricycle, I couldn't help thinking that this was just what I was looking for.

See, Trundie is more of an ongoing project than a bike. I got her to experiment on and am now in the middle of the long and arduous process of fixing her. Surprisingly, I am actually making headway. While I will probably never know what that god-awful squeaking noise is, where it's coming from, or how to make it stop, I have learned how to clean and replace cables, how to disassemble and reassemble shifter levers, how to (successfully) manipulate a chain tool, and how to replace break pads. I made an attempt to true the rim of her front wheel, with..ahh...limited results. Turns out just putting the naked rim back onto the bike really isn't as good as as using a real truing stand, and having the appropriate tools wouldn't hurt either. That, and being able to tell the difference between a good spoke and a bad spoke might help (in other words, I don't know what the foosh I am looking for). My bad.

Nonetheless, after a bit of elbow grease, more than a bit of cursing, and remarkably few "Well, where'd THIS spare part come from?" moments, the Trundler is now semi-functional, with at least six and a half of her original ten speeds restored to her. She's been on some gentle trails and access roads, and even served as a fill-in bike for about a week while I was waiting on a replacement spring for Hilde. I am eventually going to replace the handlebars, saddle, and seat post (because the one that's in there goes in a very original direction), the brakes must go, the brake and shifter levers too, probably the whole drivetrain, or at least the front and back derailleurs, and I want some clips on the pedals.

Photo: Die Schweiz. Jayar shows his preference for peace while sitting in the Trundler's distant cousin, The Flaggschiff Enchilada Mini-Bashful, a.k.a. Mini-Bash, a late 80's or early 90's three-cylinder Subaru Justy. The original Bashful was a rusted pick-up truck with a blown head gasket. The Flaggschiff Enchilada business is something of a tradition.

Holy flesh-eating gnats, Batman! Where'd all these flies come from?!

Yesterday on my return trip, I am convinced that I was very nearly killed by huge clouds of teeny gnats. They were so dense, in the worst places, I had to ride with my head down and my collar pulled up over my nose and mouth, and even still, I was unable to avoid inhaling and swallowing tons of the wee bastards. It was something out of a B-movie, man. Obviously, I couldn't ride the whole way with my collar up like that, but whenever I took it down-- Gulp! And there went another mouthful. In my eyes, in my ears, up my nose. I almost got sick.

By the time I made it home, I was all full of flies. They were dangling off my hair, stuck to my shirt smooshed on my cheeks from when I had been trying to brush them off; man, they were even in my teeth. The true horror however, was after I got out of the shower and blew my nose. Oh yes. Flies. I counted three whole bodies, as well as numerous bits 'n' pieces. Then, I really did get sick. Boooorf! So much for that Powerbar... I'll bet I have some flies in my lungs too, but since I used to smoke (in a past life...okay, a few years ago) I figure my lungs are pretty good troopers. Besides that, I play flute, so they're probably the most buff part of my whole body.

I have no idea where the gnats came from, but I know that they weren't there a couple days ago. When I left yesterday, it was only about a half an hour later than I usually go. But I've been out later than that before without encountering death-clouds of tiny flying insects. The only thing that I can think is that I must've left at just the right time so that while I was out, this fog of gnats was just oozing up from the banks of the Mohawk, and by the time I was onto the returning leg of my daily ride, they were in full force.

It seems that flies just love me these days, because today, when I drove my grandfather on errands and we had to go out to the local BJ's Club, I found myself again under the attacks of flies, only this time, they were the BIG ones. Milling about the store (warehouse?), I began to feel a periodic tickling at the road rash on my leg. It was just a sort of nagging thing in the back of my head, and, besides an unconscious swat every now and then, I took no notice. That is, until my hand caught hold of the nastiest blue bottle fly I have ever seen. YAAAGH! Naturally, I figured that perhaps this meant that my leg deserved a closer inspection. To my astonishment, I found two more flies, firmly attached to the scab on my ankle! Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I thought it in my best interest to repeatedly stomp and kick my leg like I had a chihuahua attached to it, while flapping my arms wildly in all directions and cursing. This upset the store manager more than the flies, and he and I mutually decided that it was a good idea for me to remove myself to the car to wait for my grandfather.

Here's the thing. I think the big flies were laying eggs in my wounds, so you know what that means: maggots are sure to follow. Yip. The mother flies drilled into my scabs using their acid spit, then laid their eggs in the soft flesh beneath. The maggots will hatch and burrow deep into my leg muscle, where I will feel a slight itching. Soon after, they will find their ways into my arteries, and the itching will turn to burning and finally to unbearable pain. I will watch in silent terror as the flesh of my leg begins to quiver and twitch, seemingly of its own volition, and I will even consider a visit to the doctor's office, but it will be too late. Three weeks from now, my corpse will be found, covered in maggots and flies, rotting in the closet. Why in the closet? Because in a last ditch, heroic effort to isolate the killer flies, thus saving the rest of humanity, I will drag my mostly eaten-away carcass into the closet to await FEMA's arrival. There, in the darkness, the cruel darkness, the darkness that smells like funky bike shorts, the maggots will finally erupt from my throat, eyes, ears, and nose, and I will die.

I hate flies.

Last weekend, I totally biffed it hard when I hit some of the loose asphalt at the edge of the bike path. The bike path here has these metal poles at intersections, the intention of which is to allow things the size of bikes and joggers through, while blocking motorized traffic. There are four, two on either side of the path spaced about two feet apart, with a chain strung between the two inside poles. (Like this: | |_______| | ). It's a great system, except when other path users don't use the opening on their side.A few times I have narrowly avoided running over poorly supervised children or unleashed dogs whose erratic movements make it hard to tell on which side they intend to come through. Small children and dogs make me nervous.

That said, I'd like to tell you how when I biffed it, I was trying valiantly not to maim/kill a swarm of whooping, rabid toddlers on Big Wheels that attacked from the bushes, accompanied by excited Shih Tzus with bladder-control issues. Unreal, like in a movie! One second, there I am, spinning along, happy as a clam, and the next second-- BAM! Toddlers and incontinent Shih Tzus! Shih Tzus and incontinent toddlers! Mayhem! Calamity! If I didn't take a fall, I would've surely run them over.

But what really happened was that I saw a couple with their three kids approaching one of these dividers at the same time as I was, looked a the kids, looked at their bikes, and thought I would just get it over with and wreck right there on the spot, instead of prolonging the agony of suspense. My plan worked swimmingly. With my twisted and bleeding form blocking the opening on my side of the path, the youngsters had no choice but to keep right, as they should. At least the three children were entertained. Scooting past on my left I heard, "Awwwwsome," "Whoa, coooool," and, from the youngest, "Ouchie." The parents offered me Bactine and a Cookie Monster band aid. Luckily, it didn't really hurt, so, after a quick once over the bike, just to make sure everything still looked functional, I decided to finish the remaining two hours or so of my ride.

However, after about ten minutes, I began to notice a considerable drag. I felt like I was working way hard for almost no results. Disconcerting, since the roughly eleven miles remaining (from where I biffed it to where I usually turn around) were almost all downhill, and I should definitely not have been having so many problems. I chalked it up to the strong head wind and pushed on. But when the wind died, about the time I was arriving at the far end of my route, and the drag was still there, I wondered if I might have a slight problem. Upon closer inspection, I found that the spring on the right side of my front brake had popped out, engaging that side of the brake. So super.

Nineteen miles and three particularly grueling hills later, I dragged my sorry butt onto my front steps, and laid down for a minute while I waited for the swirling green spots and stars to dissipate.

On a side note, my road rash eventually became quite a sight to behold; a profound amount of blood, encouraged by all the extra work and clumpy with dirt and junk, managed to completely soak my leg all the way to my sock. At my two water refill spots, people were asking what I had done to myself. Sadly, I did not have the eXtreme mountain bike this-is-what-happened-when-I-rode-down-a-cliff or yeah-I-was-taking-a-hairpin-at-forty-miles-per-hour stories they were looking for, and, despite my best efforts to make Cookie Monster band aids more interesting, the disappointment was palpable.