The Miracle Carwash, Dubuque, Iowa

It was so bright I couldn’t sleep. Across the street from the Hotel there was a building with a great big electric sign, neon in fact. They must have imported it from Texas, because everything’s bigger in Texas. Like Texas toast. That stuff is huge. I couldn’t sleep because the Miracle Carwash was so bright.


I turned on the TV and nothing was on: a commercial for Pajama Jeans; the amazing Magic Bullet food chopper, dicer, and slicer; also a pill that could give you a beach body in two weeks or your money back. I had about given up on basic cable when I came across a guy putting his palm on people’s foreheads, shouting some angry, devil-be-gone stuff, and making them faint. He even made cripple people get up and walk, but it was the way you would expect a cripple person to walk—kind of a hunched, air-swim/crawl sort of thing. The studio audience gasped and I did too. I did, I gasped.

If cripples could walk (sort of) I could sleep, right? I needed to sleep. It would take a miracle, I thought. If only there was a slick-haired televangelist to smack me in the temple, that would do the trick. But the Hotel Julien was too cheap to have a miracle performing, televangelist on staff. I didn’t even need to call down the front desk; I already knew this, but I called just in case. No luck.

I stood up and put my palm to forehead as I had seen the man on TV do. I pushed pretty hard and muttered a few commands: drive the Devil from this man and let him sleep in peace once again. I must have been doing something wrong, because I couldn’t make myself faint no matter how hard I pushed. I noticed (it was hard not to notice because of how bright it was) that the Miracle Carwash was able to perform its phenomena in a way that was touchfree (how this was possible I wasn’t sure, but carwashes sometimes work in mysterious ways). This was the answerer, then. It had to be. It was like a sign from a sign. I put on some socks, tall ones with the stripes; a hat and jacket; and walked down to the front desk where I purchased two rolls of quarters from the lady who was drinking coffee out of a mug with a picture of her wiener dog on it, Poochie.

The fifth time through, the sounds of water jetting against metal became soothing like waves on the ocean, but really loud like you are right by the ocean, maybe sleeping on the beach because you are homeless and you drank a lot of Black Velvet while watching the sunset, comparing its beauty to your shitty life, that you passed out there, the water lapping at you like a dog licks its wounds. Each time through I became drowsier. The sounds of water were putting me to sleep like one of those machines people put in their bedrooms to simulate a waterfall, or a rainforest, or the ocean, but in the carwash there weren’t any whale calls or other strange animal sounds.

I ran out of quarters. I got out of my car and began picking up rocks to throw at the sign that was keeping me awake. Miracles, I decided, were impossible, and I decided to decide this forever. If suddenly Jesus walked up to me and asked if I knew what time it was or if I had change for a five so he could wash his rusty Ford, I would tell him to go jump in a lake. I would ask him why don’t you just make your own change? In between stone throws, I'd tell him I’m busy here, can’t you see. Jesus, being the guy he is, would say let me give you a hand with that. He’d take aim at the flickering, blue Miracle, winding up like a Major League pitcher, releasing with perfect force and timing. The sign would explode, showers of colored sparks snowing down on the both of us.

Cold Bear #1

DNF. Broken chain on the late night, last minute, not tested pug build. FYI don't try to reuse the pins on Sham chains, as that is what I did and likely the reason it broke. Nevertheless, by the time of the snap (a half lap to the finish) Brendan was, for the most part, out of sight. I was starting to get more comfortable with the pug though, and was picking up the pace, chasing.

Next weekend I'm heading down to Iowa for the Triple D, a 60+ mile trail race. I did 50 miles on the snowmo trails the other day averaging 14 mph on a 29er SS 38x16. Might be a road race if these conditions hold up. 

Cold Bear

The Cold Bear Challenge is tough. It is often cold. The trail conditions can be unridable at times. What's more is that some participants push morbidly obese bicycles up the steep and copious hills. Last year I put my blood sweat and tears into the seriess and came out in second place in the advanced category. For my efforts I was rewarded with a cup. However, my prized pint glass/ trophy from the Cold Bear Challenge has broke, shattered into a hundred little pieces. This happened months ago, and I have been mourning ever since, slowly progressing through the five stages of loss. My therapist says I should move on. Maybe I should. No. I can't. I can't move on because I keep stepping on the glass' invisible shards, the ones that scattered into the kitchens corners upon impact, the ones so tiny that not even a broom can sweep them up. A pin prick in the heal every now and then, a cold jolt in a big toe. I dig out these thin shards with a tweezers and hold them up to the light. The tiny reminders shine with my blood. Like I said, the Cold Bear is tough. This time next year I hope to be stepping on first place, pug catagogy shards of glass.

That's right the pug frame I've had hanging on a hook for the last year is coming together. Ben at Milltown Cycles is setting me up with some wheels (White non-trash Darryls). Due to a ordering mix-up with White Industries however, only the front wheel will be ready for tomorrows race. If you need some better wheels for your Mukluk call up Ben. He's got some Darryls on hand, and I'm sure he wont mess up your order. Sponsor plug aside, one of my cohorts may lend me a rear marge. That is if the aforementioned individual has forgotten about my reputation of breaking wheels. I've said too much. Peace out.

Abducted by Aliens

Last night in  a dream I was was abducted by aliens. Seriously. They swooped over me with incredible acceleration, and in the traditional fashion, a blue shaft of light came down and levitated me into their saucer shaped craft. I had a pair of xc skis in my arms. And I was smiling as the blue force field picked me up.

This is how it happend

A few things contributed to this strange dream. First of all I watched the trailer for Cowboys and Aliens last night (looks like an hilarious movie eventhough it's not supposed to be). Secondly there's this new humidifier I bought and placed at my bed side. The product boasted about calming effects, which sounded good while I was in the store. But when I got it home and set it up next to my bed, it turns out that the calming effect is that it emits a shaft of sleep-deprivingly-bright, blue light at the ceiling and makes a loud humming noise not unlike a hovering spaceship. But the third is perhaps the most complicit factor. . .

. . .I picked up some classic xc skis yesterday afternoon and spent the rest of the evening watching various youtube videos on waxing (about four hours worth) until I couldn't keep my eyes open. I know a lot more about wax now. There is about a bazillion (that is 10 x a gazillion) different waxes for different snow temperatures and conditions. They sell little thermometers you can stick in the snow to get a reading to the nearest tenth of a degree. On top of that you need to know the moisture content of the snow, wind direction, does it have sharp or rounded crystals, did it fall on a full moon,  etc. I believe you also need a telescope and astrological calender to determine the arrangement of certain planets and stars, their alignment being a chief factor in how fast or slow your skis will be be with a given wax. And that's just what goes into selecting "the wax of the day" (that's right, you have to do this every day). I wont even go into putting the stuff on, which involves hot irons, toxic solvents, scraping tools, wire brushes, two sacrificial goats, and a pact with the devil.

WTF?

Aliens are rarely confused

My unconscious mind, completely confused and disoriented by the world of youtube, concluded that ski waxing is a task beyond human comprehension and thus a job only an advanced species could get right. In my dream I actually wanted to be abducted. I was standing on my roof with my skis under my arm, shouting at the sky. The aliens, with their advanced knowledge of physics were going to show me how to wax my new skis. They were going to dispel myths of layering and tip-to-tail. They would tell me the optimal iron temperature and the exact amount of time I should let the wax cool. These brilliant creatures were going to give me waxes that defied the laws of molecular chemistry.

Whether they did or not I cannot say. See you on the trails! I'll be the one leaving a track of blue light in the snow.

Focus CX For Sale

My Focus Mares 2, fancy-dancy race machine is for sale. Full Carbon frame and fork. Ultegra. BB30. Tappered Steer-tube. Size large 56cm. Will do complete bike for 17 or frame-set for 12. Here's the website.

Snow Fort: Tunneling into All-grown-up Land.

mine was more awesomer than this

 When I was younger snow like this meant one thing. It meant that my dad would go out in his Chevy pick-up and plow all the snow form our driveway into huge piles. It meant days and days of endless digging, tunneling, and carving out huge rooms in the snow. One year when we got a lot of snow, I made the biggest snow fort in history. It had several large rooms all connected eith tunnels you had to crawl through. It was a never ending process, the rooms always growing. As I scraped snow from the walls and hauled out sled-fulls of the stuff, I imagined the parties I would have, who I would invite. Certainly my older brothers would not be invited. And not Joe, my next-door-neighbor (he was the kind of kid who would ride his bike up to a jump like he was going to do it but veer off at the last second). No cry-babies would be allowed in my humongous snow fort.


Perhaps my standards were too high because no one ever came to the fort, and the parties I envisioned, where me and a dozen other kids would sit around drinking apple juice from crystal wine glasses, never happened. I suppose I knew there wouldn’t be any parties. No apple juice. No soft jazz playing in the background. So why did I keep digging?

I remember having a collection of icicles. They were diamonds and I was rich. And come to think of it, I never just sat in my fort, relaxing. I was always digging, making it bigger. My hands would get cold, my thin Power Rangers gloves soaking wet, but I wouldn't go inside. This fort was going to be bigger than my bedroom, bigger than my parent’s bedroom, bigger than the whole house! When the fort was big enough, I would know it because I wouldn't have a bed time anymore; wouldn't have to go to school; all of the sudden a beard would sprout under my face mask and Stephanie from down the street would be my wife. When the fort was big enough I wouldn't be a kid anymore and I would be able to do whatever I wanted; even eat a whole batch of cookie dough without getting sick.

When I went inside that night, I kept my fort a secret, but somehow my mom knew. She told me about a kid in the next town over who suffocated when his snow fort collapsed on him. I wondered if it was the same “kid from the next town over” who lost all his fingers when he reached under the lawn mower, or the same kid who burned his house down playing with matches. Nevertheless, I imagined the snow fort collapse as if it happened to me. I imagined the weight of it all; trying to take a breath but not being able to. Not being able to move my arms to dig myself out. The next day I continued enlarging my snow sanctuary anyways. But my desire for a humongous fort, and thus freedom, was weighed down by thoughts of suffocation. Was I making the walls too thin? Would the roof hold? I contemplated the thought that this thing that made me all-grown-up could collapse and suffocate me at any moment.

At some point I got bored of being an adult and went sledding at Dead Man’s Hill with all the other kids.


 



catching some sweet air



A Detailed Training Regiment for 2011