I am saddened to learn that our friend Lee passed away last night.

Before riding with the Bicycle Place groups, I befriended Lee while doing the 10:00 and Goon, he a rare face of sanity and style on two of the most meshuggeneh rides around. We met up on random centuries, one which introduced him to the HPC List team where his climbing prowess was well exhibited. Twice we rode the Civil War Century and although he effortlessly crested the summits, my "stumpy" legs were determined to keep up. Despite our differing strengths, Lee was always a terrific riding partner and with a wit that put my labored puns to shame.

No one was immune from his jest. My wife was on the Sunday Ride when he pointed out that it was only appropriate that she rode a Klein (German for "small"). His status as the self-appointed but universally acknowledged style czar and his biting critique of those who strayed is legendary.

Lee will be missed but never forgotten.

Perhaps people purveyed this information, but there is a wicked wheel eating pothole at the top of Democracy soon after the right turn out of the Other-Haves Lives neighborhood.
How do I know this? Glad you asked.

I was in the N2 Poolesville Paceline winding up for that-stretch-of-road-where-we-go-fast-up-to-that-sign-covered-with-trees (non-sprint) when Steve (back to him later) warned of a "Hole!!!"
On his wheel, I never saw it coming, but braced for an impact that almost shook me off the drops (but managed to save my more valued, uh, hardware). I immediately knew my back wheel was f***ed, but I had still has air pressure, so Scott A and I (Scott B?) stuck to our plan of a 1-2 finish. Sizing up our comrades as a bunch of lightweights, our plan seamlessly played out as the feared Greg & Phil took early lead-outs and we Scottsmen hammered it home as they faded but only to be overtaken on the inside by the same Steve who tried to save my a$$ - this after dropping his chain!

ANYWAY, once we regrouped at 7 Lox we inspected the damage which was immediately obvious as the rim of my rear Rolf Sestriere was taco'ed like nobody's business. A deep sigh, but I knew these wheels were on borrowed time - I bought them 4 years ago from Big Mig for $300, this after he, Pepper and probably half the shop rode these superlight delicacies (the Marilyn Chambers, RIP, of Bicycle Place wheels). Game over.

My esteemed comrades, who I hold in only the most favorable light, asked if I would be okay to get home, a scant 3 mile direct route. "No problem - she's still holdin' aar" (In my best Scotty of Star Trek accent - hey, I ride a Trek!). Yeah, well I go not a quarter mile before the front wheel gives up the ghost and I immediately recalled the beginning of the ride when I handed Phil P my spare to replace the one he gave up after I double flatted three (3) weeks ago. ARGH!
Melissa was in the shower and Nathan was asleep (and 15 years too young to drive), so I clacked the rest of the way home.

In short, watch out for this pothole.

Cross Training

Life has been mostly off the bike lately for the Frogman thanks to the wonderful arrival of his new pollywog, the frigid weather and the stressful demands of keeping busy in a down economy (yes, I was bound to bring that up). Doesn't mean I'm totally off the bike or out of training, just that Cross Training has taken new forms in this new and strange realm of Daddyhood.

Who says I won't be ready to do street battle this spring after honing my strength and skills with Diaper Duathlon, Laundry Lunges, Reality Stairclimber, Baby Curls, Pull-up Pull-ups and the Eastern martial art of Tai-Transfer Sleeping Baby From Lap To Crib-Chi?

The Future

Every new family must be going through this protracted 24/7 selfless servitude in order to give their infant the comfort and security needed to grow and prosper (a burden never shared with prospective parents as to ensure propagation of the species). So therein lies the question, "are you riding?"

A deal has been brokered where Sunday mornings are mine to do the Bicycle Place 8:30 Ride and shift my agony to that of a weekend warrior unwilling to admit that his form is gone, muscle tone withered away with 3am feedings, mental acuity blunted by repetitious high-pitched babble (My own: "Who Hungie? My cutie Wootie? My CutieWootieSmootchyDoody, etc.) and energy stores diminished by cold meals forgotten after impetuous demands by our darling 20 inch tyrant.

But I'll take it.
Others have spawned before me and more are even likely to follow. They are right to say that nothing compare to this experience, SO even if I'm not now riding the Rockies, spinning through Sicily or pulling to Poolesville, I'll still be getting out enough and fathering enough to ask the inevitable question...
Who's With Me?

Dream So Real II

In a dream I was holding a tiny baby as foreign as could be, but then he slipped from my grip and scurried away before my sandbag hands could react.

In reality this little baby is my own, even though he looks a lot like my father-in-law. Just makes me love him all the more... So he arrived 8 weeks ago, 3-1/2 weeks early, hence my scarcity scaling slopes of Sugarloaf, spinning the shores of Seagull or the steep Civil War Century. Parenthood is like taking that on every day. No, he doesn't bolt out of my hands, but he is growing before our eyes and the experience makes me feel both older and younger while igniting a fire of love I never knew was within me, even after calibrating my Power Tap.

His middle name is after my Dad who passed away 3 months to the day before his birth.
His resting heart rate is phenomenal, in the 130's! plus he can rev it up over 220 bpm when angry, like when Dad gets the old and new Pampers stuck together. His climbing weight is optimal, just over 8 lbs at last check, but he seems to be on the Kirstie Alley diet.
http://deceiver.com/2008/02/15/jenny-craig-fires-kirstie-alley-for-getting-fat-again/

We know this little guy will not be a giant, but he has already demonstrated a vigorous will and charismatic charm.
He had us at "Wh-ah, Wh-Ah, Wh-AH, WH-AH, WH-AAAAAAH!"

Dream So Real

In a dream I was gathered with my family in a pleasant room in a nursing home, amber walls with flowers on the table. We were resigned that there was nothing left to do there and were comforting our Mother while my Father stood off to the side, wearing his signature newbuck jacket and favorite beret, looking at the doorway, ready to go home.

In reality my Father was my hero and role model. He taught me to be confident in myself and respectful of others while always maintaining a positive outlook on life. As a father he would never micro-manage, but would simply instill seeds for us to grow, to let us each blossom on our own.

When I was 5 or 6, he must have sensed my interest in bicycles. One of my fondest early memories was when he’d plop me on the on the handlebars of our English Cruiser and ride me around our block. I remember the rush of wind when we screamed down The Big Hill. Inspired by this shared experience, I took off my training wheels and soon set The Record for riding around the block at maybe 33, but I fear an obsessive 100 laps.

Always a man of action, Dad had the uncommon sense for doing the right thing. I witnessed this as an eight year old while traveling with family in a foreign country. A woman had been involved in an accident and lay bloodied in the street. Without hesitating, Dad rushed to the scene to tender aid. In grade school I wanted to be a doctor like Dad, but my obsession with drawing and building models indicated a different track, which he unflinchingly supported. While I would not be saving lives, through architecture I strive to uplift people within their environment.

My Mother and Father had a wonderful 60-year marriage based on love and respect for each other and commitment to family. Now that I am about to be a father, I am starting to realize even more deeply his influence. My wife and I deeply wished that he would have had the chance to see our unborn son, but in our son we hope to see some of Dad.

Now Hear This

The Frogman made it out to The Sunday Ride but had to don my knee-high tourniquet, an egregious piece of fashion but an article that helps keep my anterior tibialis muscle attached to my shin bone. That's worth braving a comment or two (or ten). Many of my comrades took the opportunity to kindly quip, "Business casual-nice look", or "You're late for your meeting", while some recognized my attire and asked with concern, "What the F--- is wrong with you?!"

Talk this week has been all about the Capital Crescent Trail speed limit in Bethesda, a trail safety measure pointed at only on user: Cyclists. Yeah, make it "safer" by randomly posting a 15 mph sign to slow bikers down but ignore chastising the Oblivious-IPod-RollerBladers, or the Infinite-Ratchet-Leash-Dog-Walkers or the Random-180-degree-turn-Joggers. Word, that Washington Post article (too lazy to link and you've read it by now) says it targets the Lance Armstrong Wannbees, but if pulled over at least I can still produce an active USA Cycling License and you'd never catch me sucking face with an Olson Twin (Either One!)

So stop writing blogs and write to the Editors and make this injustice heard, or we'll be chased off the paths as well as the roads. Why, just the other evening (Not the one where the winds were doing a "Surrender Dorothy", Kansas style) I was on a Trek down Persimmon Tree Road where a pubescent pig-tailed punk in an aggressively passing Ford Exploiter or Exhibition or Excretion or whatever you call them, yells "Sidewalk!"

Right. Let's do the math. If I'm humming along at 26 mph and the speed limit on sidewalks is 15 mph, then that would be like driving on a highway posting double-nickels at 91 mph! Some would call that "aggressive". So we're not welcome on the trails and too often threatened on the roads. It is our right, but one we have to fight for. Get out and prove a point by riding responsively and don't worry about what anyone calls to you.

You know, in retrospect maybe she was actually yelling "Nice sock!"