My Jaw Dropped (and I Nearly Caught a Fly)

So I'm sitting at my desk minding my own business when Mailman Steve does an about-face because he's forgotten to give me a cardboard mailer that's addressed to me personally. That's not odd in and of itself. I have lots of mail and deliveries sent to the office. I'm there more often than I'm home during delivery times. I glanced at the address and return address, and those were bloggers' names! What the heezy? Yes, there was my real name and my work address, but there was that funny "aka LimesNow" showing, too. Up in the left hand corner was "Doozyanner" and - oh, yes - I recognize her name, of course. But what was this arriving at my doorstep?

When I first began to follow blogs, I was introduced to it by a cyclist. He followed lots of cyclists' blogs, so I went looking at those blogs, too. While some of the good people posted about cycling and not much else, others showed more of themselves, and no human being is only one thing. Some people are warm and welcoming and one bonds quickly. Doozyanner is such a person. I let her know early that I was not a cyclist and do not aspire to be one. Oh, I can speak their language and understand what they're telling me, but it was the other things about her that drew me. She's an ESL teacher who takes trips to Mexico to teach in primitive villages rather than spend Thanksgiving with her adult children (who supported her desire to go 100% - this one time). Although she raised her son and daughter mostly single, and times weren't always easy, they are educated, accomplished and beautiful young adults. She alluded to a family problem once, in carefully selected words and I came to believe we have endured some of the same trauma and dysfunction. I like that when things are dismal in education and she is expected to do more and more with less and less, she says, "This is dismal." I like straightforwardness. Things don't need to be candy-coated for me. Her elderly parents intrigue me as the makers of fine dollhouse miniatures, something that I loved to dabble in for many years. Although I am an only child (not literally, but practically) and she has many siblings, her father was in the Navy and she understands how my family's constant moving affected me. We're pretty simpatico, Doozyanner and Limes.

And have I said that she sews? Oh, she doesn't sew the way I sew which is to dream a lot about when I did sew, buy materials and accessories and patterns and cutters and never, ever complete a thing. Although it troubles me greatly, that is how I sew now. I have often expressed to her the sadness and frustration I feel about being creatively closed down. She has been kind to me and pointed out that I'm creative in other ways. But Doozyanner actually sews. She makes the most wonderful seasonal aprons for daughter, Katie, who works at a pub while attending school. She makes such things as pink bunny PJs for grand-niece, the adorable Miss Jadyn. And countless other wonderful projects as her machine whirs and old Netflix movies play. I got my scissors out to cut open the well-taped mailing container, peeked in first, and then put in my hand to pull out something wonderful:

I wasn't sure if I had a tiny purse or perhaps a toiletries kit, but I could see women with butts like women really have, and certainly cellulite thighs, boobs like some of them want to have (not me, thanks!), appearing to be of a particular age group, not looking grand in a bathing suit, and being OK with every bit of that. It was great girlfriending imagery! I reached in to feel a note in the package. She wrote:

Dear Limes, While in Portland last weekend, I just had to go to the fabric warehouse. I had hoped to find a piece of fabric with limes on it - but this print caught my eye and made me laugh out loud. I knew you and my sister Arlene would also giggle over it. This is a square tissue box cover [aha, not a purse or toiletries kit!] - one of the silly things I crank out on my machine while watching old movies on Netflix. I hope you like it! Your 'tend friend - Doozyanner

Doozy's work is very fine. That surprised me not at all. Her seams match and they're flat, straight and pressed open. The tissue box cover is ironed to perfection, creased in a way that shows me how/where to position my tissue box in it. The openings for the red ribbon are reinforced, so I won't tear my gift from pulling too hard at the ribbon when I change boxes of tissue. Although I've never met her, and although I could have never imagined receiving a gift from her, if I could have imagined that, I'd have envisioned her handiwork presenting as beautifully as it does. I wonder what she watched as she sewed this for me? I hope it was a tear-jerker, because this thoughtful surprise surely brought a happy wash of tears to my blue eyes!

Thank you, Doozyanner, and you'll be hearing from me through the mail, as well. I may not be sewing, but I've got an idea brewing. Has anyone ever heard me say how much I love this blogging thing and connecting with others?

In my ears right now: Friend Kass is offended when someone posts a YouTube that goes really long, but this is more like "double the pleasure, double the fun". I loved it in 1978 when I was a young married and I love it now. "People stay, just a little bit longer . . . . " That's the kind of mood I'm in today!

Something that charmed me: Doozyanner and her kindness charmed me. Every bit of the transaction. She went looking for limes but selected something else she knew I'd like. She sewed, thinking to make me a gift. She didn't ask my address. She went and found it. Have I been heard to say how much I like . . . sorry. Never mind.

Blog Birthday

My head attaches itself to dates and that is funny to me because it does not attach itself to other numbers such as chimp math. Maybe it's best characterized as a talent for retaining numbers that mean little any more, because I can still recite my phone number from when I lived in Las Vegas in 1976 - (702) 873-2378. I am able to accurately tell the loan number of our first mortgage from 1977. Amber's Social Security and even Ex's? Yep. I can tell you the birthdays of people I knew decades ago, and their significant others', too. And I was able to tell Kass my address from 1958: 2503 South 6th East, Salt Lake City, Utah. So when the head began to rattle over last weekend, I paid attention. Yes, it does approach! Limes' pink bus first rolled off the lot just about a year ago. My blog is celebrating her first birthday. It's a good time to reflect.

I like birthdays and New Year's and remembrance days. Upon them I like to look both backward and forward. What was going on a year ago and two and three? What did I think and feel? What did I do? What did I want and did I achieve it? What lies ahead? Am I happy or at least satisfied for the most part? What can I do to enjoy a better experience? Is it time to let go of certain things? One wise advisor says to me frequently, "Can you just change the way you do one thing? Even if you don't land on the perfect solution, just try to do it differently." To what things might I apply that right now? A few feet across the room from me stands a much-loved decorative plaque. "Learn From Yesterday," it gently reminds me. OK, I'll try to do that.

It was New Year's Eve and we were visiting during a long walk that became memorable mostly because we were almost killed in a crosswalk by a gigantic SUV that likely wouldn't have been as jarred by our bodies as it would have by a speed bump. My companion leaped into the air and slapped the passenger side window while shouting an expletive, while pulling me out of harm's way by the arm. When the driver slowed a few yards ahead it was not to apologize, but to call the Badger a potty mouth. But I digress. He'd been telling me that he had begun to write for a blog and he was about to publish it. I'd heard the term before, but I had not yet explored the blogosphere and I asked him to tell me about it. After a few miles, I commented, "I think I get it. You're journaling, like you've journaled all your life. But publicly. Other people can say something about it, too. And there are some unknown bazillions of other people out there doing this, some of whom will attract one's attention because of what they post about. " He said that I'd caught it.

When he published and pointed that out to me, I had to learn how to even get to his blog and I read. I learned to navigate the site and - yes! - that sidebar was fascinating and led me to other blogs, mainly those of other cyclists. He was right! That woman called The Old Bag in Minnesota was funny and smart and engaging. Hmm. The cyclist called Wheel Dancer seemed to be connected with The Old Bag. I found Doozyanner in a logical progression from The Old Bag's blog - I feel like I know Doozy in person and understand a good deal about her, although I am not a cyclist. And so it went. I signed on as a follower wherever I felt a connection or interest and learned about making comments. It didn't take me long to ask him, "How do you do it? Is it anything like when I create a website in DreamWeaver?" "Much, much easier," he said. Hmm. I found my way to Blogger and noodled around a little. The templates came in all sorts of colors. I am moved by color. Color speaks to me. I am also moved to speak, to tell my story. I've always loved to write ~ letters, stories, journals, instruction manuals, post-hearing briefs, even very clunky poetry. Maybe this was my forum. Hmm.

I spent a long time thinking about what I would write. I'm a walker. But I didn't want to write a blog relating my adventures in walking. I manage a small business, but I had no intention of writing a blog about business matters. I'm a lifelong creative person currently in a longstanding period of constipation in that area, so I had no wonderful wares to show and tell about. I've been told one wants to write about what she knows and loves. Hmm. I am a human being and I know about many things human, both good and bad, joyful and tragic. I love to interact with other humans, absorbing and reflecting some of what they are about and hoping they will do the same with my essence. I can talk about many different things and express my thoughts and feelings about them. I know how to Google images to use for illustrative purposes. I love music of many types and I'm familiar with YouTube to share the music on my blog. "What if I'm fully me on my blog, not presenting just one of my interests? What if I just present as a whole person, with all that means, like one meets at a party or takes out to share dinner?" Hmm. Seinfeldian. A blog about nothing. Would it work? Would it interest anyone? Would I connect with any others?

To any endeavor I engage in, I bring my own particular brand of hinky. I'm odd about the certain things I'm odd about. I told the reader I'm human. I approached blogging with a great deal of consideration about many of its elements. I had a few stumbling blocks. Among the larger ones was my aversion to using my real name or photograph. Uh-uh, I was not going to reveal those. Please don't ask. I wasn't having it. And I would moderate comments. I had a reasonable expectation that someone I didn't care to welcome to my blog would appear. I didn't want public surprises, so I'd use the filter of moderation. My blog name and face were easy to land on. After I spent more than 20 years living in Lemon Grove, and using lemony references to myself and my family, I became a lime when I escaped. LimesNow was easy, and the limes/chilies/olives image fit me for all kinds of reasons. I was ready to roll!

I selected a template and polished my Blogger profile like touching up one's resume. I struggled for a few days trying to land on what my maiden voyage should look like. I didn't know how one made her debut on the blogosphere stage. I didn't know if there were rules and etiquette or what they entailed, if they existed. I made it much too complicated and taxing. Sometimes I do that. Finally, I asked, "May I use some of your photos to illustrate my blog posts, with credit, of course?" "Sure!" came the reply. So I wrote a little piece about 'tend friends and connecting with others across time and space. I put it up as my first post, not without some trepidation. I put out a couple of very shy invitations on other blogs. And what do you know? Bloggers talked to me. Hey! The Badger and Wheel Dancer and The Old Bag on my blog. I had to figure out how to drop their comments in, but I learned quickly. This was fun!
By my second post I was including "In my ears right now" and "Something that charmed me" because I felt it made interaction with me and my blog more personal. I believe these little glimpses give more details about the me of right now. I'm going to write a post or two about blogging and what it has done for me. How the writing has affected me, and how the comments have impacted me. I want to tell how connecting with others has felt. I want to share some of what I've learned from blogging and from yesterday. I want to say the little girl was pretty smart for carrying her 'tend friends around with her. It's damned fulfilling! After some months, I showed my face and gave my name. I've rejected comments extremely rarely, despite having some bloggers come aboard who rattled me by their very presence. I relaxed my demand of myself to write and post each and every day. Hi! I'm Leslie ~ Les to my friends. Happy birthday to my blog.

In my ears right now: Join me in the car with the little girl again, please. Except she's older now and I don't drive a mommy van any longer. As she had spent a lifetime listening to the music I love, I felt it was fair to play her music 50% of the time. It gave me an appreciation of 'N Sync, the Backstreet Boys and Pink not common to people of my age. The kid knew how to spend time in a car! It's not remarkable video - just a late 1990s boy band. But the song is nice.

Something that charmed me: Reviewing the year has charmed me and continues to do so. It's been one of the rockiest periods of time, ever. And I've learned many, many things about myself. Most of those things learned are qualities I like in other people, so maybe I'd just better like them in myself, too. I've not spent a lifetime highly admiring of myself. Maybe it's time to start that, just a little bit. As I muse about the blogging year, I'm going to create a virtual charm bracelet celebrating things I've learned.

Here's my first charm. It is a shield representing a mighty warrior. I've learned I'm fierce. I learned I only think I will collapse. In reality, I am hard and strong and resilient. I can write about difficult things and I can withstand things no one should be expected to tolerate. I can forgive as many times as that is deserved. And that charms me, too.

Some photo credits, with appreciation of a great group of bloggers: Kathryn Feigal, J. D. Morehouse, The Old Bag, Wheel Dancer, Doozyanner and LimesNow

Live Your Dream ~ That's My Theme

With thanks and a tip of the hat to blogging friend Kirk Jusko, [He doesn't post his picture, so I can't either.] for the title, it occurs to me that really is one of my strong life themes. I want everyone to land on their dreams and achieve them. I've had some lofty dreams of my own and on the odd occasion, I've found myself existing in my dream just as I dreamed it. Maybe I should have bought that bracelet for myself, or at least a matching one. I wonder if the catalog . . . . maybe . . .

I lean toward being generous and pretty engaged/engaging, so if I find out that you have a dream, likely I'll cheer for you at some point. If your kid wants to sell the most Girl Scout cookies, I'll walk her around the neighborhood, sit with her in front of the store, buy some cookies myself and take her to lunch to celebrate after the sale. If you need a 12-step program, I'll take you there and stay with you. If you want a meal or a drink, I love providing those things maybe more than any other. I'm not shy about asking others to support you, either. If I watch you chase your dream and fail to reach it, I'll love you and keep hoping. If I watch you chase your dream and grab it, I'll holler right out loud.

Those who come here often, know the Badger had an important two-stage race last weekend. Not for the first time, I asked other bloggers to join me in some collaborative effort to cheer the man on with words - show our support and humor and admiration. I was pleased and touched once again to see the work of those who commented "I'm in!" Bloggers are creative, of course, but I never cease to be amazed at the generosity we show one another.

It is not for me to tell you all about the two-day race and how it was the most difficult thing he has ever done on a bicycle. It's not my deal to tell you about the dead rattlers and what the weather and road gradient were like. It isn't my job to explain that he found the experience transcendent. Click on the link and read the last few posts of his good blog. You'll get the picture! I will share the words I'd never heard him utter before. As he stepped out of the car for the pre-race course test, he e-mailed, "I don't know if I can do it." I wasn't sure whether to e-mail this: ;~} or this: "How serious are you, since I can't see your face?" He was serious. He didn't know if he could propel that Cervelo up those hills.

No, my job is to present the works of my wonderful blogging friends. Here you are, Badger, applauded and encouraged from spots all across the globe and blogosphere. In absolutely no order whatsoever, behold the offerings. Congratulations on your first place, you climbing old mountain goat. Transcend and do it again! Ride on and live your dream!

I used the offerings as stand-alone poems this time. One will see why! Each was that good.

From my dear friend Rachel Fenton, a published author in Auckland, New Zealand, comes wonderful poetry she constructed using some of the language from my prompt in the original post:

His mighty steed is the white Cervelo R3. A hound
with an orange saddle and handmade wheels.
Encircled: the heart monitored, wrist bound
by Garmin to give data, feed the needs he feels.

Erin O'Brien - yes, we all know she's Hot in Cleveland! - also a published author, rang in again:

The weather sure did make it hard
he did not end the Boulevard.
But upon the Callville Stage he stood
wearing proud a winner's hood.

He needs no introduction to you, Badge, but you knew friend Tag would play. His offering was dropped into my e-mail account, so this is the first public viewing:

Dead rattlers on the road
where Badger dares to fly
on wings of sinew and steel,
pushing to the summit
toward verging indigo sky.

All right, here we go. She hails from Sugarhouse, Salt Lake City, Utah. She is a poet, a fact recognized by many, many bloggers and readers. She is classy and sassy. She is Kassie. Her offering follows. I bow:

Listen, dear bloggers, and you shall hear
of Badger Morehouse with passion clear.
On a fine day in May he took his Cervelo R3
down to the floor of dry Death Valley.

Who remembers his spokes and tooth low gear?
Who remembers the miles he’s logged this year?
He says to friend, Les, “I’ll attack upslope,
I’ll ride with the wind, chase the ringer and hope.

Hang a bottle of water off of a tree,
one on the land, and two that I’ll see
on the opposite side of the valley.
Ready to ride, chains over the cogs,
I’ll attack the headwind and slide through bogs.”

Then he sees decayed asphalt and muffles a cry,
stands up out of his saddle and lets fly
a clatter of swearwords aimed at the sky.
His wheelness illness is evident now;
he’s careened with something left by a cow.

A paceline perfectly is formed,
under his slicker, his heart is warmed.
He’s mastered the switchback, he’s leading the pack;
he thinks of the past and takes a look back,
remembers the shot in his upper left thigh;
thinks of his death, of how he could die -
a punch in the kidneys by a teen upside down?

“I’m third in the nation,” he says with a frown.
I’ll not pass on in a way that is lame,
I want a sure victory, I must win this game.”

So laying a finger aside of his nose,
(Oh no, I’ve muddled, I’m in the wrong prose).
Let’s see, where were we, we’re talking of Jim
and how he cycles on more than a whim,
but now his heart is much like a wheel;

He won’t let go, his ambition is real.
His derailleurs will never derail his dream;
he’ll win this race, or so it would seem
to one who is waiting at his door,
with words that will echo forevermore!

For borne on the night-wind of the past,
through all their history, to the last,
in his hour of darkness and peril and need,
stands one without malice, corruption or greed.

Her heart will waken, she’ll welcome him home,
she’ll hand him the print-out of our collaborative poem.
He’s bound to listen and then he will hear
the resounding love of his cheerleader dear -
a love he can count on as simple as cycling -
it’s Leslie who’s waiting to announce, “You’re my King!"

And what does anyone have to say about that?

I didn't write any poetry this time. I'm not good with it. But I know it when I read it! My written offerings this time were my post, the endless e-mails as he traveled, prepared, and awaited the results. The Andy Griffith Show was my white noise - the episode where Thelma Lou's "dog" of a cousin, Mary Grace, comes to town and dazzles Gomer Pyle. It's one of the funniest things I've ever seen. It comforts me when I pace while absentmindedly getting dinner organized. I got an e-mail. "Outskirts of Las Vegas." I sent one back. "Would you like me to organize a parade, come out there and carry you, the Prius and your mighty steed into the city on my shoulder so you can bow and wave?" "Oh, no," came the reply. "That won't be necessary." He's modest, too! Enthusiastic, but modest.

In my ears right now: This is fun music. I was 22 years old.

Something that charmed me: This entire endeavor charmed me. The outcome charmed me. The 60-year-old dreamer charmed me. You may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one.

Photo credits: Good folks, I ask indulgence. I had to go a lot of places to get the pics. I'm going to take a flyer here, hoping that if you visit here to read, it means you've got a soft spot for me and you'll forgive me just this one time. Please. I don't mean to steal or offend.

OK, Who Wants to Have Some Fun? Join Me!

Perhaps the most fun I've had in my blogging life has been organizing collaborative efforts to produce fan poetry and virtual parties. Friend Kass has turned her hand to poetry collaboration that makes me drop my jaw. Both she and friend Tag have become brilliant at composing poetry by using words from the Comments section of their blogs, and they can make poetry from nothing, to my amazement. I'm not a poet or even poetic. I'm not that good. Or maybe it's just not what I want to do. But I'm a woman who knows how to tell a story and how to have a good time and how to ask for help, all while connecting with others, which - to me - is the most fun to be had anywhere, any time.

I'm not a cyclist, but I collect them like some people collect Hummel figures or Lladro pieces. I follow their blogs and I speak their language. I know about stage races and criterium races. I understand the categories into which the racers are placed. I get the flavor of the angst when a racer writes, "I worry that my 39x27 gearing might not be low enough for the challenge." I know how and where to buy the best clothing and accessories for the cyclist and I behold the beauty of the lost art of handmade wheels. If I were a churchgoer, I'd worship at the Church of the Big Ring, and all of this is saying something, because my own bicycle experiences and adventures have tended to be unpleasant ones.

I know one of the collected cyclists better and for longer than any of the others. We met in 1968. I know the provenance and the history of his single-minded fascination with the bicycle and racing with it. I know that he was dubbed The Badger by a racer who couldn't shake him back in the day . . . that ferocious tenacity hasn't diminished over 30 years, either. Badger is an appropriate appellation. With this cyclist, I made my bones as an official racing supporter and all-around cheerleader, hander-up of water while running, hander-up of water from a moving vehicle, waiter at the finish line. For this cyclist, I have driven his personal follow vehicle at the Skull Valley race two years in a row, driving 12 feet off of his back wheel for most of the 58 miles (obviously, I had to drive ahead and get out of the car to hand up water). At one memorable race, the cyclists were gathered at the starting line as the promoter was loudly promoting and hollered out, "Could we get a volunteer to drive my van and transport the race officials . . ." I was very surprised to hear my voice exclaim, "I'll do it. I'm experienced, too!" The Badger was pretty startled when I ran to the starting line to say, "I'm driving the Official Vehicle!" I followed him at very close quarters throughout that race, while pulling cyclists out for penalties whenever the official sounded the bullhorn. If it intrigues the reader, I've written many times on this blog about cycling races and one would look for the post label "races".

I won't try to tell you what cycling means to him. He does that very well himself on his own grand cycling blog. [One does not want to miss his fine photography blog, either.] A quick look at his last couple of posts will reveal that he is about to race in the granddaddy of all races, the Mt. Whitney Stage Race. Since the 1980s he has wanted to race this course of more than 50 miles at 10,000 feet of elevation. It finishes on the uphill, which will require him then to descend on some 180-degree switchbacks, but at least not at racing speed. And if all that is just a little too much about cycling, I'm nearly done going on about the race. Although it runs a bit long, the Fly By video will give one a tiny bit of insight into what is required for this endeavor. Simply follow the link and click on "Watch Course Fly-By Video". Drag the button a ways into the video and watch the drops off the sides and the switchbacks! Yes, those are running rivers - at one point he'll race across a bridge. Have I mentioned he is 60 years old?

The first epic race of this season - the dreaded/much anticipated Boulevard Road Race - was causing the Badger some anxiety. I wanted to have some fun and enlisted other bloggers to help me collaborate on a poem or a song or a whatever it turned out to be. The contributions began to pour in and it was wonderful to string snippets of words into a poem, crediting all the bloggers with what they had sent me. The result was a thing of great fun and beauty. His Wi-Fi was so erratic in the motel, he couldn't watch the poem develop on my blog. I read it to him at various stages on the phone and he finally got to take it in deeply when he arrived home. In his own words, the Badger stated it was "one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me." That production was simply a "Rah!" theme for a racing cyclist. I'm feeling playful again, and I have a little more experience than on my maiden voyage. So, who's in? We're going to have some fun!

Once again, I'm not sure what we can cobble together ~ a poem? An ode? I'd love to write a really good/bad country song if enough words are sent my way. It might even find its way to YouTube! So, here it is: all contributions will be accepted and used with joy. Send four rhyming lines, or two, or a repeating chorus or stream of consciousness. It doesn't matter. It will be received with gratitude. We'll need a title! Everyone will be credited. I will not edit, except to correct misspellings. Of course, we want to "Yay!" him to the finish line, but there's another theme I'd like to touch on - the ubiquitous shitty race weekend motel room. Imagine your own worst motel experiences and square them. Typically, these races aren't held in locations where fine lodging is available.

This time, I'm going to provide a few factoids that might help the reader form some thoughts:

• His mighty steed is the white Cervelo R3 with an orange saddle and handmade wheels. Encircling his chest will be the heart monitor and on his wrist, the Garmin will give up all the data he needs.
  
  
• He'll be wearing his Paramount racing kit as seen in the photos, black Rapha knee warmers, a Galstudio handmade winter racing cap, a red helmet, red SiDi cycling shoes, Assos jacket and full-fingered gloves. (It's cold at 10,000 feet!)
  
  
• At races he wears a leather bracelet that says "Live Your Dream" on a silver plate and sports a tiny pewter badger.
  
  
• Names of races run this year: Boulevard Road Race (Did not finish - stopped by weather after 45 grueling miles), Callville Stage Race (2nd place in his category), Howard Hughes Ranch Road Race (4th place in his category), UCLA Road Race (17th place, but judged with everyone age 45+), San Diego Omnium (3rd place in his category).



• Crappy motel annoyances: no stopper for the bathtub (the man likes to soak in Epsom salts after riding hard), Wi-Fi that shimmies in and out like a hula dancer, rarely any cell phone signal, coffee-making devices or not, microwave or not, sagging chair seats, holes in the walls, paper-thin walls, insufficient heat or air conditioning, no paper products, no drinking glasses, no pillows.



• He has often commented that he nearly drove the wheels off of his Prius the first three months he owned it from chasing after races.

So, bloggers, let's do it! Certainly make comments on this post, as usual. But please drop your wordy offerings in the e-mail attached to my Blogger Profile. I'll start compiling the goods, and I'm certain we'll come up with a marvelous collaboration . . . . . If anyone wants to see the work-in-progress, let me know and I'll share it by e-mail.

It is a wonderful tech-forward age we live in. As he drove west across Nevada and California, we e-mailed frequently. He always "takes me" to the races. "I'm on the floor of Death Valley now." "If I'd raced that one contest I considered, this course would have broken me in two, now that I've seen it!" His mother and I e-mailed in the same time period, churning about the altitude and climb in this race. He mentioned yesterday his concern that he'll blow out a knee. I often get an e-mail just before the gun goes off - "We're off in 30 seconds!" Or, " *%&#, it's snowing and sticking to the ground here at the start!" I never fail to get the e-mail or phone call at the end of the race: "I think I took second - they haven't posted the results yet." Today will be a long wait. Once he runs the race, he'll have the long, frightening return. Who knows if there will be signal on the mountaintop? Reader, I can attest: it is far better to go to the race, where one can always find some occupation, than to sit home and w-a-i-t.

Yesterday we were communing deeply and he wrote, "I sometimes wonder why I am doing this kind of thing. Not in the sense of not continuing, but what is it that has appeared after all these years driving me to do things that have nothing to do with survival?" I laughed out loud at my desk. I typed a response to the effect that I had some thoughts on the matter, but couldn't possibly put them in good order for presentation on e-mail. That is a conversation that will take an hour. But I - the wordy woman - can encapsulate it! "Because that's just what you are meant to do, Badger." Does anyone besides me enjoy watching ice on fire? Flaming passion tempered by steely, cold consideration? I thank the reader for his or her indulgence today. That man deserves a party! And have I mentioned he is 60 years old?

In my ears right now: Friend Tag reminded me of the Beach Boys yesterday. They're era-appropriate to me and I liked them well enough. Their best known tunes were OK enough. But I prefer their take on things that have nothing to do with surfing or racing cars.

Something that charmed me: One e-mail I got yesterday contained an assessment of the race course, once he'd viewed it, and his ability to ride it. The words startled me because I've never heard him utter anything remotely similar to what he had to say about this course. I paced awhile. Soon came the next e-mail. He was steely. "I'm going to do this!" Well, sure, Badge. That's what you went there for.

According to my watch, he's been pedaling for 38 minutes. I've seen the pictures of the road. I imagine by now he's been up out of the saddle (pedaling while standing up) a time or two . . . . he'll have to do that a lot today and tomorrow.

Calling All Bloggers of Good Spirit

All right, it's been done here before. With great fun and good will and camaraderie. The Badger was on the long drive to the first big race of the season. The e-mails flew back and forth as he progressed toward his destination and an idea struck me. This man deserved a party! He would feel boosted to know that many others were rooting for him, cheering him on and interested in the outcome of his mighty battle. I put up a short post asking interested bloggers to help me cheer. I proposed that we compose a poem or a rah, or whatever it turned out to be. It felt just a little risky to me, for what if no one played and the notion fell flat on its face? But to my complete enjoyment, and to The Badger's, the bloggers rang in enthusiastically. The result was a most wonderful poetic tribute that truly touched him.

It's a bit of a different occasion, but I propose fun and glee of a similar nature. Sunday, April 25th, is the birthday of a most wonderful woman. When we first found one another in the blogosphere, I sent her an official fan letter and she confessed to having a girl crush on me. I have learned much about grace and strength and beauty, about honor and intelligence and art and soul from this woman I've never met in person, but know at a very deep level. I've observed her treatment of other bloggers. I'm not getting any special treatment. She treats everyone well. And so, readers, it is the birthday of the lovely Kass. Whether you know her from this blog or this one you know how special she is. I'd like you to join me in giving her a birthday tribute. Who's in?

I'm going to embellish on the way I went about honoring The Badger. This time, I propose a poem tribute and I propose we put together a virtual birthday party. For the poem, let's do the same as last time. I will start with a few lines. Anyone willing to contribute, please put your words in my Comments section and I will develop the poem. We'll need a title, and - yes - I'll credit everyone who participates. **LATEBREAKING ~ Sometimes I am not the sharpest tool in the shed at the end of a long day. Bloggers, please drop both poetry offerings and party contributions into my e-mail which you'll find on my Blogger profile. That way, the wascally woman will not be able to see the poem as it develops. For anyone who puts their offerings in Comments, I'll acknowledge I received your contribution, but I'll hold back on publishing anything our Kass should not see before her birthday. And a note to myself: don't try to be brilliant after 3:00 p.m. when you've been rocking for 12 hours and have many more to go.**

This time, however, let's take it up a notch. We're putting on a birthday party! We'll need decorations, food and beverages, music and gifts. Please send me a short list of what you would like to virtually contribute and I will put that party together for presentation on Kassie's birthday on this blog. Be quirky and creative. She is! [Please send your party list to the e-mail address in my Blogger profile.]

Please, bloggers, if you know others who enjoy Kass but may not frequent my blog, shout me out to them or put a link on your own blog. Spreading the word is a good thing! And, Kass, it wouldn't be unbecoming of you to put the word on your blog, either. ;~}

And, finally, a disclaimer: if I am avalanched with material, we may have to make this a belated birthday party. I remember the html nightmare the Badger's poem became after many, many contributions, but I will land that post as close as possible to April 25th.

AND FROM THIS VERY POINT ONWARD, KASS, YOU STAY OFF THIS BLOG UNTIL YOUR BIRTHDAY! Please.

Poem starter:

The lovely Kass, so fair of face,
Exudes a state of natural grace.
But while she shares with us a grand felicity,
There's also that spark of raw electricity.

Come on, bloggers! Party for Kass over at Limes' place.

In my ears right now:

Something that charmed me: The notion of celebrating a special friend in an unusual way, and inviting others to join me.

Some photo credits: Kass, herself.

Dispatch from the Front Lines (Through an Interpreter)

I've been asked to play Charlie McCarthy to the Badger's Edgar Bergen. He's off at the first race of the season, the onerous Boulevard Road Race. From the requisite shanty racing weekend motel, he was able to post to his blog last night, but this morning the internet connection flits in and out like a small rodent popping in and out of its hole. He's tried to e-mail, he's tried to post to his blog and he's tried to comment on this blog, all to no avail. The reader should know he has thoroughly enjoyed the poetic tribute in my last post and he will be commenting to all the contributers either when he can get his words out of Boulevard or when he returns to Las Vegas. In the meantime, he has asked me to post an update and the race results once we know them this evening.

The cyclist's own accounting of his passion for road racing should not be missed and his blog is replete with writing about cycling in general and some very specific races. I am not a cyclist. I am an observer of his preoccupation as I am an observer of all things human. But I know about cycling and races and the equipment and the garb. I know what 53:11 means and I know the ins-and-outs of embrocations because I pay attention. If it's important to him, it's important to me.

A year ago this weekend he raced at Boulevard for the first time. He did not possess the confidence he has earned over last race season. Conditions there were miserable the entire weekend and he sent an e-mail from his BlackBerry at the starting line. "*#&!, it's snowing and sticking to the ground." 380 miles away, I was his support team. I could see the gun would go off in three minutes. I knew how deeply he'd had to reach within himself to even be on that starting line. I had to reach deeply within myself to take a hard stance with him, likely the only time I've ever done it. I e-mailed back:"You know what to do!" He rode that race and during it he had his epiphany that formed his training program over the past year: he doesn't lose races on the climbs, he loses them on the descents partly due to his fear of the fast downhills. He was 59 years old, riding in a group of age 45+ riders in a field where people were dropping like flies. The rain and snow rained and snowed. Riders weren't properly dressed for it and had to pull out. He finished 14th in his category. He was the last cyclist to complete the race. The photo is him at Boulevard in 2009. It must have been early in the race, because there is daylight. When he finished, it was almost completely dark.

Fast forward to the 2010 event. Last year, rain was pretty much guaranteed, with the mostly likely precipitation predicted for the time he'd be on the race course. Ditto today. 30% chance at 11:00 a.m., 80% chance at 1:00 p.m. when he goes off and throughout the afternoon. Last year the radar showed a massive wall of water aimed at San Diego County. Check! Same thing today. There are mudslide warnings, with a chance the crumbling, ancient race course road will be mud slicked. A few minutes ago he e-mailed from the start: "Pouring." I sent back my hard line statement. "You know what to do." Earlier this morning, in one e-mail he told me, "I feel compelled to go do this whatever the conditions are now." I like observing a mad dog.

So for those who like the minutiae: On his skin he's applied a double layer of Mad Alchemy's medium embrocation for some protection against the rain and cold. There is nothing medium about this stuff - it is hell for hot. He's wearing 3 underlayers beneath last year's Paramount Racing Club kit and knee warmers. He has put on his red Assos jacket and topped it off with his rain jacket. On his head he wears the cycling cap I gave him as a Solstice gift and his helmet. When he mounts up, he'll be in the saddle on his favored Cervelo R3 upon which he has put rain tires.

Phone call from the starting line, 29 minutes to go: He's all checked in and has given my phone number in the event of emergency. He holds the phone up to the roof of the car so I can hear the pounding rain. It sounds like rocks hitting the roof! His fellow cyclist, John Rubcic, has just gone by on a motorcycle (he's doing rider support this race). Rubcic is soaked to the skin and reports that the road has running streams of water throughout. In some places the water is deep enough to have come up through the cattle guards. The Badger is watching a rider out the window. The man sits in the saddle in cycling shorts, a jersey and arm warmers - nothing against the rain and nothing on his legs. Incredibly, given his lack of attention to weatherproofing himself, he's got shoe covers on. I guess he values the shoes. "So are you going, Badger?" He says he'll start the race and weigh it lap by lap. "Can I do anything for you?" He asks me to check the hour-by-hour weather and the radar. Serendipity! When the gun goes off, there is 100% chance of thunderstorms. However, by 2:00, there's only a 75% chance of light rain and by 3:00 and 4:00 it says "cloudy". The radar shows the storm is breaking up somewhat. If he can get through the first hour or two without mishap or hypothermia . . . my computer says 1:01 p.m. He's off!

Now I pace or work distractedly for 4 or 4 1/2 hours or maybe 5. When he dismounts, he'll have to wipe down the bike and put it in the car, wipe down himself and put himself in the car, and then the phone call will come. I already have some interview questions sketched out. I'll update this post as soon as I can and we'll have it in his words when he finally busts out of Boulevard.

At the (at least) halfway point: 3:00 p.m. No phone call announcing emergency. No phone call from him to say he has had to pull the plug. The radar looks significantly better, although the hour-by-hour says it's still raining. Two hours into it. Up to two hours left to complete it. The speed will certainly have been affected by bad road conditions. No way to guess how much it has slowed the pace.

He's had to pull the plug - 3:40 p.m.: He is not hurt, nor is the bike. He made two laps - 45 miles. The wind and rain were so remarkable he barely had his wits about him to speak of it. More details on his blog or here when he gets warm and dry.

In my ears right now: The Rolling Stones. Start Me Up. Good starting line music. Good music to which to pace quickly (and dance just a little).

Something that charmed me: He called on me to help get his story and experience out. I found I knew how to tell about a cycling race. I like both of those things.

I Don't Know Much, But I Know Whom I Like

A friend/loved one and I talk fairly often about the what attracts a person to another person. Why are we drawn to some human beings but not to others? Why do we form bonds with some that last across a difficult lifetime, while we make and end relationships with some others without much fanfare? I don't know the answers to any of it. I just know that the topic which fascinates me perhaps more than any other is . . . . connecting with others. If you've read me, you likely already know that. I feel connected to some people I don't actually know and I don't feel connected to some people to whom I am related. I feel connected to some public figures and indifferent to some I know quite well. I feel connected to some people who lived in different eras, different countries. And I am intrigued and curious about whether the connection will occur every time I interact in some way with some new person. I find I can connect with another over something we have in common or mutually understand, even if that's the only place we connect. I don't have a need to connect at every level. I can be pretty fascinated by and drawn to narrow slices of "other human".

I feel connected to John Lennon. Intensely connected. He is an idol, one might say. Today would have been his 69th birthday, except he was murdered in 1980. On paper, it may seem an odd connection. I was 11 and he was 23 when he glowed into my presence for the first time in shades of gray from the black and white TV. It was a February Sunday in 1964. He wasn't the cutest of the four. As the world learned more about him than he wanted us to know, I felt more connection. Of course I never met him. So his cigarette smoke didn't offend me and his snarling treatment (reportedly) of some people didn't affect me. He seems to have been a remarkably poor husband and father in his first marriage, but he wasn't my husband or father. What affected me was the music, the poetry, the sharp wit, the way that he spoke out loud about the things he was for and against. What affected me was the incredible pain he suffered as a young man. He was extremely sensitive and had few coping skills for enduring that pain. He was strong enough to scream out about his pain through his art for his entire life. I understand that. I can relate to that. There is the connection.

I am intensely connected to the Badger who rides the last race of the season in 25 minutes. As he ate his shitty, free Sugar Frosted Flakes, the e-mails were flying back and forth. "Butterflies, Badger? I don't sense them." He replied that there were no butterflies this time and he had a sound strategy. To some, he may simply seem an old guy with a passion for the bike. Not so remarkable. Others might think he is a mighty cycling warrior who happens to turn 60 in a couple of weeks. But I know the obstacles he has had to overcome to live his dream. I know what the voices (those of other people, and the ones in his head) said to hold him back. I know the reasons he sometimes threw his hands in the air and said "Screw it." I know the emotional muscles he had to develop to allow himself to go after what he wanted so desperately. And isn't that a most beautiful human story? Who could not want to cheer out loud for such a man? A man who kicked down obstacles, saying "I will go for this. I will approach it both logically and emotionally. At this, I will succeed." And he has. And he continues. I understand that. I can relate to that. I applaud that. There is the connection.

In my ears right now: John Lennon singing "Watching the Wheels". We didn't hear it until after his death. Double Fantasy came out posthumously. It contains some of his best and truest work. I'll be playing John all day, I am sure. I'm wearing the T-shirt today, too.

Something that charmed me: A customer booked a job online and I heard the e-mail land. Another goofy Las Vegas street name has shown itself. Tomorrow home dudes will be cleaning carpet on Timid Tiger Street. I guess they won't need to worry about being gored!

Something else that charmed me: The e-mail from the starting line. "Ready to go. They're starting us all together - ages 50 through 69." Go take your First Place, Badger. You've worked hard for it. May John Lennon ride on your shoulder like a guardian angel. Your fervent fan, LimesNow.

What the Hell is the Matter with People (Chapter 1)?

I usually find it hard to return to work after an absence. Reentry is highly overrated. One's daily rhythms have changed and one feels a bit out of sorts getting back into the routine. I'm no different from anyone else in that way, but I've found it far more difficult this week than at almost any other time I can remember. By noon Monday I'd been beaten up on the phones so severely, I went to the sanctuary of David's office doorway to say, "The personality of the general public didn't improve a bit while I was away." He grinned his big, slow David smile and said, "Well, no, and you were unavailable to take their calls for a week, so now they're even more angry." Yep.

A segment of my life that I savor is watching how people behave. I am fascinated by the people immediately surrounding me and the people who accost me on the phone and the people who do lovely things that no one else will ever know about. I'm interested in the people I see on the bus stop and those who walk out in the predawn every day like I do and in the homeless man who sleeps behind our office building and bathes with the hose and soap and towels we are careful to leave out there for him. I am strongly pulled to elderly persons and I like young people like the home dudes. I'm strongly opinionated after long study, and I feel certain that most people treat others either very well or very poorly in a given situation, with not many behaving middle-of-the-road.

In my workplace, we all love Sonia Sotomayor's soundbite, "Reasonable people can disagree." David has printed it and posted it in many vantage points in his world. He wants to remind himself of it at every opportunity. The trouble is, in my opinion, there just aren't all that many reasonable people out there. Those who try to behave reasonably probably get steamrolled often, become bitter and snap back once in awhile. Those who are unreasonable would seem to feed their own frenzy by the frequency with which they go off, thereby drawing more negative energy.

I would claim to you that when I drive past a train wreck, I don't like to look, but I invariably look, so maybe I should rethink my claim. I purposely watch people interact, and then I go into my reverie about why those people just did what they did or said what they said. I'm afraid I walk around looking either startled or dreamy a lot. One should try the people-studying thing. You may never land on a solid answer to "why do they do that?" but the ride will be thrilling!

I am drawn to the blog written by The Old Bag. I am not a cyclist, but I have a good understanding of cyclists, follow a few, get their language and get what's important to them as relates to their cycling. This woman is fun to follow, because she is sharp and creative and has the skill of saying much with few words. What pulls me the most are her posts expressing exuberance about something that happened on the ride or during some other outdoor pursuit. She is passionate about her time on the bike which she propels with her body, which emits no noxious fumes, which makes no noise, which takes up little room on the road. Her mantra is "Please, after you." Yet she draws rude comments from young, dweeby male cyclists, stopped for a rest as she powers past them, to the effect that her male companion might have to slow down for her to catch up. And she has to watch out for her life and limb every time she rides, because motorists will edge and challenge for road space.

It is much the same for The Badger who describes a day on the bike in the best zip code in our city where the residents would be Las Vegas' best educated, with the highest income and the most likely to have some fitness routine - wouldn't you expect them to respect the cyclist? Of course, he has also been paintballed and shot in the streets on his bike, so Friday's little skirmishes are likely anticlimactic, even though he grouses about them. Flipped off and bunny hopping the curb aren't the worst things he's endured.

The puzzle for me is this: OK, nobody is required to love cyclists in their funny outfits on their odd looking bikes. But what is it about them that draws such aggression? Where we live, road rage and aggression are rampant. Motorists don't want to share the road with other motorists. But put a cyclist or a pedestrian in the mix and the stakes are raised. As a long-distance walker, I have my own stories to tell and have sometimes had to sit on the curb almost ill after a near miss. At least two disagreeing drivers are somewhat well matched in their cars. What is it that cranks up the heat when some drivers see "competition" in the form of a human being unprotected by any armor? Simple bullying at work? Predator and prey? People who feel so small about themselves that they have to crush other people to feel a little larger? I've already said, the answer is hard to find. We don't have enough information about the other players. But I'll share an anecdote in closing.

It was late afternoon on New Year's Eve and we'd shared a great walk with lots of invigorating conversation. It was still light enough that the cars didn't need their headlights. We entered a crosswalk. On the other side of the street, preparing to make a right-hand turn, was a mammoth SUV. We know what to watch for. She'd likely make that turn before we finished crossing, so we needed to pace ourselves. We watched her. She didn't jump, so we stepped it up a little bit to clear the crosswalk. Ten steps from the curb, we heard her engine start to accelerate. We looked up to see her looking over her shoulder for oncoming traffic, talking animatedly on her cell phone, and accelerating - perhaps that phone call caused her pedal foot too much excitement. We couldn't jump backwards into the busy street. My knees went weak and I wasn't sure I'd make it all the way to the curb. The Badger leapt into action, snatching me by the arm, pulling me onto the curb. What he did next was pretty remarkable. He leapt into the air as if he were a frog, not a badger, and flat-hand smacked the passenger side window, startling the passenger who also seemed not to have noticed us. He let fly with some good plain language in a very loud voice [one might say he shouted] and we staggered a few yards away to where we planted our arses against a block wall and hyperventilated.

We could hear the woman's SUV as she made the turn and it seemed she had slowed down quite a bit. The gas pedal was probably not floored. She was pulling up near us, so I began to compose myself, because if she apologized - as it seemed she was about to - I wanted to say "OK, but please - be careful. Watch the crosswalks. Put down the cell phone. Ask your passenger to be your co-pilot. We were about 30 seconds from being killed beneath your tires." When her mighty war wagon came to a complete (illegal) stop in the bike lane and the window was completely down, she leaned across the passenger and delivered her message: "Potty mouth!" They roared off toward the fine, exciting mall on the fun, exciting Las Vegas Strip as we dragged ourselves to my home for dinner where we both were rather subdued . . . . .


In my ears right now: Bloomsbury and Benson Bird chirping their heads off. One could take a lesson from them. No matter how nasty everyone is, they're happy all the time. But then, they are birdbrains!

Something that charmed me: An e-mail I received that was so lovely and welcomed, though simple. "Good night, Limes. I'm looking forward to seeing you." Don't we all want to have someone whose eyes light up at the thought of getting together? Connecting with others is what it's all about for me. I think I'll brew us some really special coffee to share.

Skull Valley II ~ The Badger's Revenge

Race day - up early. The Badger is quiet. Not unpleasant, but very busy in his head. We have certain luxuries this time. I flirted outrageously with the 90-year-old motel clerk the day before and got us a late checkout. We can return to the room after the race and the Badger can take a real shower before our long drive home. The free continental breakfast was decent. We always carry our own good coffee. No rain to deal with. Let's go!

About half way to Skull Valley, he muttered, "I wish we'd left a little earlier." When we pulled into the road where all the cyclists park, it was clear that this year's event was much better attended than last. I finally parked illegally and let him out to get ready and to warm up. He rolled away and it was very close to his starting time. I didn't know if he'd get back to me with the answer to the $64 million question. He did! "Limes, no personal follow vehicles this year. Just ride on out to the turn-around and I'll see you there." I was disappointed about that, but remembered he told me last year, "Your maiden voyage is the best it will ever get. I've never even heard of personal follow vehicles in a road race."

My 27+ mile drive was fairly uneventful, but I was watching the course carefully. At the starting line, I noticed far more racers in his 50+/60+ group than had been registered earlier. The finish line and 1 Km marker were highly visible and there were flags and banners that hadn't appeared last year. The road had been cleared of much of the rocks and gravel left by the previous day's storms - a good thing. I drove slowly, I sang poorly but loudly and I watched racers. I watched the Prius getting 100 mpg for part of the drive and pondered that. Maybe because of the increased number of competitors, or maybe for no good reason, I saw a lot of flats happen - official neutral cars pulling over to assist the unfortunates. Way too close to the turn-around, on that sharp descent, there was a crash with several broken-up bikes in the road, cyclists down, and one young man banged up and bleeding pretty badly.

This time, the turn-around was well marked, manned by plenty of volunteers, showing multiple orange cones. Still so narrow the racers weren't going to get through by very many more than two-by-two. I had to roll quite a way in order to park the car and position myself for the water hand-up. Finally I spotted a large wash I could run in while handing up. I tucked the Prius away, got out, stretched, felt the sun . . . . there weren't too many people crowding me. I'd left the biggest group behind. Farther along in this wash was a really young woman with a lot of water bottles at her feet. She was a race volunteer and would hand up to anyone who needed water. It's been said that Limes could talk to a dead snake and the snake would talk back to her. It's also been said that Limes has never met a stranger. I moseyed on over . . she's a 22-year-old triathlete from Tucson and her boyfriend was riding in the race. I told her about the Badger, we spoke of cycling in general and I told her about my walking and why I do it. It would be fair to say we were simpatico!

She didn't have to watch for anyone. Her boyfriend wouldn't come by for a long time as his race was more than 80 miles. I needed to pay attention to time, because the Badger had reminded me how fast the first half of this course is. I watched her handing up water and she nailed it every time. The problem was her delivery method. "Ummm, excuse me, Grasshopper, but why don't you run when you hand up?" "Oh, I was taught to do it this way." Her form was to grasp the bottle with all 5 fingers across the top - leaving the cyclist more bottle surface to grab. She held her arm out straight, but loose. When the cyclist grabbed, her arm was pushed forward - she didn't resist the movement. And she was delivering 100% of the time. "Well!" thought I.

He announced his approach by bopping me with his empty from across the highway as he descended. It hit my knees and rolled away, but I can read "Pro-Cyclery" upside down and in motion. I quickly asked cutie Tri-Ath if she'd hold one out for him, too, since I didn't have a good track record with this. "Sure! Tell me what he's wearing." When the pack took the turn-around I spotted him from quite a distance. I had him picked out! I was going to do it cutie Tri-Ath's way and if I missed, she wouldn't. The only thing wrong with that plan was that nobody clued in the Badger on his bike. "Run, Limes, run!" he shouted. To my mortification, I couldn't run. The hill was right on me. The car blocked me. He was swooping down on me. I tried Tri-Ath's way and he missed it. I noticed her hand was empty but she wasn't happy - someone else got it.

Running for the car, I quickly came up on the pack and I saw him strong on the climb. I knew he was setting the pace - it was obvious. He was out of the saddle and unlike during some parts of last year's race, he was not hanging with road toads. He was leading this pack, on his feet in the pedals and he made me think of a mighty warrior. I got choked up watching him. In the year that had passed, he went from very little confidence to "come on, I'll lead this parade!" I could see it. I didn't have to hear him say a word.

I drove ahead and picked a good spot to park so he'd see the Prius first. I went far ahead of it on foot and picked a section of highway where I could run like the wind when I saw him. When they came into view I started to run slowly, arm extended. I could hear them approach and I ran faster. I heard a racer say, "Let the man through, he's being handed up water." I knew they were giving him his propers for pulling them up the hill! It's hard to run and hand up water when one's throat is constricting from emotion, but I did this. I could feel the rush of air from his bike and he masterfully grabbed that bottle. "Good one, Limes! Thanks!"

There wasn't much left for me to do now. I got in immediately behind the official follow vehicle for the 50+/60+ and stayed on its bumper for a lot of miles. I saw the team shenanigans the Badger blogged about and realized he wasn't going to be able to turn the race into the scorcher it could have been if there had not been so many resistors. OK, so be it. He remained strong, on the front, often setting the pace. He and another racer worked together and looked like skilled young men showing the others how to do it. It happens that there were continual flats and breakdowns. The official vehicle pulled off a lot. I'm rather big on community service, so when the vehicle pulled off, I stayed behind the pack with my flashers blinking. When the vehicle came back to the pack, I immediately let it in and returned to "regular citizen". The driver waved and nodded at me repeatedly. He didn't give the appreciation the sheriff's reserves showed last year, but I took it that he was pleased with the teamwork.

Until he wasn't any longer. The finish line was within view. I ducked my head a little to watch the Badger fly across, no errant red car threatening him this time. He easily had first in his category. I saw it for myself. When I straightened up, Mr. Official Follow Vehicle hung his head out of his window, looked back at me and bellowed,"This isn't a spectator sport - you're making it dangerous on the road for the cyclists!" Huh? I guess my little head dipping beneath the steering wheel freaked the man out, and I felt truly chastised. I maintained good balance - no smart-mouth - and drove to the meet-up area.

Quickly we zoomed into Prescott, the Badger showering while I decamped us. We stopped for a sandwich and headed back out toward Skull Valley. The hosting club was still packing it up, and the Badger was able to get his official placing and his trophy plaque. And that's when the driver of the official follow vehicle spotted me. He came over to give me the (gentle) business. I was respectful, but held my own. I wondered why he was apparently so happy out on the road to have my assistance, but now was spanking me in front of the other organizers. All of the organizers insisted I had been no one's personal follow vehicle in 2008, because that was never allowed. The Badger looked at the old gent who told him in '08 that he could have a personal follow vehicle, but said gent looked at the ground and remained silent. Brown eyes looked into blue eyes and said, "Let's get out of here and go to the place we live where everyone is full of b.s. and no one tries to deny it."

Driving home, I could see him start to sag. "Want me to drive, Badger?" "Oh, maybe after awhile." "Want to just go on home after you drop me, Badger, no dinner together?" "OK, maybe. You won't feel badly?" "No." "What about your birthday presents?" "You could come in for 5 minutes, never sit down, and watch me open them." "OK. I could use your bathroom, too." "OK, Badger. It was a great weekend!"

In my ears right now: "This isn't a spectator sport . . . . " Um, it is to me, home dude.

Something that charmed me: