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.

Godspeed - Wind at Your Back, Wings on Your Wheels

Here's a challenge and an invitation to anyone who may read my blog this weekend. It's official! The cycling racing season has opened. The cyclist is driving toward the first and most grueling race of the year in inglorious weather conditions. He is old and he is admirable, having worked liked a man possessed to start this season exponentially better prepared than for last season. He tells his story best, in his own words on his own blog, so I won't belabor the details. As he rolls toward Boulevard, an idea occurred to me.

I believe the readers, followers and commenters who visit my pink bus are each gifted with words, brains, humor and good hearts. I'd like you to help me out with some words. This man deserves a party! Let's cobble a poem or a cheer or a prayer ~ whatever it turns out to be ~ to rah! the man to the finish line.

I'm putting out the first two lines. We need a title and a couple of lines from anyone who will play. Please simply drop your lines into comments and I'll gather and post them as received. For those interested, he starts the race at 1:00 p.m. PST on Saturday, February 6th. He'll be finished by 5:00 p.m., all things being equal. Check the race flyer in the link. This one is not for the faint of heart and was completed in snow last year.

Here it is, quite likely complete now, but if anyone would like to add a verse, please do that in the comments.

THE CHARGE OF THE BIKE BRIGADE
(Title courtesy of Kirk Jusko)

Esteemed gods of the velocipede, [Leslie]
Guide the man and his mighty steed [Leslie]
And thrust him to an early lead. [Erin O'Brien]

Blunt the pins [Bloomsbury]
So they won't tear [Bloomsbury]
The fine rain jacket he plans to wear. [Benson]

May the rains be gone [A1 Carpet Care home dudes]
And the winds be light
To help him in his mighty fight.

Against wet chill [Leslie]
Lend embrocation.
Provide the man with his salvation.

When he meets his foes, [Sluggo]
Whether old or new,
Remind the man what he can do.

In the long, steep climbs [David]
May he have no peer,
Leaving others to suffer bringing up the rear.

Smooth his way so [Virginia Woolf]
Each technical descent [Virginia Woolf]
Is cause for pride and not lament. [Dylan]

The Badger launches another year, [WheelDancer]
Rain shoes spinning on his good wheels.
The field cowers, deep in fear
By day's end they'll know how defeat feels.

To the finish line, [SOMH]
Safe and sound,
There to find awards abound.

Awards are nice, but he'll want a squeeze. [Doozyanner]
Limes will say, "Will you shower please?"
"Then we'll go to celebrate
Your glorious finish on this red letter date!"

He placed his foot upon the pedal [Kirk Jusko]
And told himself, "I'll win that medal!"
The wheels, they will turn,
The rubber, it will burn.
"I'll ride my bike so damn fast,
That every racer whom I pass,
When they realize they have no chance,
Will wonder if my first name's Lance!"

When all the race is said and done, [Rachel Fenton]
there's always a latecomer,
one whose wheels cuss last across that line
and though no one remains to cheer him
his praises are sung in hearts he cannot hear
even if he could see them
in the rain and snow and wind
one heart sings more loudly than the loss
one victory cannot be won because it's given.

Prologue from a true, ordained Dudeist Priest:

67 miles he'll count, when all is said and done.
First to the finish, safe and sound, when all is said and done.
"You know what to do" she'll say, when all is said and done.
Ride on Badger, ride on.
For the half a million miles you'll count, when all is said and done.
When I'm dreaming, I will be the man who's riding behind you.


In my ears right now: Sorry to confess it, folks, it's still "Hallelujah" by the Norwegian choir of young male angels.

Something that charmed me: The notion of asking others to ring in as co-writers of some piece of tribute.

Reprise: Rough Day at the Office, Dear?

Although this one included no dead bodies, it was a fairly stressful day at the desk for awhile.

We are grand communicators and have been so for many, many years. We engage in light banter and deadly serious discussions in which we solve all the problems of the universe. There are dashes of laughter, tears, encouragement and barking at one another when called for. We use the telephone, blogs (our own and those of others), face to face, and the BlackBerry. We each read the other's face with almost 100% accuracy. Our messages to one another can range from "I came across this online ~ follow the link." to "Dammit, find my Tupperware and baking dishes and return them all!" Most days start with some contact sandwiched between my pre-dawn miles walking and his early cycling. "Hey, it's cold." "Yeah, but dry!"

Following the most wonderful and astutely planned 24-hour camping trip, we'd dished back and forth for some 36 hours. The last e-mail exchange had been warm, friendly, close . . . normal. He is strategizing for a cycling race of great importance to him. I cheer loudly and offer advice, though I am not a cyclist. "How's your lab imaging project going?" "Are the phones ringing? Are you booking jobs?"

I heard the e-mail hit and saw it was from him, but I was busy. Some 40 minutes later, I opened it. It was short and succinct. Three words, precisely. "F*#k you bitch" No period at the end of the sentence. Now, I must say I know these words and many other hard, plain arrows of assault and insult. That phrase (in one form or another, a little lighter or a little heavier) has even been tossed at me from time to time. But not by him. He doesn't speak to me that way. When that cowboy and I wrangle, it is done with civil language. We attempt to be productive in our anger.

To say I was shocked does not begin to tell the story. I (literally) physically recoiled, placing my hands on the edge of the desk and pushing my chair backward. I felt gut-kicked. My brain tried to take the wheel, suggesting "Look again. This can't be happening." I leaned forward and peered at the open e-mail on my monitor. Yes, it definitely was from him. There was our full string of e-mails throughout the morning, one after another, culminating in "F*#k you bitch". I'm pretty quick on my feet, even when shocked, so I popped back a short "Why in the world would you send me an e-mail to say "F*#k you bitch"? Why?" I pushed back the chair and churned. I only had to wait three minutes.


My BlackBerry announced incoming and I felt a light wave of relief even before opening the e-mail. Now I'd find out what on earth was going on and try to address it. I opened the e-mail expecting some words of explanation. It said, "Because it is true". WTF? [You see, I can use that word, too!] I fired off another e-mail saying, "What on earth is happening? Please tell me what is going on." And I heard back n-o-t-h-i-n-g.

David walked by my desk, got a look at my face and did a double-take. "What's happened?" I choked out a request for him to hold down the fort for awhile and went out onto the deck. I called the number programmed into my BlackBerry and it immediately rolled to voicemail. That's OK, I've got another number or two I can try. He answered his cell phone and sounded pretty pleased to hear from me. Normal voice, "Hi, what's up?" I lit into that man in a way I'd be embarrassed to describe. "Why would you send me an e-mail like that?" He was baffled. "Like what? What has upset you so?" I proceeded to explain that most women would not enjoy receiving a message of "F*#k you bitch". "What?! I didn't do that and I wouldn't do that!"

I am not in the habit of yelling "Liar!" at this man. He's never behaved in a way that would require that of me. Instead, I said, "Well, then your BlackBerry has elected to send me nasty-grams on its own." He asked me to wait a moment while he looked at his e-mail account. I could hear his fingers clacking on the keyboard. "My god. What in the hell?" All right, reader, I know this man. He is unsuccessful when he attempts to fool me. But he wasn't even trying in this instance. I could tell he was utterly confounded. I could sense he was scrolling through the offensive e-mail and then it struck him. "Hey, where's my BlackBerry?" Uh-oh. Yes. Missing on a high school campus.

We both sprang into action. He called his service provider and arranged to halt service. I sent an e-mail to his account saying, "You're pretty funny. We also have good humor. We'll pay a reward for the BlackBerry." There was no reply to that e-mail and the BlackBerry is likely in the trash now that it no longer works. The rest of the story is anticlimactic except that the loud, objectionable girls who found and used the device called Mother Badger in Arizona and gave her some snarky talk. Mother Badger was a school teacher whose gaze could melt the sneakers off an 8-year-old boy's feet. I'm sure she handled her encounter with these girls better than I handled mine.

The reader may think, "Hmmm, OK, man loses BlackBerry. Why is that news?" Well, that's not the gist of my post, favored reader. Those who have joined me on the bus from time to time may realize I am a flawed person with all the disorders one might expect from someone who walked my exact path in life. I've got "stuff" going on. But I work at my "stuff". Pretty much daily. Diligently. And the payoff for that is good. You see, I like learning new things. When something isn't working for me, I try something new. Many times I learn some new good thing I can apply to other situations, thereby proving that old dogs can learn new tricks. Still finding my way along at age 57.

So what did I do differently this time? I didn't let the fear rule me. I took the wheel away from Fear. Of course, I was upset. Anyone would be. And of course, I immediately did all I could to reach him, because it was reasonable to ask, "Hey, what gives?" But instead of deciding that really was his horrible intended message to me and jumping off the deck, I investigated. When I spoke to him on the phone, I listened to him carefully. As I listened, I knew right away that he was baffled because I relied upon what I know about him. It's called trust. There was no plot afoot to fling me into the fiery depths of hell. He wasn't finally showing his evil hand after fooling me for 42 years that he is a good man. It was simply that his property was lost, found and used to make mischief. I think I handled this the way pretty much any healthy person would have. I think I can do it again in other situations. It puts me in mind of something he once said to me: "Fear is not having enough information."

In my ears right now: I liked it then, I like it now.

Something that charmed me: I had a few hours to kill as I drove east toward Nevada and the cyclist rode my precise route, miles behind. The plan was for me to park at the agreed upon mile marker and put some miles on my carcass in the desert where I could be seen from the highway at all times. I did that, but hey! I had a camera and I was going to pass through the burg of Tecopa, CA, population 99 in the 2000 census, and I know how to have fun. Tecopa has no gas station, no convenience store, few residences. It has a school and a hot springs and here, in out-of-the-way Tecopa, can be found the Promise Land. I didn't go in. I was desert sweaty and I had hat-hair. I thought I may be a little too "big city" for the sensibilities of those 99 citizens of Tecopa. But I surely enjoyed walking around and taking in the ambience.

Contemplation and Moonfire

I'm a bit scattered. I want to write about some things I'm experiencing, but the words don't come. I want to complete Chapter 2 of The Field Trip but it feels a little burdensome. I'm processing some grief and other of life's delights, so I took a solitary walk in the desert and had a come-to-Jesus with myself over some things that need attention. My recent bereavement reminded me that life is short and we can get whammed by a freight train when we least expect it. "So what are you waiting for, Les? An engraved invitation? Stir yourself!"

I'll ask the reader's indulgence if I skip around for awhile in my writing. One of the things I reminded myself among the creosote, cholla and scrub is that I am not and cannot be perfect at anything. I need to stop trying to be that. It saps my energy. And I reminded myself that I'd better laugh - hard and out loud - every day. For if I don't, I might as well throw myself on my sword and be done with it.

Last Friday, I was pretty entranced by the coming of the Wolf Moon, the first and biggest full moon of the year. When I left the office in the evening, I stepped out onto the deck and gasped. On the second floor, I felt I was at the same altitude as that moon. It was the largest I've ever seen, and I felt close to its surface - zoomed in. It glowed golden, not at all silvery, almost like a harvest moon. And the news article was right - one could easily see the various topographical features on that golden ball. I hoped there would be a repeat performance the following night when I was to be in the desert.

In camp at night, I enjoy sitting beside a woodfire, watching closely from the first match strike until sand is finally shoveled onto the embers before retirement into the tent. I situate my chair so close to the fire ring there is sometimes some concern I may burn myself up. I bend over and put my face close to study the changes in the wood and the flames and the undulations of the embers, rather like a lava lamp. Sometimes I say out loud that I'd like to touch parts of it because it is so beautiful. No, I don't actually touch it and no, I was not a firestarter as a child. I'm just drawn to it. Challenge to the reader: describe fire in a way that a blind person could "see" it.


The desert is often breezy and that does not bode well for campers sitting beside a fire. One can be seated in her preferred spot, and when the wind shifts, she gets a face full of wood smoke. Not pleasant. I am much admired in some quarters for my ability to yank up my sling-seat chair, lap robe, assorted items in my lap and place myself 180-degrees around the fire ring in one smooth move. Without upsetting one drop of my drink.

Saturday, the hike and dinner completed, it was time to start the fire. The moonglow came up above the mountaintop, round and huge and silver, the beautiful older sister getting ready to go out with her beau. The wolf moon that followed was small and distant, partially obscured by clouds and dull, not glowing. It put me in mind of the younger brother, watching from behind the curtains. A fine photograph was made at the same time I fiddled with my funky point-and-shoot. I might also add I don't know anything about night photography. My camera didn't even detect the clouds. But I was having fun seated beside my fire, warm and fascinated by that moon. I was also not brooding about painful things. So above, from my camp chair, is my shot of the wolf moon.

And here is my shot of the wolf moon just as the breeze shifted. No, I didn't gather myself and shoot 180-degrees counterclockwise. I suffered the smoke and got the shot!

In my ears right now: It's the seeming 467th cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah". This is a very different interpretation and quite beautiful, I think. Sorry, embedding is disabled, but it's worth the trip if the song appeals to the reader.

Something that charmed me: Mother Badger e-mailed me a wealth of good information, ideas and methods of dealing with grief. One may be well known, but I'd never heard of it. One puts a rubber band around her wrist. When the emotional pain is such that one needs a little break, she snaps the rubber band, exchanging a physical twinge for the emotional one. I ran to my desk immediately upon receiving the e-mail. I'm pretty red and welted. My coworkers think that is a pretty funny bracelet, but I must say it does divert my attention when I need that.

Frig's Day (Friday's Old English Name)

That's surely how it friggin' feels to me. It's been a hard week. I began it with a flight to another state to make a visit at a hospice. I didn't care for it much. It took something away from me. I left something behind. It staggered me badly enough that I walked obsessively on Tuesday. The reader doesn't need to how many miles or the damage it did to my feet. One's obsessions can be embarrassing. Let's just say I was trying to walk away from the pain and there was much pain to walk away from. Newsflash: it does not work to try to walk away from pain. The pain just rides on one's shoulder.

Some bloggers mourned the passing of Simmons, Salinger and Zinn during the week. I did, too. Mourning them made me put aside my personal mourning. I didn't want to think about that death any more. Much easier to handle grief over public figures we never really knew. I'm reminded again of the futile way I try to handle loss. Every time. I am stuck on stupid. You see, I always want to do something. "Do something like what, Les? Bring him back from the dead, for instance?" I talked to a counselor who told me all the right things to do like experience the pain and then let go. No, no. This woman doesn't actually want to feel anything about this. Mother Badger sent an e-mail with love. I've been continuously supported in person, on the phone and in e-mails by those who care about me. And I just can't shake off the notion that I need to do something.

I thought to sit and write beautiful words - holy words, the most beautiful writing ever presented, this as a tribute to a man's life. But I sat up all night at the computer and learned I had a blockage. Constipation. I can't write holy words for him. I'm pretty empty of beautiful words. So I'll write some plain words. Plain words are OK, if they're given sincerely. Even if I can't build a shrine, I can make a little impromptu roadside memorial.

His life was filled with many challenges no human being should have to deal with. The ways he sometimes chose to deal with these things were not pretty ~ like during observance of the making of sausages and laws, one's gaze might have to have been averted a few times. I've never known another person who suffered such heartbreaking life events, and I believe the heart actually does break into pieces. His heart finally gave out and I think that is profound. Make no mistake about it, he had many lofty highs in life and people who loved him and successes that exceeded the sum of all of his parts. But I am sad that he is gone. He was younger than I. I wish him happiness, like everyone deserves to be happy. Happy, not dead.

When I saw him Sunday, he recognized me and told me he was glad that I came. Then he asked the $64 million question. The one I've run from for most of my life. "Were you ever really in love with me?" For the type of association he and I had, one would expect "in love" at least in some period of the relationship. I took a deep breath and I lied while looking directly into his deep brown eyes. And I saw peace, relief, maybe happiness, or maybe I even saw that intangible thing - love - cross his face. I have suffered this week from lying to him at that point in his life. I'll shoulder that. Because I didn't lie about feeling another form of love. He has that. I give it freely, in truth.

It is fortuitous. The camping date was already on the calendar. So I'll go and refuel and I'll be warm(er). I'll hike and scramble around finding rocks. I'll read and I'll think and I'll cry. I'll draw with my pencils and write in my journal and take (poor) photos. And when I come home, I'll go on. I'll post my silly Chapter 2 of The Field Trip and I'll work. I'll walk somewhat fewer miles and take care of the cats and the birds. I'll buy groceries and get the haircut I scuttled last weekend in favor of hospice. Something will surely charm me and I'll surely worry about booking enough jobs to support our little magic carpet ride. Because that's how life is.

In my ears right now:

Something that charmed me: I read this in the news and it made me feel calmer. "Tonight's full moon will be the biggest and brightest full moon of the year. It offers anyone with clear skies an opportunity to identify easy-to-see features on the moon.

This being the first full moon of 2010, it is also known as the wolf moon, a moniker dating back to Native American culture and the notion that hungry wolves howled at the full moon on cold winter nights. Each month brings another full moon name."

There's another kind of moon for you, Tag!