Boo!

Great party, Todd. Johnny ... sorry I threw a table at you. At least it was a small, light table. The nearly 3 hour walk home was enlightening. It's been a while since I had a long walk ... in a sheer dress, blonde wig and biking shoes on a 25 degree night. Mark E got great photos from the party. Fortunately, I'm not swiping them to share.

Angela and Sylvia prepare to carve pumpkins yesterday morning. Sylvia is wearing one of her favorite outfits -- no pants.

Sylvia is ready to hit the trick-o-treating town dressed as a pensive rabbit. She is just upset because she knows B Rose pulls off the bunny suit (scroll to 2/28) better than she does. Just ask Al Franken.

Mama Bear lights the lantern. Sylvia drew the mouth. She is already showing some Cubist tendencies. Afterward we hiked as a family over to Lyndale Farmstead Park. A volunteer staff set up the community center in prime Halloween style with games for the kids and treats like glow sticks, necklaces and bracelets. Oh, and some candy too. Coffee and pie for the parents. An inflatable jumpy ball-filled kid palace! On the way home Sylvia hit up a few houses. Still working on that "trick or treat" phrase. Very interested in eating candy between stops, though.

Happy All Hallow's Eve everyone!

Happy Anniversary

Again, catching up ... April and I had a date night in honor of our anniversary (Oct 16th) which we celebrated on Sat, Oct 13th. Date nights are always a fun adventure. When you spend so much of your time shackled (as a shackled couple) to a 2 yr old, there is inevitably some culture shock when you find yourselves as an autonomous unit, free from the demands of a little one. Our friends Chris and Amy were kind enough to take Sylvia for the evening and we were free to hit the town. The image above depicts just one of the many reasons I love April so much. (Hey, every couple has their weird things ... and I love you, Sweetie!)

Well, I thought I was doing something nice by snagging some free tickets to a play. Mistake #1 -- not a good idea to schedule date night too rigorously. April loves theater (and was a theater major at Macalester). But it became apparent we should not put too many demands on the evening. Instead, we decided to free-form it and start off with a good ol' fashioned "domestic." Once the smoke cleared, we were on our way to Namaste Cafe, owned and operated by our good Nepali friends Swadesh and Saujanya. They used to have a cozy place called Himalayan Chai at Franklin and Lyndale. April and I met there. Swadesh and Saujanya saw our love unfold, one cup of tea at a time. Dinner was phenomenal. Go to Namaste if you get the chance -- 2512 Hennepin. They sell fun trinkets, jewelry and quality imports from Nepal in the shop upstairs. They also sell the best bulk tea and chai you will ever have this side of Asia.

We left very full (Swadesh insisted on giving us a free dessert) and decided to walk a bit, ending up at a used bookstore and spending some money on books (the ones I bought anyway, I'll probably never have time to read -- some Sylvia Plathe, a Karl Marx reader and a bike repair book). My contribution to the evening was taking in the final big night of Oktoberfest at Gasthoff's in Northeast. We headed that way not knowing quite what to expect. Gasthoff's had a huge tent in the lot (about five tents actually) and a throng of people to rival a bad rock concert. Most of these folks were piss drunk. I was too humble to get pictures of the lines to the Biffy's, but standing in one for 15 minutes was quite the study in bad human behavior.

Long live the polka -- the easiest dance in the world to do while drunk. Neither April nor I was drunk and we didn't dance, which pissed off April a bit. Sorry, honey ... I blame it on the band. I was expecting some employees wandering around in authentic German garb. I was expecting a REAL polka band. I was expecting a dance floor larger than 10x15ft. Instead, it was bunch of drunk, working class suburbanites and a band with a polka beat belting out bad Billy Joel and Jimmy Buffett covers serenading a group of bad dancers packed like sardines onto a tiny plank surface in the corner of the tent. Geez! Once again, I aimed too high.

I did score a plastic Warsteiner boot -- perfect for traveling! It even has a lanyard for easy transport. It'll be perfect for our party this Saturday. (If by some misalignment of the stars I didn't invite you, you're welcome to attend ... FLECKTOBERFEST! Sat, Nov 3rd.)

Happy anniversary, April. Three years ... working on a lifetime.

Friends Pt. II

I was too drunk to remember where Dr. Neptar's lair was exactly. Somewhere around that time, too, I went to a party at Robbie and his girlfriend's house. Her name was Lisa. I remember she was hot in a 20 yr old hippy drifter observing a late 20-something yr old bohemian girl sort of way. She was too shy to full-monte into Dr. Neptar's hot tub with the rest of us. That was a fun night. I don't remember where we slept. On some couch somewhere I'm sure. Thinking back it's as if the nights, in my memory, never had an end. Like the wilderness bachelor party where we all got struck by lightning because we were sitting in a puddle beneath a tarp up Suck Creek Canyon. Only one blog reader may have the answers, the details -- the glue necessary to reassemble missing and broken pieces. I remember King Cobra in the Camelbak, prank calls, Timmy the Talking Truck, nude laps around the block, Sugar albums, crashing your Saab turbo, and building my first set of wheels under your guidance. Do you remember the Salsa pint glass you gave me years ago? I'm still drinkin' out of it. This sounds like a bad man-on-man personal ad. Maybe it is. What's wrong with a man loving another man? Thanks for turning me on to so much stuff, a lot of which is only now beginning to make sense.

For every "dark" side, there must be a "light" side I suppose. Of course, that is if one chooses to see things that way. Perhaps that's why I treasure this photo so much -- it reminds me of the struggle of trying to reconcile one stance against the other, the futility of believing that one view is better than another. (And symbolically Dave is in black, Stewart dressed in a coralish pink!) While Dave and friends were busy leading me down the road of mountain biking, loud music and tequila binges, Stewart was turning me on to the Dead, CSN, and generally feeding my tie-dye side. We had a lot of good talks (and we did our fair share of partying too). He helped me gain some perspective during the horribly rudderless times of one's 20s. Thanks for always telling me I had an old soul, Stew. The hikes and climbing trips we did are some of the fondest memories for me. Stewart's wife Kelley held my hair out of the toilet when I threw my first real party and got way ahead of my friends with consumption. They tucked me into bed and told the guests not to jump on me. (That admonishment did not save the hood of my Bug from being dented that night beneath someone's body weight.) Of course, my revenge will always be the salad incident, which I did not see (only lived secondhand over the phone), but still cannot think of without almost crying. And the common thread -- laughter. Genuine, healthy, belly-aching laughter. Jokes and fun and laughing at everything -- especially oneself. And perhaps the best gift Stewart ever gave me -- the phrase "I love you, bro." Stew was the first friend who always closed our visits, our conversations with that phrase.

Of course, there is no dark side and no light side -- at least not from where I view things. But it took a long time to realize that truism. Over Christmas 2005, April, Sylvia and I were lucky enough to take a long trip south again -- to visit my family and friends in Tennessee. We spent some time with David and Rosalie, my ex-wife Robin and her parents, and we stayed with David and his wife Sherrie, as well as having dinner with Stew and Kelley at their place. I've maintained regular contact off and on with Stewart, but hadn't seen Dave in years. Things weren't always smooth between us -- we both had our share of issues to explore that circumnavigate the boundaries of most friendships. The beautiful thing, I've discovered, is that if you leave some room a heartspace never seems to diminish. We popped in, parked a large, loud diesel dualie in their narrow drive, made some introductions and were off like old times. Almost as if we have more in common now actually.

Dave and Sherrie at Brewer's Jam in Knoxville.

Enough for this post. It's the fall -- it makes me wax philosophical. Soon it will be even darker and colder, friends. Best to find some warmth among kith and kin.

HFF 07: Festering Memories of Homies Falling

Here's what everyone cares about -- view photogs here.

Where to begin? The morning of Homey was a bit more hectic than I hoped it would be. This was directly related to the fact that I went to bed rather early the night before and was very much enjoying sleeping in. I was left Saturday morning with the responsibilities of getting Sylvia ready for the babysitter, digging out the Karate Monkey, packing, and finishing my costume. I was (surprise) an English country gentleman, an outfit which required nothing more than what I already had in my closet. Some mistook me for a golfer. These misguided folks I threatened to cast into the mighty Mississippi River, but I'd never really do that would I? (I should back up and clarify that I dressed as an English country gentleman; a friend yesterday reminded me that I did not necessarily act like an English country gentleman.)

Running late, I swerved by CRC Coffee for a quick caffeine fix and a Hot-n-Ready. I knew it would not be prudent to show up with an empty stomach and I would not have time to eat at Lyle's. B Rose was staffing the shop and the mood was so quiet and mellow (all the regulars off at Homey) that I entertained the idea of hanging out and taking in the peacefulness. All this running here and there sometimes makes me wonder why I have to perpetually be in a hurry to have fun. But off toward the madness I rolled.

Next I needed cash and beer. My canvas field bag (had to look the part) did not have the capacity of my full size posenger bag. Four Strongbow ciders, a 24oz Newcastle, helmet, flask and flat supplies had me maxed out. I crammed it all in and threaded my way through Uptown to Liquor Lyle's. I rolled up about 12:15. The sidewalk was already littered beyond capacity with Fall Festers.

The atmosphere was electric. You could tell this group had some serious potential for mayhem. I knew it would be a fun and eventful day. I mosied into the bar and signed in. I had time to sip a draft Newcastle before departure.

After a few highly enlightening introductory words from Sov (e.g. "We want you to get hurt, but we don't want you to die"), the 200+ riders rolled toward the Chain of Lakes and off into bike oblivion ...

Swanny floating on air ...

I'll spare too many details of the Midtown Greenway except that I am quite certain the myriad other trail users probably hated us. I know specifically one roller blader (who was quite quick on her skates -- thankfully) probably hates cyclists after the Bike Jerk himself nearly pulled a head-on and bounced her into my path. Smooth move. No one was hurt (... yet).

Sov won the first derby held at the Wells Fargo soccer field parking lot. Mad skilz that boy has for a flatlander. Farther east on the Midtown we pulled off at a baseball diamond for another derby and a round of drinks.

I offer a quick aside from one who is not usually found in the derby circle ... I want to derby, oh how do I want to derby. But I don't think it is the smartest thing to do on the heels of my concussion. That's my excuse and I feel better now that I put it out there. Secondly, I have a confession: I packed a helmet, but I did not wear it all day. I wore a tweed driving cap as part of my get up. Now, I have to admit, riding without a helmet is occasionally really fun. I see why motorcyclists like to go without and I can understand why some cyclists like to eschew the lid as well. But this creates a quandary because I am adamantly pro-helmet. I don't condemn those who choose not to wear one, but I have a lot of field data personally compiled that tells me I need to wear my helmet. And I do, just not Saturday. I have to confess I felt rather naked and vulnerable without it. That's the other reason I wasn't going to bump uglies in the derby circle. There's always a next time.

One of the coolest things about Homey (and other large urban rides) is exploring hidden trails in thickets, woods and parks that I ride by on a regular basis but have no idea are even there. The next leg of our ride took us to a hilltop on the west bank of the Mississippi River north of Ford Dam. Weather leading up to the weekend had been wet and cold for well over a week. Homey, however, was graced with sun and temps in the 60s. We all basked in the sun, had another beer and chatted with friends. I took the liberty of removing a layer of wool from my three-piece ensemble. I wasn't as sweaty as some people thought, but it got pretty steamy inside the tweed. If you're not a believer already, here's how you should read that: Wool breathes! Wool regulates! Wool is AWESOME!

Zito doesn't need no stinkin' wool.

CVO ditches the Hincapie look for something a bit more '80s ... a la Don Johnson?

The work crew ... Aaron, Dave, Reid, Matt, Tony and Seth.

Pimp Master Jay in da house!

Onward for the final push into the festival grounds ... . Innocent (non-cyclist) bystanders have such an interesting reaction to a huge throng of cyclists. The only frame of reference for many is Critical Mass. We were asked countless times whether we were a mass ride. Uh, no. Drivers are a different story. So many of them approaching a throng of cyclists from the opposite direction will continue to speed along, eyes fixed straight ahead, ready to mow someone down. Lovely. The ridiculous part is you can read the abject fear in the faces of these folks. They're scared of a few bicycles when they're the ones wrapped in a ton of internal-combustion steel and glass. Their only recourse seems to be to keep the windows up and the accelerator pedal down. Thankfully, no one was hurt (again ... yet).

Ryan and Katie roll in.

Mark shows off his homemade pannier.

Rolling into the dog park near Ft Snelling, which was to become our itinerant camp, things got pretty backed up. A narrow path greeted lots of riders of varying skill and ability. I stopped and took a couple of photos, including one of Kelly Mac taking a couple of photos.

Then I hitched onto Mark's wheel for a shortcut into the party. Here before me were hundreds of brothers and sisters. Nate already had a spit turning over a small fire.

Others were cooking on another small blaze. Gray Boy had a stove set up with a huge pot of mulled wine simmering. People were laughing, bikes wizzed by, flasks and bevvies were being passed around. I heard someone remark (and thought it quite apt): This is like a holiday for many cyclists in the area -- a chance to see all your extended bike "family" (dysfunctions and all) in the same place at the same time. It did indeed seem like we were in the company of family and it made me realize I have a lot more fun at events like Homey than I have had at some obligatory family gatherings in the past.

Blake (militant vegan) and Chris Anderson.

Kristy and H-wood and some guy who jumped in the photo, but who, oddly, doesn't seem a bit out of place.

Seth and I met up and set about to do some mingling. The problem was there were just too many people to mingle with. I like mingling, but it's not my greatest skill. The problem when I mix mingling with alcohol (or when I'm mingling and folks shove flasks and bottles in front of me) is that too often I don't remember what it is I mingled with friends about. Maybe that's just me -- it's about the overall experience, not the details of where you work or even what your name is. We're all just hugging our way down the same crapper together and that's good enough for me in some bizarre way.

Seth, founding member of the Brotherhood of the Crochet Glove, and Darcy model various PBR cans. (Not pictured: Trevor. His can was smallest. Sorry.)

Seth and an in cognito Zeigle.

Matt's State CX Championship jersey with Chef Rude in his view.

An Erik Noren creation I was told (several times) I was not allowed ride.

Gene O provides some much needed guidance.

This seems like a good segue to the "Feats of Strength." The boys of Surly (and their henchwomen) exhibit no shortage of ways for unassuming hangers-on to abuse themselves while making fools of themselves and entertaining the crowd. It's a brilliant strategy actually. That way they don't really have to entertain anyone; they simply create the means for the crowd to entertain itself. The next step will be to begin charging Fall Festers to come along and embarrass themselves.

Peter always looks interested ... in something.

During one event a young lady from Lincoln, Emily, unfortunately took a nasty head-first spill. Yep, this is the part where my allusions to no one getting hurt YET changed. She is okay but had to be escorted out by trained medical folks. Check out her situation here. (Scroll down until you see the obvious photo.) The mood of the gathering shifted dramatically. I had no idea what happened at first. I just recall things getting much quieter and a lot of folks scuttling about picking stuff up like it was time to go. I asked Gray Boy what was going on and he told me someone had taken a spill and that EMTs were on the way. Nothing like an imminent visit from the man to motivate the raucous masses into a sudden fit of sobriety. Several of us hung out up top to wish Emily well as she walked by, bandaged and bloody. We cheered her and thanked the EMTs.

We didn't leave, but we did migrate down the hill to the confluence of the creek and the river. Fires were rebuilt and festivities raged on. Gray Boy shared a little concoction he had steeped and I didn't seem to have much trouble with my hand being devoid of beverage at any given time. It was a good time shootin' the shit with the Surly guys and butchering people's names who were being introduced to me faster than my substance-addled brain could absorb it all. That's okay because I was outside on the bank of a river at a fun party with a bunch of down-to-earth cyclists. It got dark. Food was being prepared here and there. I caught the urge to sing. Why do I only sing when I am really happy or buzzed? Singing is so fun, so liberating -- kind of like riding a bike actually.

And now I will attempt to describe briefly a little Zen moment I had courtesy of Andy Corson. I had been driving home a not-so-subtle point over the past couple months that I had a serious hankering for one of the limited edition Surly 2007 Single Speed World's tartan wool caps. (It's a Scottish thing.) Well, nothing came of it except as the time drew nearer for Homey, Corson dropped a few hints that Homey Fall Fest would present an opportunity for me to claim the prize. As luck would have it, Peter R, Andy and I ended up around the same fire and the topic of the hat came up. Corson disappeared for a minute and came back with something in his hand for me. It was the hat. I was surprised and happy. Then, the moment came: Andy told me he couldn't think of anyone who'd appreciate the hat more. Then, he suggested I sever my attachment for the hat by burning it. This struck some deeply rooted Buddhist notion within me. It also was a half intentional dare. I tried the hat on, pulled it off, took a step toward the fire and neatly placed it at the apex of the flames between two fresh logs. Needless to say, Corson and Peter were both quite stunned. It just seemed like the thing to do in the moment. I didn't so it to prove a point or anything, it just felt right. I apologized to them and said I didn't mean any disrespect for the gift. And to prove it, I doffed my Harris Tweed driving cap (a fairly dear possession) and cast it upon the fire too. The planets were in some sort of alignment, or something.

My photos, not unlike me, flicker out. I forgot to pack batteries for the camera.

The rest of the night seemed to be in slow motion and I was getting restless. No one really wanted to join in with campfire singing despite my (I thought) stirring rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." Beer supplies dwindled and I figured I'd about had enough if I expected to make it the 10 miles home. I yucked it up with friends and strangers a bit more. I even scammed Matt Anderson's last Wexford Ale. But soon I wandered off into the darkness with Paul Rude and his wife Jenny, toward the trail. About 9pm -- It was time to go. I grabbed my bike, but didn't make it far up the trail before I had to stash the steed off in the bushes and just sit to take in the mild evening (mid 50s and little wind). I sat by the trail and slipped into a little meditative state. Before long enough people making their exoduses out had asked me annoying questions like "Are you all right, man?" that I relocated through the bushes into a field all alone. I propped myself back in the grass and seriously thought about dozing off for a couple hours. The thought of April wondering where the hell I was jarred me back into reality, however. Hobbling back to the trail, I grabbed the Karate Monkey, hiked to the pavement, and proceeded to test my balance. Near enough okay -- time to push for home. Another great HFF. The remaining revellers would stick it out till about 3am I later heard. Way to go!

Have you seen me?

I always imagined I would see Tanner's mug on the side of a milk jug before it would ever hit the wall of a booth at Interbike. You can't see in this small scale photo, but his finger tattoos that read "HELL BENT" earned him instant fame as the poster boy for Titec. Hey, whatever you gotta do to get some free bars.

The Bike Shoppe

Sylvia has been coming down to the bike shop with me off and on for the past few months. Lately, however, she's started to ask to do so every Friday night, which is usually bike shop night. She has become pretty good at matching the right size wrench to the bolt head. She's also learning how to tighten and loosen bolts. Let's hope, for her Mom's sake, she didn't loosen these chainring bolts.



What do you do with a stripped cassette cog? You make art out of it! Can't say I'm a huge fan of Miche cassettes -- I've sheered teeth off four cogs in 1200 miles. But they offer the ratios that Campy doesn't, and, besides, that's a different story I'd rather not get into now.


I've tried to use my down time lately to get a bunch of bike projects done like rotating tires, adjusting derailleurs and cleaning bikes that have been dirty for months. The down side of owning so many bikes? There is always something that is not quite right with at least one of them. The up side? There is always another one to grab and ride if one is not ready to go. Oh, compromise ...

K.O.M.

Many moons ago, back in May actually, some friends and I came up with an alternative to Bridge Club. If'n you don't know what Bridge Club is, that's okay -- it just means a variation on a theme of a specific, and regular, location to hang out and drink beer after work with yer bike ridin' buddies. Much to the chagrin of our livers (and my summer course syllabus) we kept it up every Tuesday through early August. We dubbed it K.O.M. -- "King of the Mountain" after the climbing points competition in Le Tour. After all, we'd meet on a hill off Minnehaha Parkway in south Minneapolis. Not much climbing, but a lot of skill depending on how long you hang out. Things slacked off once my fall semester began. Well, Seth, one of the ardent supporters of KOM (and one of the nicest guys you'll ever meet, as well as a faithful knight of the Surly brewery crusades) thought we ought to have another KOM before it gets cold and frozen here upon ye tundra o' the Minnesota north. Following is the story from this past Tuesday, the 9th of October, 2007 C.E.:

Left to right are Geoff "The Shlayer" Schley, Chris "Dirty Kop" Duerkop, Seth "Man Nuzzler" Nesselhuff, and Dave "Gray Boy" Gray. Dave, I appreciate you making an appearance at the last few KOM's because 1) you have a kid and do an awesome job of balancing the frivolities of bike camaradery with family life, and 2) the Surly guys never seem to accept my invitations to hang out. Yes, we are all layered up and, yes, it was cold -- like 42 degrees cold. Coming off an 85 degree weeekend that was just a bit of a shock to the system. Sadly, Seth would have been wearing tube socks nonetheless.

So, after three-quarters of an hour shivering, I suggested that we relocate to Pizza Luce. No one thought that was a bad idea at all. Here Seth man-wrangles a tangle of bikes. Get along lil' doggies! There were mechanicals and physicals along the way, but if there ain't photos, there ain't no proof! Besides it weren't nothin' Mr. Park or Mr. Newton couldn't negotiate our way out of.

Seth almost looks pissed that his lame ass decided he had to get to a show; instead of enjoying the whole pie and pitcher-powered goodness of our experience, he opted for a single slice. Poor guy.

I admired Seth's "Catch-22" shirt because Catch-22 is my favorite novel. Dirty Kop promptly informed me that Catch-22 is also some lame band, further enhancing Seth's evening of lameness.

What goes around, lames around. Seth left to meet his friend. Dirty Kop whipped out a checkbook to pay. Geoff and I slapped down our cards, picked up his tab and reminded him it was the year 2007 -- some 20 years late for the heyday of the check. (The waitress rubbed it in, too.) What do you expect from a guy who thinks he's Batman? C'mon, Michael Keaton's career was dead a few years ago as well.

Time to go according to Geoff. He's rockin' a new Cross Check frame with all the Veloce parts from his old ride. Very nice.

This art school girl was full of photography tips. Unfortunately she was not full of her phone number for the benefit of the Shlayer.

Oh, KOM ... over for the year? Let's hope not.

Friends

I've been meaning to post this for a while. It is partly a compilation of events I didn't manage to create overly wordy and long posts about when they happened, and, well ... just a way to say 'hey' to a lot of folks I love and who might not make my usual series of rants on a regular basis ...

Every September, Bear (he's on the left), a former co-worker from Bell Canoe Works, throws a kick ass party at his place out on Chisago Lake. Bear is a well-read and extremely cogent liberal soul, making him dear in my heart. The place and the bungalow are amazing. This year we went out there and Bear had big band sounds blasting from the stereo. It takes you back as you hang out in the yard of this lake home, dividing your time between the keg and the multiple fire pits (and the volleyball court and the balance boards and the awesome food). And let's not forget the people -- it is always a quality bunch of folks I only get to see about once a year, but we pick up with all the revery we ought to like we never missed a beat. Bear shares his amazing stories from his latest solo forays into the Canadian Northwoods via canoe. It's a trek out to Chisago, but it's always worth the jaunt when Bear throws a party. Chris poses next to him.

Chris hangs out with Sylvia. Chris and I were fellow commiserators at Bell. We went on more lunch time bike rides together than I can count and I cherish the memory of every one of them. He lives up in Cambridge and, sadly, we get to see each other way too infrequently. He is a father of two, really into wilderness tripping (most of the time on foot in the winter), and shoots a lot of photos. He is just a stand up guy and I am happy to have him as a friend. (I don't need to comment on Sylvia ... regular readers will know that she and I share a good many adventures together and I'm proud to say she is most always up for Daddy's crazy ideas.)

You should check out Chris's photography here. I admire him a great deal because he left Bell to do what he loved to do. He has a gift and he's making it happen.

Mama Fleck. Soon to be mama of Fleck offspring #2. April is the most amazing person I have ever met. She meets adversity with strength and resilience. She also doesn't bat an eye at most of the off-the-wall shit I pull. (Including calling her from the emergency room a week and a half ago.) For that I am thankful and studious of her ways. I am not so laid-back. But perhaps she'll rub off on me. She is also the most remarkable mother I have ever known. Sylvia loves her dearly. We would both be lost without her in our lives.

Fire. Fire is my friend. I even tried walking on a bit of it inadvertently while at Bear's last party. (Let's just say I am no yogi.) That's what I get for going barefoot while cooking bratwurst over the hearth-flame. Fire is awesome. It is my mentor, my teacher. Thanks, Dad, for teaching me the basics early.

Wendy, Bear's sister. She is a lovely being. I can't really say I have spent that much time with Wendy, but when you've shared a canvas tent with someone in northern Minnesota for two days at New Year's you can skip a page or two of the details. Wendy's smile and enthusiasm are always welcome. (Even though here she is unconscious, showing us the proper way to enjoy a fire.)

Happy Autumn, friends. May you all take a moment and think about the folks who are special to you, and may you be blessed enough to spend some time with them soon.

Physics Lesson

Here's the helmet from my ill-fated crash six days ago. (Thanks for the suggestion, Snakebite.) It's been added to my "Helmet Hall of Fame." I wish I still had the old Protec Mirage I rode until it was basically perforated in two. I'm doing much better and have been out for a couple of short rides. I'm completely off the Vicodin -- that stuff never did me much good for as irritable and cranky as it causes me to feel. Now I have to heal the bone bruising in my lumbar area. Probably no CX racing in my near future. Oh well, I need to spend some of that time studying anyway.