Earlier in the summer, I had let my grass grow quite long. It was long enough to completely obscure a box turtle. As I pushed through a very tall and thick patch, I heard a sickening thud. Bye, bye turtle.
Yesterday, I decided to mow the lawn before it reached turtle depth. The mowing part went fine. Then I took out the line trimmer to neaten things up. I was trimming along the concrete steps that lead to the front door when I heard a “thud” followed immediately by a “whack”.
I had managed, apparently, to whack a small stone which shot like a bullet into the storm door on our front entry. I looked at the glass and it had the coolest looking spider web pattern to it. The stone had it near the upper left corner and the web radiated from the contact point.
Fortunately, the glass was tempered so it didn’t shatter and send shards everywhere. Instead, th glass stayed in place, broken into thousands of tiny pieces. I touched the pane and the pieces rained down onto the front steps. So much for my afternoon nap. I spent the next 90 minutes carefully sweeping up the specks of glass. Once I had them all collected I packed them in a pair of cardboard boxes marked “GLASS” for the trash pick up on Monday.
The frame of the storm window had glass bits all around the inside opening. I used duct tape to keep them in place and put the frame under our sunroom for disposal during our next special trash pickup.
Remarkably, despite being on aspirin therapy for blood thinning, I managed to only incur one pin prick on a knuckle on my left hand during the clean up process. Home free? Nope. Mrs. Rootchopper put a screen panel in the empty space in the storm door. I finished my trimming and opened the screen door to go back inside. The door, lightened by the absence of glass, sprung back and whacked me in the elbow. I ended up with a nasty bloody welt on my elbow.
How’d he do that?
I stayed up late watching the last few episodes of Season 3 of Lupin, a French Netflix series. It’s about a resourceful master thief in Paris. Assane Diop, a Senegalese immigrant who learns his wily craft from a series of 1920s novels about Arsene Lupin, a gentleman thief. It’s funny and clever. Diop, a larcenous magician, pulls off impossible robberies, often taking advantage of his blackness that makes him socially invisible in lily-white upper crust Paris. Jump-cut flashbacks are used to demonstrate how the deeds are done. Despite being dog tired, I slept poorly and managed only about five hours of sleep.
More blood
This morning I donated blood for the second time this summer. This time, instead of a whole blood donation, which involves extracting a pint of blood, I made a power red (or double red) donation. In this procedure, blood is extracted into a machine that separates hemoglobin (oxygen carrying red-blood cells) from the rest of your blood (plasma and platelets). Thus, two units of hemoglobin are donated instead of one. The remaining extracted blood augmented by some saline is returned to your arm via the same needle and tube.
The procedure and my lousy night’s sleep left me a bit groggy. No riding for me today. The morning was cool and rainy, and the rest of the day filled with playoff baseball games so I picked a good day to power down.
I won’t be able to donate again until February. It will take a couple of weeks to build up my hemoglobin to normal levels, just in time for the last two fall bike events: the Great Pumpkin Ride in Warrenton, Virginia and the Cider Ride in DC and suburban Maryland.
It happens every autumn. Seemingly sensible people pay good money to ride 62 miles all over Washington, DC for the right to say, “I rode 50 states in a day.” The 50 States Ride is the Washington Area Bicyclists Association’s biggest fundraising ride. Participants ride through all eight wards of the city, up and down hills, through alleys, on side paths, over bridges, and past stadia (active and derelict) following a route that takes them on the streets named for all 50 states plus the District of Columbia (Columbia Road to be specific). The event takes place on open streets, meaning riders share the roads with everyday DC area drivers. Eek.
This year was the 20th anniversary, not to mention my personal 15th anniversary, of the event. Every year the route is tweaked, partly to make things interesting for returning riders but also to guide riders through interesting new sites like new multipurpose developments and new bike infrastructure. The organizers at WABA threw participants a curve ball this year by changing the direction of travel from counterclockwise to clockwise. Once familiar streets were now backwards. Bring it on.
Although the ride is 62 miles long, if feels like it is much longer. DC is surprisingly hilly. And, like any big city, has scores of stops signs and traffic lights. You have to slog your way up the hills, but the downhills are interrupted by traffic lights and such. This makes the route feel much longer. It also means that it takes about 50 percent longer than a 62-mile ride in the country.
I arrived at the start (and finish) at the Kraken indoor sports facility at 7 a.m. Kraken is pretty much in the middle of the city. I met up with my posse, a rag tag group of people, many of whom were new to me. Posse regulars Michael B., Kevin W., and Chris M. returned for the fifth or sixth time. Sara, a 2022 50 States rookie, came as well. Domitille, who joined the five of us on the 2023 Cider Ride last November, surprised me by joining the gang. I invited Monica who normally volunteers to sell merchandise at WABA events. Monica is a veteran of many DC Bike Party events. These are anarchic rides at night through the center of the city. Monica make a good anarchist. Rounding out the group were Jacob and Bryan, and Lili and Nina.
The twelve of us launched at 7:45 following the course through Northeast DC. The clockwise routing meant that we rode on Michigan, South Dakota, and Montana Avenues before they became mid-day traffic sewers. We continued south through Ivy City and Trinidad to the Capitol Hill and Hill East neighborhoods knocking off West Virginia, Maryland, Tennessee, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, and Kentucky is rapid succession.
Next we cruised along the west side of the Anacostia River and passed RFK Stadium, former home of the Washington [Old-Racist-Name] Football team. After a pit stop, we picked off Oklahoma Avenue, crossed the Anacostia River and, using trails, side streets, an alley, and a pedestrian bridge, we made our way to Minnesota Avenue in Southeast DC. Minnesota is another trafficy mess but the new route kept us on it for only a tenth of a mile.
Winding our way through streets in Anacostia, we came to the first hill of the day, the climb up Texas Avenue to, eventually, Alabama Avenue. We stayed on Alabama for three miles, the second half of which was a screaming downhill. I blew right past the left turn on 18th Street, thereby continuing my tradition of messing up at least once during the ride.
After I did a u-turn, I headed down 18th Street to Mississippi Avenue. Mississippi would be a great one-mile, flat romp but for the enormous speed humps every two hundred yards. At Wheeler Road, we climbed up a steep hill back to Alabama. After some side streets, we turned onto Martin Luther King Junior Boulevard, the main drag of Anacostia. MLK goes through the Saint Elizabeth psychiatric hospital complex (once home to John Hinkley, Jr.) then downhill toward the elevation of the Anacostia River. I bombed down this hill, barely touching my brakes. The bumpy asphalt made for a scary fun descent. The rest of the posse probably thought I was crazy. Who am I to disagree?
We crossed back over the Anacostia on the 11th Street Bridge and followed a path on the river back along the Navy Yard complex until we reached a pit stop across the street from Nationals Park. This was the half way point. The posse was still in one piece although a few of us were pretty worn out from the big climb to Alabama. I let the rookies know that the next eight miles were relatively flat. (Yeah, suuuurrre.)
With temperatures rising into the seventies, layers were removed for the second half.
We left the stop and rode past Nats Park, Audi Field, and Fort McNair on a series of protected bike lanes. M Street turned into Maine Avenue, past the District Wharf neighborhood. After a short rise to L’Enfant Promenade we used a side path along I-395 to cross Washington Channel to reach Ohio Drive in East Potomac Park.
The 3.5 mile ride down to Hains Point was a nice break from car traffic, but soon we were back in the thick of things riding up 15th Street to Independence Avenue, heading east. A zig and a zag had us riding on Virginia Avenue for a few blocks. More zigging and zagging put us onto Washington Avenue at the base of Capitol Hill.
D and 2nd Streets took us gradually over the hill, and with a few more turns and a side walk we were on Delaware Avenue on the north side of the Capitol. After riding down the hill, we were to take a right on Louisiana then a quick left (after 0 miles on the cue sheet) onto North Capitol. (We actually missed the right turn and only a day later did I realize that the slip lane we used to turn onto Louisiana was actually North Capitol Street. Many other riders went up Louisiana to E Street, missing North Capitol entirely. The confusion is really the product of the fact that the DC street grid includes two grids, one at 45 degrees to the other. Oy!) In any case, we diffidently tagged Louisiana then quickly turned back onto North Capitol.
For the next four miles we rambled through downtown bagging New Jersey, Indiana, New York, Vermont, and Rhode Island Avenues, stopping at a pit stop along the way.
The route became a bit more rolling as it crossed up and past the Adams Morgan and Kalorama neighborhoods using New Hampshire and Florida Avenues, California Street, Wyoming Avenue, and Columbia Road before riding briefly past several embassies on Massachusetts Avenue.
Having disposed of several states in a couple of miles, we now crossed Rock Creek Park on the Q Street bridge into and through Georgetown, exiting to the west on Reservoir Road. Reservoir took us to MacArthur Boulevard which was mercifully flat, the calm before the storm.
With a right onto Arizona Avenue, we began the big hurt: up steep Garfield Street for a lung-burning quarter mile. Garfield topped out at University Terrace which continued up for another quarter mile. (This climb was part of my first two 50 States Rides back in 2006 and 2007 except this time the pavement was new and smooth.) University connected with still more uphill on Loughboro Road which became Nebraska Avenue.
I had been trying to ride just ahead of the posse most of the day in the hope of spreading us out a bit. For a good deal of the ride, however, our group was joined by other riders making my good intentions futile. When we reached Garfield, I decided to shift into my granny gear, find a comfortable rhythm, and climb as if on my own. Once I had the rhythm I stuck with it and I made it up in good shape.
After a bit more climbing we turned onto Macomb Street. At the top of one last bit of uphill, I stopped to wait with Monica for the posse to reassemble.
No rest for the weary was the order of the hour as we dipped and climbed over Cathedral Heights on New Mexico and Idaho Avenues coming to a pit stop at the new City Ridge development. This new neighborhood epitomizes something that I love about this ride: every year, the ride showcases new features of this dynamic city.
At the pit stop I learned that an hour earlier Annette had texted us that she had a flat. I had no idea that we had lost her. We lingered at the stop for 20 minutes or so as Lili and Nina arrived looking tired but determined.
They elected to rest a bit more as the remaining posse members headed out for the last 15 miles. The route took us briefly on busy Wisconsin Avenue before winding through side streets around Fort Reno to Connecticut Avenue. After Connecticut, we rode through Chevy Chase DC using Nevada and Utah Avenues.
Next was the dip into the urban canyon of Rock Creek Park, riding on Oregon Avenue along the way. After a mile of riding the flats on the park floor we turned to climb out of the park using windy, shaded Sherrill Drive.
After a merciful red light, we took a left on 16th Street and a right onto Alaska Avenue, appropriately the northernmost state street on the route. Turning off Alaska onto Geranium Street, we passed Patti Heck, an amateur photographer who takes pictures of every rider who passes by.
The downhill on Geranium took us into Takoma DC where we stopped at the last pit stop at the home of Mile and Lisa on 8th Street. Snacks! Mile helped Rosanne with a problematic shifter cable. Eight iles left babee!
As we were about to roll out, Lili and Nina arrived giving us confidence that they would finish the trek in our wake.
We headed south and eventually east across the Petworth area, conquering North Dakota, Missouri, Colorado, Georgia, Arkansas, Iowa, Kansas, and Illinois. The posse could smell the finish line.
At this point, Michael, who knows the city far better than I, was leading. (Okay, he also had the GPS file of the route pointing the way, but still.) I would surely have taken us off course at least twice. We finally reached the 50th State: Hawaii. (Well played WABA.)
After that, it was downhill and past Catholic University and back through Eckington to the finish at Kraken.
We assembled inside for food and drink and conversation. Normally, at least one person says, “Never again” but not this time. There was even talk of re-uniting for the Cider Ride in November.
What fools these bicyclists be.
Many thanks to the good folks at WABA, especially Jordan Mittelman. Jordan was the lead staff person who designed the clockwise route and had to deal with an unprecedented, one-week weather delay. Thanks also to the volunteers who staffed the start, the pits stops, and the finish as well as the course marshals who did their best to keep us safe throughout the ride.
I have no idea what these symbols meanLogo from back of shirt
September was my first sub-1,000-mile month since April. 882 miles was plenty. When it wasn’t raining I mostly rode my Tour Easy recumbent for 475 miles. I decided to ride the Tank (a new bike name), my Surly Crosscheck, on rainy days for a total of 181 miles. Little Nellie took a rest at 34 miles. The Mule, equipped at last with a new rear hub and a new Minimoto v-brake, for 191 miles.
My long ride, 62 miles, was my 15th 50 States Ride on The Mule on September 30. The day before, I passed 9,000 miles for the year.
On a ride last week, I ran into Stan, Hebert, and Fabi. Stan was escorting Hebert and Fabi around DC. Hebert and Fabi are in the middle of an on-going, 15-month bike tour, which included several countries in Europe and Africa.
Stan, Hebert, and Fabi in Belle Haven Park
Watching
Little Richard: I Am Everything. This CNN documentary covers the life of Little Richard. He grew up poor and queer in Macon, Georgia in the 1930s and 1940s. After learning to sing in church he turned to singing in clubs, the Chitlin’ Circuit and a series of gay clubs in the deep south. He learned his piano style from Esquerita, a queer performer who served as something of a role model. Like most people, I knew Little Richard helped found rock and roll, what I didn’t know was that he came out of the closet long before most other queer performers. (Not that it wasn’t obvious.) I also didn’t know that his original lyrics to his first hit, Tutti Frutti, were about anal sex.
Heart of Stone. This Netflix movie is intended to make Gal Gadot a female James Bond. The movie is formulaic and not particularly interesting. It is tempting to dismiss Gadot as a serious actress because she is so beautiful but she’s quite good, as she was in the role of Wonder Woman. I feel the same way about Brie Larson who can say more with a turn of her head than most actors can with a page of dialogue.
Ahsotka. I continued to watch this Star Wars miniseries. Its leaden pacing made for many sleep inducing moments. One more episode to go.
Baseball. I went to a couple of Nationals games, once with my daughter and once solo by bike. The Nationals are a work in progress, but wait ’til next year!
Reading
Ancestor Trouble by Maud Newton. This memoir received great reviews from a wide range of publications but it was completely lost on me. The author delves into her ancestry and genome, ad nauseum, extracting often nonsensical conclusions about her own life. At times she came off as witless to me. (For example, she has ancestors who farmed in antebellum Mississippi and seemed surprised that they owned slaves.) Maybe it’s because I have little interest in my ancestry, but I kept thinking as I read: Who cares?
Crooked by Cathryn Jakobson Ramin is two books in one. The first half is a deep dive into the morass that is pain and back care in western medicine, something I’ve been all too familiar with. It turns out that in many if not most cases, back surgery does more harm than good. Failures in back surgery led to a boom in pain management which includes opioid use and other interventions that treat symptoms and not the root cause of back woes. The second half is the author’s exploration of alternatives many of which seem very promising to me. It may very well be that the condition that keeps me from standing or walking without a dull ache can be dealt with using any number of non-surgical interventions. I intend to explore many of these over the winter. Stu McGill’s Big Three exercises is a good place to start.
The Way Out by Alan Gordon with Alon Ziv. This book explores the phenomenon of neuroplastic pain. The authors assert that most chronic pain is caused by the brain misinterpreting signals from the body. The way to get rid of or manage this kind of pain is to re-wire the brain to properly interpret the signals. This process is called Pain Reprocessing Therapy, which applies mindfulness meditation to pain remediation. I’m skeptical but will be exploring this over the winter as well.
The Wager – A Tale of Shipwreck, Mutiny, and Murder by David Grann. The subtitle says it all. An epic true tale of an eighteen century expedition on the high seas gone horribly wrong. A great read for a cold, rainy winter’s day with the winds are howling and the tea is hot.
The National Park Service is (finally) replacing some old, damaged bridges on the Mount Vernon Trail near my home. The infamous Bridge 12 between Fort Hunt Park and Collingwood Road was replaced last year. The old bridge was dilapidated. The trail dropped down through a nasty curve on either end to reach the bridge. It was a flawed design from the get go, one that the Park Service incorporated into several other sections of the trail presumably to make the trail a fun meander. Fail. The approach to the new Bridge 12 is straighter and, the bridge deck is considerably wider. Like nearly all bridges on the trail it is made entirely (as far as I can see) from wood. This is not the best choice of decking material for shaded areas but it’s what we got.
This month the Park Service began replacing Bridge 23. This bridge, one of the longest on the trail, pases through Dyke Marsh Nature Preserve. It is where I take sunrise pictures on my early morning excursions to DC. The bridge was heavily damaged twenty years ago by epic storm surge from Hurricane Isabel. The Park Service did a few emergency repairs but it was clear that the decking, once level, was now slanted this way and that in several spots. Over the years, the wood decking has been replaced board-by-board, usually by volunteers.
I, and many others, submitted comments on the replacement bridge last spring. My comments came down to (1) don’t use wood for the decking (it becomes very slick when wet or icy) and (2) raise the decking and the adjacent trail by at least a foot to allow for high water events which have increased in frequency in the last ten years (you ain’t seen nothing yet).
Work began in earnest last week. A detour was set up that uses a lane of the George Washington Memorial Parkway. (This section of the Parkway is also scheduled for replacement. Riding the detour one can see why. There are a couple of nasty potholes and sections of the concrete have lifted at the joints.) As soon as the detour was open, contractors started ripping up some of the bridge decking. Then they started bringing in materials.
The pictures above show some of what’s going on. On the north side of the bridge, there are some pretty serious looking I-beams as shown in the picture on the left,. They have flat metal panels on one side. It’ll be interesting to see where these pieces will fit in the puzzle. Next to the I-beams and not pictured where some beefy looking dark brown wooden posts with holes drilled in the side.
The middle picture shows how some of the deck boards have been ripped up. This work was started last week then stopped. I suspect the contractor saw something it wasn’t expecting. The gizmo in the center looks like a tamper used on the asphalt section of the detour. The rolls on the right (under the plastic) are used to control drainage during construction.
The picture on the right is taken from the south end of the crossing. There are some wooden boards. Boo. Behind them are some mystery materials under wraps. To me the most interesting part is the metal tubing. Hmm.
I am guessing that some sort of temporary structure is going to be built so that the workers don’t have to stand in the marsh. In any case, I am looking forward to how the pieces fit together.
There is an access point to the trail at the southern end of the span where Tulane Drive intersects the Parkway. Originally, the contractors had blocked access to the trail with the jersey barriers that separate the detour lane from Parkway traffic. Last week the contractor put a gap in the barriers to facilitate access to the trial from the Tulane neighborhood.
Many years ago when I began riding to work in cold weather, I noticed that The Mule had developed an annoying ticking sound. The sound seemed to begin whenever I was pedaling hard. Did the bike have a bad ball bearing? Was some part of the bike too tightly or too loosely attached? Seeking the source of this annoyance, I checked my pedals and cranks and seat post and saddle and all sorts of things to no avail.
I let a couple of bike shop mechanics look the bike over. They were just as stumped as I was. One cold day as I was climbing up the final hill to the office I happened to look down and there was the culprit. My winter jacket had a draw cord around the waist. The ends of this cord had aglets, the little plastic thingies that go over the tips of shoelaces. When I pedaled hard, the ends of the draw cord would swing and the aglets would hit the top tube of my bike making that ticking sound.
The other day I came upon another mystery. I had The Mule on a workstand. The shifting on the rear cassette was sloppy. I had to constantly tweak the shifter to get the chain to settle on a cog. (One solution to this is to take the shifter out or index mode and revert to old fashioned friction shifting, but I digress.) The bike was angled down about 30 degrees so that I could fiddle with the dial adjuster that changes the tension on the shifter cable.
About two weeks ago, I had a Minimoto v-brake installed on my rear wheel. I was fed up with my old v-brake what simply would not stay in proper adjustment, causing one or both brake pads to rub on the rim of the rear wheel. Let me tell you, riding across Kansas with a rubbing brake as I did in 2019 and 2022 will ruin your whole week. When I picked the bike up at the bike shop, I spun the rear wheel. No rub! Finally.
So there I was tweaking the barrel adjuster on my gears when I noticed a sound from the rear wheel. It sure sounded like a rubbing brake pad. Sure enough, after only a week or so, my new, expensive rear brake was out of adjustment. Damn.
I was about to adjust the brakes when I decided to get the big rear saddle bag, a Caradice Nelson Longflap, out of my way. I took the bag off. Just before putting wrench to brake, I spun the rear wheel again. No rub!
I looked at the bag. I looked at the brake. Then it dawned on me. The wide, heavy bag was contacting the brake cable and causing it to actuate slightly which pushed one of the pads just barely onto the rim. Rather than adjust the brake, I swapped the Nelson Longflap with the smaller Carradice bag on Little Nellie. The smaller bag clears the brake cable. Problem solved. (Little Nellie’s smaller wheels mean its brake cable is much lower, allowing for plenty of clearance with the Longflap.)
I don’t use a big saddlebag on tours but I do put my tent and assorted other goodies on my rear rack. I suspect these may have been contacting the brake cable. In any case, the adjustment mechanism on the old brake was so beat up that I needed a new one anyway so I am not regretting the Minimoto purchase.
About a week ago I received a bill from an anesthesiologist. It said I owed a $55 co-pay for services rendered. Hmmm. I looked at the date of service. It was from my colonoscopy last December. This was my fourth separate bill for this procedure. One for the doctor who did the deed. One for the lab that processed my biopsy. One for a mysterious facilities fee. And this one.
I thought maybe this was a hoax because so much time had passed. I checked my insurance company website and, sure enough, there was the explanation of benefits. I paid it without complaint. It seems kind of ironic that a procedure that involves getting something shoved up my ass would result in bills that felt the same way.
Vaccines
Yesterday, I was signing up for a flu shot appointment online. The webpage asked me if I wanted to get the new RSV vaccine. I had seen articles online that said the shot can cost as between $150 and $300. I said yes but before scheduling the appointment I decided to check to see if my health insurance would cover it. The last thing I wanted to have happen would be to get a big bill months from now for the shot. I called my insurance company and asked what my financial responsibility would be. The agent had no clue. So I checked the website. Nothing. (Even a basic search of RSV came up empty.) Then I used the insurance app on my phone. Nothing. An hour of my life down the drain.
So as a last resort I went to my pharmacy, waited in line another 20 minutes, and asked the pharmacy clerk. This particular clerk never has impressed me with her knowledge. She looked up my information and told me that my flu shot was covered. I asked her when that was since I had had a Covid booster in August. Perhaps I had a forgotten about a flu shot at that time. She was referring to my 2022 flu shot.
Now what does my 2022 flu shot have to do with anything? She told me it was paid by Medicare. I informed her that I only have Medicare Part A, which covers hospitalization expenses. She said, “That’s who we billed.” Flu shots are covered by private insurance under the Affordable Care Act. She clearly had no idea what she was talking about. I thanked her for her time and left.
It turns out that there is some question about the safety and efficacy of having the flu and RSV shots at the same time. I think I’ll go get my flu shot somewhere else and ask about RSV there.
Competent IRS Help
Today, I needed to check with the Internal Revenue Service to see if I had an estimated tax payment scheduled. I went to the IRS website and tried to log in but the system didn’t recognize my userid and password. Hmmm.
The website told me that I had to use a new system to create a new, more secure access to my account. This system involved me uploading photos of my drivers license, front and back, as well as providing the usual personal information. I went through the process and the system told me it could not verify my identity. So I tried again. Same result. I tried a third time, this time orienting my license photo in landscape mode. No dice. (My guess is that one of two things tripped up the system. The Department of Motor Vehicles of Virginia has listed my first and middle names as my first name. So my license doesn’t match my tax records. Another possibility is that the phone service I was using was under my wife’s name.)
The IRS website has an option of doing a video conference with a human. So I selected that option. After 15 or 20 minutes of waiting, an agent came on the screen and told me to turn on my computer camera and microphone. Alas, my microphone doesn’t work. She figured out that I was struggling and told me to switch to my cellphone.
This worked. I could see and hear each other.
What she needed to do was to verify my first and middle name (she corrected my records) and to see me hold up my license and passport. This allowed her to verify my identity. She was efficient and pleasant. Once we switched to my phone, the whole process took less than five minutes. All that money spent on new IRS personnel apparently has its benefits.
Without going anywhere in particular I managed to ride 1000.5 miles this month. It was my fourth 1000-mile month in a row, and undoubtedly the last of 2023. Near the end of the month I passed 8,000 miles for the year.
I did three rides of more than 50 miles. The first one was on Little Nellie in Dorchester County, Maryland on the Eastern Shore. The second was a 51-miler on Big Nellie in Talbot County, Maryland, also on the Eastern Shore. The third was a 58-mile combo of shopping, errand running, and product testing. I rode to Terrapin Bicycles in Bethesda to buy some touring shoes (at half price). After putting on the new shoes, I rode east about 13 miles and dropped off some old tubes at my friend Charmaine’s place in Hyattsville, Maryland. Then I rode home. This was also a test of the new rear wheel I had Beth at Bikes at Vienna build for The Mule. The shoes are a little tight but the wheel seems fine.
I dropped off The Mule for Beth to take a look at the wheel now that I’ve ridden over 100 miles on it. She’s also going to install a new rear brake, a Paul Minimoto, which, hopefully, will solve my brake rub problems. (At about $180, it had better!)
I finished the month at 8,192.5 miles for the year, a little over half of that was on The Mule. The rest was split more or less evenly among my other three bikes.
Watching
I watched a ton of baseball games, two of them in person. The Washington Nationals have turned into a competitive and entertaining team.
I saw one movie: Guardians of the Galaxy III. It was lame.
I began watching the new Star Wars mini series, Ahsoka. It was lamer.
Reading
American Ramble by Neil King Junior is the author’s account of his hike from Capitol Hill to Manhattan. Along the way he checked out various obscure points of American history. Some of his route overlapped with my 2023 bike tour. It took me a while to get into this one but, in the end, I quite enjoyed it. His approach to treks is to research historical places on the route to find interesting things to investigate. Mine is pretty much the opposite: I ride with little knowledge of what I am getting myself into, leaving interesting things to serendipity.
Killers of the Flower Moon by David Grann is the true tale of the Osage murders of the 1920s. Members of the Osage tribe had been relocated to a small, seemingly worthless section of Oklahoma northwest of Tulsa. As it turned out, the Osage owned the mineral rights to the land and happened to find themselves sitting on a vast sea of oil. They became among the wealthiest people in the country. A cabal of white folks began systematically acquiring the oil rights by marrying them and killing them. Anyone who got in the way of the cabal was killed. This all occurred around the time of the Tulsa Race Massacre. Oklahomans of the 1920s have a lot to answer for.
Small Mercies by Dennis Lehane is the fictional tale of a race murder set in South Boston at the start of the forced school desegregation crisis in 1974. Lehane absolutely nails working class Irish American family life and language, in general, and the culture of Southie. Every aspect of life in Southie is run by a mobster based on the infamous Whitey Bulger. The people of 1970s South Boston would probably have felt at home in northeastern Oklahoma in the 1920s.
Other
My odometer flipped to 68. I gained ten pounds, mostly by eating crap and drinking beer. I gave blood as penance for my dietary sins.
It was a light rain. The kind that makes roads surprisingly slick. As I came down the Mount Vernon Trail from Alexandria I could see that traffic was backed up on both sides of the adjacent George Washington Memorial Parkway.
This could only mean one thing.
After a mile I came to the intersection between the Parkway and Belle View Boulevard. There was a three-car crash.
The public has been begging the Parkway to redesign this intersection because of the high incidence of crashes. A few years ago rather than putting in a traffic signal or a roundabout, they put down some paint, some flex posts, and some stop signs making the intersection practically incomprehensible to drivers.
Parkway management is concerned about retaining the park-like ambiance of the Parkway. I could be wrong but smashed up cars don’t seem to be consistent with that concept.
What’s even more alarming is the fact that pedestrians and bicyclists have to negotiate this intersection without any protection. Paint, flex posts, and stops signs are not enough. We need an overpass.
The other day I rode 24 miles to Bethesda, Maryland to pick up the touring bike shoes that I had ordered. They look like everyday street shoes but are a bit stiffer in the sole to avoid pedaling fatigue.
I put them on and rode east 13 miles to drop some old tubes off at a friend’s house in Hyattsville. The Google routed me back and forth across the Beltway. At one point I stopped to check my bearings on my phone. I heard a rustle in the greenery next to me on the side of the road. I looked over and there was a deer about three feet away, staring at me. I stared back. The deer didn’t flinch it just turned its head and started munching on some vines. Deer take lunch breaks. Who knew?
(This wildlife close encounter follows one I had earlier in the week near home. Three wild turkeys, an adult and two young-uns, were ambling about in a yard. In 34 years, I’ve never seen a turkey in this area. Weird.)
The ride to Hyattsville was surprisingly enjoyable for this section of car-happy Maryland. I ended up taking Sligo Creek Parkway about seven miles. Shade. Stream. Hardly any cars. Not too shabby.
After I dropped the tubes off and googled a route to home, I discovered that my friend lives a quarter mile from the route of the annual Cider Ride. In five minutes, I was on autopilot. I arrived home after 58 miles.
The ride was part of a 100-mile test of the new rear wheel on The Mule. As far as I can tell, the wheel performed fine. I am still getting used to the sexy buzzing sound that the new rear hub makes when I glide.
The shoes worked fine but after a subsequent 30-mile ride my neuroma pain came back. I decided to try loosening the laces across the bridge of the foot. Today I rode 30 miles and haven’t had a pain recurrence. Knock wood and cross my toes.
Bagging All 50 States – The Event
The 50 States Ride is starting to take shape. I signed up and have three other people riding with me. I expect that by the day of the event next month, I’ll be riding with several more victims…I mean, participants. This will be my 15th time. (This year is the 20th 50 States Ride.) It is suspected that I have ridden it as a paying customer more than anyone else. (There are a few people who have volunteered as course marshals that may have done it more.)
Bagging All 50 States– The Real Ones
I am almost over my post-tour recovery. The physical part is done. (I gained back 10 pounds.) The mental part is the hard part. I have to forget about the hassle of arranging lodging every night and staying in sketchy motels, the brutal climbs, the rain, the mud, the grime, the nasty hike over the Paw Paw tunnel, etc. I’m sure I’ll get my mojo back in a few more weeks.
There are 12 more states for me to conquer – 13 if you count Kentucky which I have only ridden a mile in. I am contemplating using the Natchez Trace to pick off Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama. With a little wandering I could add Louisiana, Arkansas and Kentucky to the total. Amazingly there is a website that provides specifics about places to stay and camp all along the Trace.
Another possibility would combine South Dakota and Nebraska. This would involve Adventure Cycling’s new Parks, Peaks, and Prairies route. Highlights would include the Badlands, Mount Rushmore, the Mickelson Trail, Devil’s Tower and, well, something or other in Nebraska.
A couple of other ideas involve the southwest and south. I could take Route 66 from Santa Monica to northern Arizona. There I’d take a side trip to see the Grand Canyon. After a bit more Arizona rock gawking, I would head across New Mexico, the Texas panhandle, Oklahoma, and, if I haven’t already done so, Arkansas. Alternatively, I could do the Adventure Cycling Southern Tier Route from San Diego to Mississippi then ride the Natchez Trace as described above.
The idea here would be to string together multiple states while keeping the tour length manageable. If I could pick off all these I could put Little Nellie in its suitcase and fly to Alaska for the big finish.
Logistics are troublesome. As is my advancing age. Then you have to factor in climate change. And lions and tigers and bears…
Somedays things just seem to be going great until they’re not.
Take my shoe shopping trip this week for example.
I have EEEE feet. It’s a source of life-long hassle. Back in the day, you could go to a shoe store and a old salesman would measure your feet then fetch some shoeboxes from the back room which was lined from floor to ceiling with shoes of every size and width. Then along came the internet and killed all the shoe stores. (Don’t even get me started about book stores, music stores, telephones that you could communicate clearly with.)
I don’t use clipless pedals so I am always on the lookout for bike shoes with a flat bottom and a wide toe box. Twenty years ago a company called Lake made such a thing. Of course, once I realized how much I like their shoe, they stopped making it. I should have learned from my running buddy Tom. When he found a running shoe he liked, he’d buy ten pairs. (Tom ran 70 to 90 mile per week in support of a bodacious ice cream habit.)
My Lake shoes fell apart but just in the nick of time Shimano started making shoes to my liking. Over the course of a few years, I bought three pairs. They are all a bit different because Shimano can’t leave good enough alone. My orange pair died a hero on my 2019 tour. My black pair, the oldest, is on its last legs. My green pair, which I wear most often because they are only five years old, is starting to die.
I googled touring bike shoes and found a bike shop in Bethesda, Maryland that has a Shimano mountain bike shoe in my size. A day later, I hopped on Bike Nellie bound for Terrapin Cycles, some 23 miles from home.
It was a beautiful day, the day after a nasty storm, when the humidity broke and temperatures moderated. Ahhh. I reached the bike shop and tried on the shoes. They were pretty good. A bit tight. Stiff. The soles had a cut out for clipless pedals. My three Shimano shoes all have a rubber patch that covers this cut out. Not this pair. I was about to settle for second best when the sales person told me that his boss had a different model that I might like.
Boss was wearing them. They had flat bottoms and a wide forefoot. He got online and found that Shimano was selling them at half price to make way for next year’s model. He ordered me a pair. I’ll be riding back up next week to try them on. Toes crossed.
A few minutes later I was waiting for my food order at a local eatery when I noticed that I had an email response from the Washington Area Bicyclist Association (WABA). I had tried to sign up for the 50 States Ride in September but WABA had failed to send me the code for a $10 discount for members. The email contained the code.
Good weather. The prospect of new shoes. A $10 discount. Life is good.
I took off on Big Nellie going downhill with a tailwind. Seriously. Life is good.
There I am having a splendid day when I feel a hot sensation on the back of my right hand. There was yellow-ish spot on the back of my black glove.. Apparently a bird had decided to shit on me. I pulled over to clean off my glove when I realized the bird had conducted a left-to-right strafing run. I had yellow-ish bird shit on my shorts and t-shirt.
Roseanne Rosannadanna was right. It’s always something.
And another thing…
A couple of days later I was doing some basic maintenance on my bikes. I had bought some cheap plastic fenders for Little Nellie and put them aside after I had difficulty mounting the rear one. Today I managed to put it on with very little difficulty.
Since I was doing maintenance anyway, I fixed a problem with the front brake. It was making a strange noise when I applied the brake. It turns out I have cartridge brakes on this bike. The pads slide into a metal holder and are secured in place by a metal pin. The pins on both brake pads had slipped out, causing one of them to contact the sidewall of the tire whenever I braked. A push from the flat side of a screwdriver fixed the problem.
Next up was chain cleaning and lubing. I did this to three bikes, the last one being my CrossCheck. I noticed the front tire was low on air. I had filled it only a few days ago. I refilled it and noticed that the pin inside the tube valve was bent causing a leak. I took the tire off and pulled a new tube out of the bag on the rear rack. The tube had a puncture. I pulled the patch kit out of the bag. The glue in the patch kit had dried.
I have a bag full of old tubes that I had patched. Every one of the tubes had a Schrader valve which is too wide for the hole in the rim of the CrossCheck.
So I found a tube with a presta valve in The Mule’s saddle bag and used that. Of course, I put the tire on backwards and had to re-mount the tire. After losing skin from both thumbs, I finally got the tire back on.
It’s time to go shopping for tubes and patch kits.
Anybody need a 700×35 Schrader valve tube? I have a few.
A Few Spokes Shy of a Wheel 