Not long ago I replaced the front wheel on the Sequoia, a bike with 29,000+ miles on it.  The brake wouldn’t work no matter what I did to it. The brake wouldn’t work because the rim had begun to cup. This sort of thing happens after over 18 years of use. 

So I put the Sequoia away for a while and came back to a couple of months later, only to discover that the back wheel wouldn’t turn freely and the back brake wouldn’t work properly.  The mechanic at Spokes, my local bike shop, adjusted the rear hub in a couple of minutes and warned me that it may need a rebuild (which means new ball bearings and grease).  Meanwhile I ordered a new rim from Mavic to match the front rim. 

Then I rode my Tour Easy, another bike with 29,000+ miles on it, in the basement.  The left pedal was making all kinds of noise.  It was starting to disintegrate just as it had done a few months before. I took it in to Spokes to replace the left crank arm and the pedals.  

While the Tour Easy was in the shop, I crashed the Sequoia and bent the front fork.  Spokes bent the fork back and I was good to go.  I rode the bike during the Halvvasa ride and had no problems. Today, I rode the bike and the right pedal was wobbling. When I got home I discovered that both pedals were coming apart. And the rear wheel was, once again, not spinning freely.

So I check out the Tour Easy and the mesh seat back seems to be tearing apart.  I also need a new seat pad so I am considering getting an entirely new seat.  $365.

Are these two bikes trying to tell me something?  Wouldn’t a nice shiny new bike fit nicely under the Easter tree or bush or,….,whatever?

Or maybe that tadpole trike I’ve been thinking about.

I’ll be broke no matter what I do.

Hmmmmm…..

Registration

Swedes are crazy people.  You would be, too, if you lived way up north and didn’t hardly see the sun for most of the winter.  At the end of winter, as proof of their insanity (as if the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and Abba were not enough), thousands of Swedes participate in a very long Nordic skiing event called the Vasaloppet. Along the way, they eat lots and wash it down with warm blueberry soup.  (Would I make this up?)

I belong to the Washington Area Bicyclists Association (WABA).  Every March, WABA teams up with the Swedish embassy to host a bicycling version of the Vassaloppet.  Some folks do the entire 60 mile ride. They must be Swedes. I, however, am of Irish extraction. I don’t do 60 mile rides in 45 degree weather. So I did the Halvvasa, which apparently is Swedish for Half Vasaloppet.

Pre-Ride: The Crowd Gathers

I drove to DC at an ungodly hour for a Sunday morning.  Coffee was my co-pilot.  I parked near the Jefferson Memorial and rode my Sequoia two miles along the river to the ride start/finish at the Swedish embassy along the Georgetown waterfront. This would be the test ride for my recently repaired front fork.

Bike Friday Club of DC – Jonathan and Me

The full Vasa ride had already left on its 60 mile trek. I picked up my cue sheet and found Jonathan Krall, like me a member of the Bike Friday Club of DC. We chatted with some other Halvvassed riders then headed out into a steady headwind.

Regina – Have Smile, Will Ride

The route takes trails and roads west to Great Falls Park, mostly along the Capital Crescent Trail and MacArthur Boulevard. This is a pretty flat ride save for a short-ish hill near the reservoir. We rode past Glen Echo Park, a mothballed amusement park of yesteryear and over the Cabin John Bridge.

The climb up into Great Falls is challenging.  It’s probably 1/2 mile long which is long enough to find a climbing rhythm.  We took Falls Road into Potomac Village spotting a flock (“flock” isn’t the right word here) of vultures snarfing down Sunday brunch – a deer carcass on the side of the road. Gross. 

The Boots Rider Had a Moustache on Her Bike.

Dude, Get Off My Dream Bike

Blue Bike, White Tires, Boots!

Welcome to Sweden

After a 15 minute chat in Potomac Village, we reversed course,  Before we reached the vultures, we banged a left through the Avenel development.  Oaklyn Drive was pool table smooth with several rolling hills.  It’s as nice a biking road as you will find. As I was about to pass the riders in front of me, I caught sight of a bicycle moving very fast on my left.  He was the lead rider in a club ride.  The club riders.soon were three abreast along side.  As they made their way past us, a car came from the opposite direction. The club riders compressed toward us. Thankfully, the driver was not playing Angry Birds on his iPhone and we all survived the encounter.

Swedish Innovation Exhibit

The ride back was very pleasant with a light tailwind that upped our cruising speed by five miles per hour.  Smooth sailing.  I fell into a pleasant 15 mile per hour groove and lost contact with Jonathan as he faded into the distance ahead of me.

A lovely, enthusiastic WABA volunteer called out to me at Reservoir Road and I made the right hand turn back down to the Capital Crescent Trail. Another 5 miles of scenic river riding and I was back at the embassy.    I had forgotten my lock, so Jonathan used his cable lock to lock our bikes together. Thanks, Jonathan.

Blueberry Soup

We entered the embassy and had some warm blueberry soup to celebrate our day.  We chatted with a bunch of other riders, including Mark Blacknell, whose name I have seen a million times on the Internet.  Mark is the current WABA president.  Frankly, I have no idea what that means, but his security detail and bullet proof bike were very impressive.

After Ride – Trying Out a Utility Bike

 
Good ride. Well done, WABA. Thanks for the hospitality, Swedish Embassy.

Until next year, skol, y’all.

When you are not allowed to eat, every commercial on television has the most amazing looking food in it.  Even food I don’t eat like fried shrimp looks amazing.  I stayed up until almost midnight watching TV and surfing the net while the flushing juice did its thing on my digestive tract.  I slept like a log.  Accompanied by my post op wingwoman, Mrs. Rootchopper, I arrived at 630 at the Colonoscopy Center around the corner from our house.  (When you buy a house, location is everything.) 

After the usual paperwork, I was taken back to be readied for the procedure.  Clad in a backless hospital gown, I laid down on an operating table. The nurse took my vitals (all good, thanks to cycling no doubt) and hooked me up to oxygen and a blood pressure cup and a pulse taking gizmo. (When your pulse is lower than your age, your in good shape and getting old.)  The doctor came in, stinking of gin.  Just kidding.

The anesthesiologist sat near my head and introduced himself. I promptly forgot his name.  Today I would be getting the celebrity anesthetic Propofol.  (This is what Michale Jackson od’ed on.) Dr. McCone, the man with the plan – and the scope – came up from behind.  He introduced himself and after some small talk, and an injection of Propofol, I blanked out. 

I was having some pretty good dreams.  It seemed like I was out for hours, but the whole procedure takes only 15 minutes. In my case, a little longer since the good doctor found two very small polyps.  As he said, odds are they are nothing to worry about, but left alone they could have become cancerous. (Eek, the “c'” word.)

My wife drove me home and I went to sleep for a couple of hours. I woke up and ate breakfast.  I’m still a tad off – mostly from the persistent gurgle in my gut.  That will go away with a couple of meals.

I go back in a few weeks to get the official pathology results. I won’t be surprised if Dr. McCone puts me on a more frequent schedule than every five years.  No complaints here. 

So for those of you who shy away from this sort of thing, here’s some advice from the Rootchopper Institute of Fluid Dynamics and Cancer Prevention:

• If you have a family history of colon cancer and you are over the age of 40, get a colonoscopy. If your doctor says no, get another doctor, and get a colonoscopy. If you’re younger than 40, talk to you doctor about one. If you don’t have a family history, and you’re over the age of 50, bend over!  You should have one, too!

• Yes, the prep sucks but it’s only one day.  (I know colon cancer patients who had repeated colonoscopies.  They have it bad. You don’t. Deal.)

• The procedure sounds awful but it doesn’t hurt at all. Not one bit. No pain. Big gain.

• It isn’t embarrassing. Okay, a little but what do you care? You’ll be unconscious. Try being a doctor who does this all day. Seriously, Dr. McCone and his staff are superb, professional, and experienced. I know he’s been doing colonoscopies for at least ten years because he did one on me in 2002 and another in 2007.   

• It isn’t expensive. With my insurance, it cost me $40. And I didn’t have a Groupon. I don’t know what it would cost you, but colon cancer is a killer. I’m pretty sure it’s a lot cheaper (and a whole lot less depressing) than a funeral. As Norman Chad says, “Pay the man, Shirley,”

So get your ass to your doctor.

As for me, I will spend the remainder of the day eating and napping. Tomorrow I plan on eating and reading as it pours buckets outside. Sunday morning, the Sequoia and I are doing the Vasa ride, an event run by the Washington Area Bicyclist Association and the Swedish Embassy. At the end of the ride, I’m drinking some blueberry soup.  

About 15 or so years ago, my mother had colon cancer. One of her older sisters died from it. My mother survived hers.  It may be because she caught it early, or the fact that she contracted the disease over a decade later when treatments were better. Either way, her cancer puts me in the deep end of the colon cancer risk pool. So I began getting colonoscopies ten years ago.

My first colonoscopy was uneventful. My mother warned me that the preparation would be unpleasant. It involved fasting the day before and drinking a couple gallons of nasty tasting solution. Think flat wheat beer mixed with gatorade and salt.. And you have to drink two gallons.  Basically, it flushes your digestive tract. The nasty taste is from all the electrolites they load the juice up with so that your heart won’t go haywire.  When I was a freshman in college I was very overweight.  A friend told me about this water diet he was on. So I tried it. I ate nothing and drank glass after glass of water for a few days.  Not surprisingly I spent the better part of a Saturday on the toilet, after which I collapsed on my bed with the shivers.  It seemed funny about a week later.  A few years later I learned that this diet can kill you by stripping your body of electrolites and sending you into cardiac arrest.  So, as bad tasting as the juice is, I don’t much mind. After I drank the first gallon, nothing happened.  I sat around for four hours thinking that I might have to cancel the procedure.  Then I drank the second gallon.  Madone!  Gurgle, Rumble and Roar.  Ready, when you are, doctor!

In the exam room, the next morning, a nurse came in to give me a sedative. I think it was vicodin.  I felt the stuff go up my arm. It made my whole body feel like it was glowing. I looked up at the nurse, smiled, and said, “That was so nice.”  Once the sedative took over, the doctor could have used a two by four and I wouldn’t have cared. After the procedure, I was given the news that I was cancer and polyp-free.

Five years ago, I had my second colonoscopy. I decided that, since I knew what I was doing, that I could go to work the day before.  I still had to fast but the flushing solution was different. I only had to drink two liters, about four hours apart. It still tasted foul. And two liters is still a lot.  I drank the first liter around 1 pm expecting nothing to happen.  And it didn’t.  For about an hour. Then, Mary, Mother of Gawd! Gurgle, Rumble, and Roar!  All afternoon. Other than vanishing from work for three hours, the rest of the prep and procedure was uneventful.  The sedative knocked me out this time so I didn’t experience the pleasant rush in my arm. After wards, my doctor gave me the same good news.

This time, for some reason, the preparation is different again.  The instructions say to start taking the juice at 4 pm.  Even though I could have spent most of the day in the office, out of anxiety, I teleworked. All I could think about all day was food. The instructions on the juice box say you can add something to the juice to make it taste lest horrific.  I toyed with the idea of vodka.  Then it occurred to me that you really don’t want to be drunk when this stuff kicks in. And it did kick in. Jesus Christ really does have a middle name! Gurgle, Rumble and Roar! I still have a liter to go as I write this. Ugh and I hoping tomorrow morning brings good news. 

The Sequoia

 Since I couldn’t eat lunch, I drove over to Spokes to retrieve the Sequoia.  The pedal overlap is minimal.  The bike tracks straight and true. Well done, Fred. A mechanic and I fiddled a bit with the front fender and trimmed the stays.  I should be good to go.  Speaking of going…..

It has been an eventful winter at the Rootchopper Institute of Bicycle Education.  Last week I learned that even when riding into a gale force wind, it is a good idea to look where you are going. Oddly, I now catch myself staring at the ground in front of me as I ride. I’ve never noticed that before. Riding into the back of a parked car and going ass over tea kettle is a rough way to learn. So is the prospect of losing my 19 year old steed to fatigue and stupidity. (What was I doing riding in a wind storm anyway?)

Today I learned that runners on the Mount Vernon Trail have their own personal relationships with God.  As it goes by National Airport, the Mount Vernon Trail is pinched between the airport fence and the George Washington Parkway (which, unlike the airport, was not renamed after the host of Death Valley Days, but I digress).  I was heading south, plodding along on Little Nellie like a prospector on a burro in the mountains of the old west. Coming toward me on the opposite side of the trail along the fence was a fit female runner. She was cruising along with ear plugs, lost in her running trance. Behind her came a man, about my age, a bike commuter with a head of steam.  He had just come off a bridge that carries the trail high over an airport access road. No warning. Zoom, right past the runner just as she was about to step to her left for some reason known only to her and her iPod. The cyclist just missed her.  “Jesus Fucking Christ!!!”  she yelled as she cringed toward the fence. She was lucky she didn’t get hit. The passing cyclist was lucky he didn’t crash into her. I was lucky they both didn’t collide into me. Just about the only good that came of the whole situation was that I learned that Jesus has a middle name.

It’s nearly spring time folks.  Time for all of us to pay attention (me included). Slow your roll (as Nici on WHFS used to say). Chill. Take the ear plugs out. Give a warning when passing. If we all don’t exercise a little common sense and pay attention to our surroundings, we’re going to have a miserable March.  And having your own personal Jesus, with or without a middle name, isn’t going to do you a damned bit of good as the EMTs disentangle our mangled bodies and machines.

With two of my three bikes in the shop for repairs, I rode to work on Little Nellie, my Bike Friday New World Tourist. Nellie has little wheels so the ride is comparable to the bike I rode in 1st grade.  The upside of little wheels is the responsive steering and quick acceleration. The downside is the harsh ride (quite hard on my back) and the fact that little holes in the road pose a danger. 

I made it to work uneventfully, despite the fact that my left hand had trouble gripping the brake lever.  This was an after effect of my bike crash over the weekend. I also was kind of groggy from staying up late to watch the Academy Awards on TV. No worries. I made it in one piece and was even treated to a bald eagle sighting at the Belle Haven nest.  Seeing a bald eagle, majestic in the early morning light, perched high above the trail always makes my day..

During the day I received an email telling me that the Sequoia was ready for pick up. Excellent news, dude.  The ride home was considerably warmer than the morning commute but the head wind made for an honest bit of work. I noticed that the left hand was now functioning properly, no doubt the result of the ingestion of Vitamin I (ibuprofen) during the day.

I dropped Little Nelllie at home and jumped in the car to retrieve the Sequoia.  Fred, my long-time mechanic, had bent the fork back into place evenly. It felt fine but it was still about 1/2 inch to close to the frame.  My toes overlapped with the front wheel, surely a recipe for disaster. I returned the bike and we’ll see if Fred can salvage my baby.

If he can’t I have two options. Option one would be to buy a new fork. The odds of this working out are not real good. It’s a 19 year old bike after all.  Option two would be to say good bye to an old friend and buy a new bike. This is a nightmare, not because of the expense, but because I am an utterly incompetent consumer.   I suppose this is a good thing, because otherwise I’d have ten bikes instead of three. 

So will see if Fred can tweak the fork a bit more and go from there. Little Nellie gets the call again tomorrow. She doesn’t mind.  It’s lonely being home alone.

Many years ago during Bike DC, I watched in amazement as a cyclist hammered up a long hill with his head down. Bam! Right into the back of a parked car. He did an Arte Johnson. As Bugs Bunny used to say, “What a maroon!”  Davis Phinney once did the same thing in the Tour de France.  He launched himself through the back window of a station wagon.  Another maroon!

How hard is it to avoid a stationary object? I mean really??

The day started out like any other Saturday.  I read the Post and managed to finish all three crossword puzzles including the tough one in the Style section of tomorrow’s paper.  Then I made a to do list and set out to do it.

Item 1 was to caulk some gaps in the concrete steps leading to the house.  I hate caulking but this worked out nicely.

Item 2 was to check my records on when our two Honda Accords last had oil changes.  We’re still good for a month on both cars so I didn’t have to take either in for service. 

Item 3 was to take the Tour Easy in to the Belle Haven Spokes Etc. shop for a new crank arm and pedal.  I chatted with Fred, a mechanic who has been fixing my bikes since the late 1980s when he was working at Metropolis in Shirlington.  Another mechanic ordered the crank arm and I left with hope that the Tour Easy will be on the road by next weekend.

So far, so good. Three items checked off.

Item 4 was a Utilitare ride.  I needed to get my 2011 copy of Turbo Tax and some file folders from Staples.  And on the way I’d pick up some tax forms for my kids at the library.  Then I’d back track to the drug store to buy some medicine.  Then a quick stop for some bird seed and another for a couple of lottery tickets.  Very productive, no?

No. 

I started out for the library into a mighty headwind.  I could barely move!  Wasn’t it 70 degrees yesterday? This was nuts.  I made it the half mile to the library after much effort. The library stop was, however, a bust.  They didn’t have any Virginia tax forms.  The last time I check Virginia charged $20 to file electronically.  My kids refund would be less than that so they would be filing paper returns. Now I’ll have to download and print them.  Annoying,

On to Staples into the mighty wind. I was getting no place slowly when I decided to drop my head and just grind it out.  The only problem with this strategy is that when your head is down, you can’t see what’s in front of you.  It dawned on me after a while that I hadn’t looked up.  So I did. And there, only a few feet in front of me, was a green Honda Accord parked quite legally.  Minding its own business. I reached for the brakes. Too late. Bam!

The fall was in slow motion. As I descended I could hear a voice inside my head saying, “You are such a Maroon!!!”  I had the presence of mind to roll as I hit the pavement and I was going really slow thanks to the headwind.  This did not make the asphalt any less hard however.

Feeling like a complete Nimrod, I stood up, gathered my trusty Sequoia and discovered that my front wheel was now a half inch of so closer to the frame than it was before the impact.  Not good.

I fiddled with the fender stays as they were intersecting with the diagonal tube on the front of the bike.  Then I rode on to Staples.  The steering felt funny. So of course a fire engine had to force me into the curb and a redneck had to cut me off in her pick up truck. Can’t you people see that I am having a bad day here?

After I locked my bike at Staples, I took a good look at the front fork from the side. It was obviously bent.  Ugh,

After buying my wares, I backtracked to the drug store.  I dropped off my prescription, bought the bird seed, and the lottery tickets and headed for home. Another Utilitaire ride in the bag, but a what cost? I loaded the Sequoia onto my bike rack for the drive to Spokes, fingers crossed all the way. 

At times like these you want a bike mechanic with lots of experience. Fred’s been at it for well over 20 years so I was very fortunate that he was still there. I’ve always heard that if steel bends you can usually bend it back. You can’t do this with other frame materials. I never thought I’d ever take advantage of this obscure fact. Fred checked the fork and frame for cracks and other irregularities. Finding none, he declared the Sequoia repairable. Just put it in the jig and bend it back in place. We hope.

What a relief. This bike has 29,750 miles on it.  I’d hate to lose it.

On the way out of the store I took a quick look at their stock of Surly Long Haul Truckers just in case the jig is up.

Today was a day that I’ve been waiting for since October. Mr. Weatherman said that it would be 60 degrees in the afternoon.  Yesss.

But first I had to deal with the ride in. Noooo.

It wasn’t so bad.  When I left the cozy confines of the Rootchopper Institute, it was a reasonable 46 degrees, warn enough to leave the fleece bike booties at home.  Mr. Weatherman also kindly added a light tail wind to the proceedings.  The first five miles were effortless.  To cap them off, a bald eagle took in the sun at the Belle Haven nest.  He or she was looking fine in the bright morning sunshine.

I rode through Old Town without a care. The traffic cop at Saint Mary’s School waved me through the mess o’SUVs dropping off all the papists.  At the north end of Old Town, I guessed that the Mount Vernon Trail was still closed near the power plant.  I guessed right and made my way along the bumpy Root Route, so named because it is a wash board of tree routes on the west side of the power plant.

BBUS Alert!

The next five miles went without a hitch.  As I made my way toward the 14th Street Bridge I saw something black on the side of the trail.  It was a black bra of unusual size, a BBUS!  In all my years of bicycling and running along the byways I have never seen a BBUS.  So today was my lucky day.  All I could think of as I stood over the BBUS was what a rude surprise for the bike commuter who lost this.

Sequoia and Flowers

I have no use for a BBUS and thought perhaps the owner would be looking for it so I left it where I found it and carried on.  After clearing the Memorial Bridge underpass I came upon beautiful blooming daffodils. Mr Weatherman has fooled Mother Nature.  Lovely.

I had to interrupt my biking to make a living but after 9 hours of toiling for the man, I was back on the bike.  When I left the tower of toil in Rosslyn it was 62 degrees.  Soooo nice.

A BBUS of a Different Sort

On the way home I passed the site of the BBUS, It was gone. I do hope it found its owner.  A few miles later I passed another BBUS.  This one was the boys’ bike of unusual size.  The bike had some sort of extension on the back on which were perched two little boys in helmets.  They seemed to be enjoying making dad slog up the flyover spans at National Airport. 

After clearing Old Town, I made my way over to Fort Hunt Road and to the Spokes Etc. bike shop at Belle Haven for some new front brakes.  Basically, I’ve been riding without front brakes for two or three weeks.  Not recommended. Spokes is a pretty good shop and they do incidental repairs such as installing brake pads while you wait.  In fifteen minutes I was back on the bike.  I climbed the long rise on Fort Hunt Road in the dark.  From there it was pretty much three miles down hill to home.

Mr. Weatherman you’re the best.

P.S. Since I stopped at the bike shop, this counts as yet another Utilitaire ride.

Although I have been eliminated from MG’s Utilitaire 12 Challenge, I continue to forge ahead, using my bike for life, liberty and the pursuit of car maintenance. Yes, sadly I own a car, three actually.  Today the Millenium Falcon needed an oil change and an alignment. 

I used to change the oil in my car every 3,000 miles. Consumer Reports did a test of the oil in New York City taxi cabs.  They found out that the oil in the taxis was still good after 10,000 miles.  So, nowadays, I change my oil every 7,500 miles.  I lost track of the last time I changed the oil in this car.  I think when the oil looks like the La Brea tar pits, it’s probably a good idea to change it.

Sometimes I wonder if I wasted money and despoiled the environment with all those unnecessary oil changes.  I don’t drive that much so I think the planet is safe. Besides the real benefit to frequent oil changes is when the mechanic discovers that your brakes are toast while he’s underneath your car. . 

The same is true of bike maintenance. If you clean your chain every couple of weeks, you will have the opportunity to spot any other problems. I always inspect the frame for cracks. Two of my bikes have 29,000 miles on them so metal fatigue is a concern.  It’s not very likely, but I once had a fork failure during a ride. I was at a standstill when it happened.  Something felt odd about the steering. I pulled over and stopped. CLANG.  There was my right fork blade lying on the ground. For those of you new to cycling, let me explain. This is not good. If this had happened while I was bombing down a hill, I would have been in a world of hurt.

So what does taking my car to the mechanic have to do with the Utilitaire. Technically, nothing at all since I failed to do 2 qualifying trips last week. (Oh, the shame!. The shame!) Never the less, I could get some sort of honorable mention from MG, her highness, beauteous Queen Utilitairiana. (Sucking up to the contest judge can’t hurt at this stage of my miserable failed existence.)

Anyway, I hate to wait at the mechanic while they work on my car. So I put the Sequoia on the bike rack and rode the mile or so home while the car was serviced.  Then, a few hours later I rode back. 

The Sequoia hides behind a promotional sign at the mechanic.

When I have work done on my car during the work week, I do the same thing except I ride to and from work. 

The mechanic’s waiting area is always filled with people looking pissed for having to blow their weekend morning taking their car in. People, get a bike!. Ride home and get something done with your automotive downtime. I rode a little under 3 miles during today’s utiltaire. Instead of sitting on uncomfortable chairs drinking bad coffee and listening to ESPN blare away, I had a nice little spin to my house where I sat in an uncomfortable chair and drank bad coffee that I made myself.

I spent over $300 on the car.  Sheesh! Cars are appallingly expensive.

Later in the day, I went for a ride and stopped in at my local bike shop. They recently ordered a new rear rim for my bike. It’s not in yet.  The current rim is 19 years old and has nearly 30,000 miles on it.  The side of the rim is cupping.  I may not be the smartest gut around, but I know that I am riding on borrowed time.

I wonder how long a bike rim lasts in New York City.  Consumer Reports should get to work on that.

This never happens.

My daughter was out of town from Sunday until Thursday.  It didn’t snow. Not a flake, That means I could ride my bike to work every day this week. In mid-February. And damned if I didn’t pull it off.

It looked a little doubtful on Monday morning. I had spent most of the weekend feeling lousy.  And it was 19 degrees out when I stepped out the door. Ugh. Once I got rolling I felt fine.  The temperature rose to 30 degrees by the time I arrived at work.  Success.

By Tuesday I was fully recovered from what ailed me.  So riding was a breeze,  Ditto Wednesday.

On Thursday all was going fine on the way to work until I encountered a barrier across the Mount Vernon Trail.  A maintenance person was standing at a second barrier about 200 feet away.  There was no activity. No equipment.  No reason for the barrier.  If I obeyed the barrier I would have to back track about a half a mile.  Screw the barrier. I rode around it.  A man on a mission.

Thursday evening the barrier was gone.  A fog was building. My headlight created a glow.  The last few miles in the dark were spooky.

Friday morning arrived in a fog both literally and figuratively.  I was groggy because we didn’t get home from the airport until around 11. My daughter arrived on time but her baggage took about an hour to get from the plane to the terminal.  On a little over 4 hours of sleep, I headed out on my bike into a dense fog. Four miles into the ride I spotted my first robin of 2012.  He or she looked a little scruffy.  Welcome back.

Then I came upon the barrier and the maintenance guy.  This time he set up his barrier 1/2 mile to the south of its previous location.  I asked him what it was for and he said, “Maintenance.”  Loquacious. Dude, move to New Hampsha. You’ll fit right in. 

I took his picture and followed the detour.  Somebody at the National Park Service must have told the maintenance crew to move their barrier to a more appropriate spot.  Cheers.

Loquacious Larry and His Barrier

The rest of the ride was uneventful.

On the way home as I hit a swampy area just north of Old Town.  I spotted a downy egret in the reedy shallows along the trail.  He was fishing up a storm.  The ground was very mucky.  It should have smelled awful. Instead, I was overcome with the smell of steak. Somebody was cooking out. There were no homes within a quarter mile of my location.  Strange. It smelled wonderful.  I was closing in on 140 miles since Monday and I was HUNGRY.  Where’s that steak?

I considered hunting down the steak and killing the cook.  I could make a quick get away.  It would be the perfect crime. Except for the fact that a bicyclist with a steak hanging from his mouth is a tad unusual.

Cop: Is that a steak in your mouth, sir?
Me:  [Muffled sound of words unable to bypass massive cut of sirloin]

Cop: Book ‘im, Danno.

No worries. I got off. Justifiable homicide.

I arrived home with 147 miles on my odometer. 5 days. 5 commutes. In February. So fine.