I am really, really, really getting sick of this back thing. It is definitely better than a week ago but I still can’t stand up straight after sitting in a chair.
This morning I broke out the big gun.
I’ve done this program in the past with Mrs. Rootchopper. It’s not easy. The first day is just a short warm up with three exercises. Each one of the first day’s exercises involves a back bend. Dang, am I stiff. Even with my limited range of motion, I could feel my back loosening up. About an hour later. I was standing tall and straight and my back felt fine.
Sadly, this lasted only about 20 minutes.
I spent the rest of the morning dealing with some small tasks around the house, killing time as the temperature outside rose. When it broke 60, I hit the road.
I didn’t have anywhere to go so I rode around the Fort Hunt neighborhood near my home. I took the Mount Vernon Trail down to Mount Vernon then rode the streets of Woodlawn. During the ride I came upon this cool house with two giant windmills on the roof. A few years ago, a man in a Tesla waved me down while I was riding Big Nellie, my long wheel base recumbent. He was an engineer who was interested in energy saving machines, designs and devices. When we parted, he told me he was building a house near Mount Vernon that would produce more energy than it consumed. Perhaps the windmill house was his.
I rode to the west side of US 1. A new road is under construction that will connect US 1 to Telegraph Road. This will be a welcome addition to the street network. I hope it has bicycle lanes on it.
The ride home was very flat and boring. Just what my back needed. I managed to ride a little over 30 miles. It felt like 50 thanks to my gimpy back. The dismount at home was not a pretty sight.
Tomorrow is day 2 of the yoga program and the last warm day of February. I’m riding whether my back likes it or not.
I wake up in the morning and feel fine. Then within minutes my back starts to stiffen up. My lower back just below my left kidney feels like someone hit it with a baseball bat. I also have what feels like a hip pointer and soreness outside my knee on my left side. This hip and leg problem is probably iliotibial band (ITB) syndrome, a tightness in the tissue that runs from above the hip (and just below the soreness in my back) down the outside of the leg where it re-attaches to bone below the knee. It’s probably caused by my having to compensate for the awkward posture that the stiffness brings. ITB is an old acquaintance. I wish I could de-friend it but it keeps coming back.
I have noticed that a little movement seems to loosen things up so I walked 2 1/2 miles today. I had a pronounced limp but I got where I set out to go. (I bought a couple of Powerball tickets because nothing says “Who cares about back problems?” quite like $400 million.) My ITB wasn’t thrilled but at least my little excursion got me out of the house. When I arrived back home I was just as stiff as when I left.
Then I went into the basement and rode Big Nellie very gently for an hour. Usually, this loosens my back but, if anything, it made it stiffer. Even the recumbent gods are messing with me.
It’s pretty damned frustrating. I watch all these Olympic athletes schussing and skating and such and all I can think is “F%^K YEEEWWWWW”.
I’m not bitter.
Things could be worse, of course. I could have cancer, which reminds me that I find out about my skin biopsy on Wednesday. Or maybe, I could have senile dementia.
Where was I?
Oh yes. I was wallowing in self pity.
The only upside to this last two weeks is the fact that it’s been pretty lousy bike commuting weather. And since last week’s snow storm the Mount Vernon Trail has been impassible, making bike commuting impossible. This will change by Wednesday or Thursday when temperatures will rise into the 50s and, maybe, 60s.
As bike riding goes, January was to be endured. I rode about 465 miles of which about 111 was on my trainer in the basement. I say “about” because I really can only guess at how far I rode by the time involved. I did manage to get in 10 commutes totaling 265 1/2 miles. Leaving merely three outdoor rides of 79 1/2 miles on the weekends. In January 2013 I rode 585 miles including 18 commutes. And all of my riding was outdoors.
The Mule bore most of the load this month, 318 1/2 miles. Big Nellie did 131 miles, but only 20 outdoors. Little Nellie with only 6 1/2 miles is feeling neglected.
It has been unusually cold here in DC this year. As far as bike riding is concerned, this is actually a pretty normal January. I’d have ridden more outside but for the ice and snow on the Mount Vernon Trail which the National Park Service owns and refuses to clear. The typical excuse is that it is used by cross country skiers but I didn’t see a single one on the MVT all month. The NPS’s refusal to clear the trail is really about priorities and budgets. At least nearby Arlington County decided to clear its trails (after much shaming by area cyclists).
On the bright side, the days are getting longer. We’ll be done with ninja dodging soon.
It’s been a while since I had a close encounter with a ninja so I suppose I was overdue. It was Friday night and well after sunset. I was riding south on the Mount Vernon Trail. As I approached the Dyke Marsh bridge, the headlights of the cars on the adjacent George Washington Memorial Parkway were shining directly into my eyes. Since I was riding The Mule, I dipped my head so that the visor on my helmet would shade my eyes from the glare. Then I saw something move just ahead of me on the left side of the trail. It was a woman in a dark red sweat suit facing me. The only reason I saw her was the car lights reflecting off the white stripes on the side of her outfit. I started to brake and immediately in front of me was a man in a matching suit. His was black or dark blue. He was turning, doing a button hook in the lane only a few feet in front of me. I saw the stripes on his suit.
“OH!”
That’s what he said. In addition to having situational and sartorial awareness he was loquacious! I snapped on my brakes and he pivoted and stepped to the other side of the path away from me. My left foot briefly touched ground as I slowed to a near stop. Alarmed, I said something to the effect of “What are you doing!” In retrospect, I am pretty impressed that I didn’t blurt out a stream of f-bombs. There just wasn’t time. He and Red Sweat Suit staggered off up the path.
Rather than confront the Sweat Suits I continued on home.
It was an annoying end to a pretty good day.
In the morning, I went to the second anniversary Friday Coffee Club. Even without many of the regulars, the joint was jumping. Word must have gotten out that there was going to be a cake. Bike commuters are a lot like graduate students; they’ll do anything for free food. Add coffee and you’ve got yourselves some vampires at a blood bank.
I went five for five this week, commuting on all five days. Okay, I cheated a bit. On Tuesday, I drove to a car dealership in Arlington. I rode from there to work, about 12 miles shorter than my normal commute each way. Still, I managed to get in 120 miles with my commuting.
Another significant off-the-bike event was the two-day retirement seminar I attended. I’ve been eligible to retire from the government for a few months so I need to get my ducks in a row. For many reasons I will continue to work until the end of September. Sometime this summer I will re-assess my situation. As it stands right now, I’m getting paid to do research and ride a bike along the Potomac River 30 miles per day. Not a bad gig, if you ask me.
The retirement seminar was pretty depressing. There’s a fairly decent chance that I will end up old, blind, toothless, demented, and alone. Longevity is way overrated, if you ask me.
My plan for my final year of life is simple. When I sense the end is near, I’ll buy an electric assist tadpole trike. I’ll hang two panniers off the rack on the back. I’ll fill one with clothes and bike stuff and the other with cash, marijuana (it will be legal and it weighs very little), cigarettes, and fine scotch whiskey and head for the sun. I’ll probably need some sort of navigation aid, but I figure Google will have that figured out by 2020.
I’ll die in a collision with a ninja outside a retirement community near Pie Town, New Mexico.
When it comes to retirement, you’ve got to have a plan.
Four hours of sleep and a stuffy head do not a happy bike commuter make. The ride to work was drudgery made worse by the headwind, cold-ish temps (30s), and incessant need to blow my nose and cough up all kinds of gunk. We’re having fun now.
On the plus side, the Mount Vernon Trail was all but empty so The Mule and I could enjoy my misery in solitude.
The weather reports called for snow this evening. At 4 pm I checked the radar. It was raining along my entire commute route. Just to the west, like the jagged index finger of a wicked witch, there ran a long, thin red band (ice), followed by a sea of blue (snow). I finished up a few odds and ends and started packing.
I was on the road by 430. There was some slushy stuff mixed in with the rain. Not too bad. As long as that red streak stayed to the west I was in good shape.
It rained and rained. Yet I was completely comfy. I wore my Marmot Precip rain suit. This is outerwear originally designed for the military and it really works as advertised. You won’t win any cycling fashion shows wearing it and it makes you about as aerodynamic as a flabby moose (floose?) but you’ll stay warm and dry. And so I was.
I plodded along ignoring my speedometer. I usually commute at 11-13 miles per hour but I was definitely off the low end of that range. Along the way I saw some cyclists and runners without rain gear. They looked unhappy. I was all smiles. I was so happy I didn’t even think about being sick and groggy.
Considering the craptastic weather and my cold, I’d say the first bike commute of the year was a rousing success.
There is an inch of snow outside as I write this at 10 pm. To celebrate my first bike commute, I will eat some quiche and work from home tomorrow. Regrets to Mary and Rhoda but the only Friday Coffee Club I’m doing this week will be in my kitchen.
New Years Day is weird. It’s a time out at the start of the game. What a waste. We should all go to work and save the day off for August or late April when we can really use a day off. But you go with what you got, so I did.
I read the paper then read some more of a book I received as a gift for Christmas. It’s about slavery and academe in colonial America. Nothing like a book full of hate to kick start the new year. Thoroughly depressed, I decided to get out of the house. Ideally, I would have preferred going for a walk in the woods but that would have required a drive and it was already noon. So I decided to take a short ride on The Mule.
I headed north on the Mount Vernon Trail with no destination in mind. Kids were out showing off their new Christmas bikes to mom and dad. Pink bikes with tassles are big this year. (I suppose they are big every year.) I’m no fan of bringing little ones onto trails like the MVT but the traffic on the trail today was light and the kids were having a blast. (WOW! This bike is sooooo cool!)
Alas, The Mule is rather old like its rider. I bought it about 21 years ago. It just keeps rolling along without complaint. Maybe I should put some tassles on it.
I had a tailwind and the temperature was creeping up through the 40s as I rode. I gave the holey sweater the day off in favor of the long sleeved shirt that was under the Christmas tree. I guessed right and was perfectly comfy for the entire ride. Score one for Mrs. Rootchopper.
I headed in to DC to check out the New Year’s Day riding at Hains Point. It was pretty busy with grown ups in lycra riding their fancy pants bikes with skinny tires. I made no effort to keep up. I did one three-mile lap, saw no one that I knew, and decided to head back home. I was greeted by my first headwind of the New Year. Pedal pedal.
I rolled in to the driveway after 29.5 miles. My mind was calmed.
Tomorrow brings the first commute of the year. With a storm coming, high winds and frigid temperatures, I expect that I will telecommute on Friday. Gotta ease in to this 2014 thing.
The weatherman was in full panic mode last night. Send, lawyers, guns, and money mode. I planned on driving to work for the first time since June. When I woke up at 5:30, I could see I had been duped. The temperature was 38. The ground was dry. I packed up all my cares and woes, including my anvil of a laptop, and headed out on The Mule.
I was dressed perfectly. It might as well have been a morning in June. Except for an occasional sprinkle my waterproof gear went untested.
I started to worry a bit at lunchtime. The temperature had dropped. Would their be icing on the trail at night?
I left work at 5:15 into a steady rain. I avoided all the metal grates on Lynn Street and carefully made my way to the Mount Vernon Trail. It looked slick so I took my time. It soon became apparent that ice would not be a problem. Rain drops on my glasses were. Humongous puddles were. But no ice. And lucky for me, no wind either. I cruised home seeing only a handful of other people on the trail. The rain and the quiet made for a very calm, meditative ride.
A man was walking his dog in the rain next to the stone bridge a couple of miles from home. He yelled out, “Biking in the rain is hardcore!” I responded, “Yeah!” Loquacious, aren’t I?
The fallen leaves must have been clogging up the storm drains. I slalomed big, deep puddles the rest of the way home. I pulled into home with a smile on my face. Panic? Moi? Surely you jest.
5:30 in big red numbers. It was taunting me. My body still thinks its Daylight Savings Time. Leave me alone. 5:31. Dammit.
Suffice it to say, I left early. The Mule and I went a half mile to the middle school down the street. I parked right in front of the door to the polls. My delegate, a democrat, was standing there in a Republican cloth coat that would make Pat Nixon proud. After he finished school he rode his bike across the country. Based on his comments on an interview I gave to the Alexandria Patch online newspaper, he doesn’t quite get cycling as a means of transportation. I will endeavor to edjumacate him over the next few years. He got my vote because he was running against someone who strikes me as a raving religious lunatic.
The line was 3 people long. I was third. Like George Halas.
I voted and collected my sticker. Do they put a gold star on my ballot or a pony sticker?
I was off to greet the rising sun. On Park Terrace a big silver SUV pulled along side me. I heard a familiar voice. It was Reba, normally a bike commuter (and Friday Coffee Club regular). She had rolled down her passenger side window so we could have a rolling chat. More motorists should chat with cyclists. It would defuse the war on cars. After a few minutes, Reba drove away to mingle with the not-so-chatty cars on the George Washington Memorial Highway.
When I got to the highway the sun was peeking over the horizon. It stopped me in my tracks on the Dyke Marsh boardwalk.
A mile or so further along I looked over at the tree with the Belle Haven nest. Two bald eagles was taking in the sunrise. It’s been quite a long while since I’ve seen two in that tree.
I reached down to get a drink of water. No bottle. Oops. Thirst ensued.
I buzzed along the Mount Vernon Trail seeing my regulars much farther to the north than usual, because of my early departure. Nancy “Two Sheds” Duley was startled to see me and gave me her patented wave. (Inside occupational humor.)
The rest of the ride was blissfully devoid of nasty, cold headwinds. A block from my office a Mercedes ran a red light to take a right through the crosswalk that was occupied by about 20 pedestrians, The Mule and I. (It’s legal to ride on the sidewalks in Rosslyn. I checked.)
After a day of magnificent bureaucracy, I headed out. There was still a good 15 minutes of daylight. The trees along the trail are hanging on to their fall foliage for yet another day. It’s been a good show. I tried not to think of the depressing gray and wind and cold that will become the norm for the next three months.
Then it was dark, And the business at hand was following the big white spot in the trail ahead of me. Yes, my master. It’s like riding through a virtual tunnel. Then suddenly, my house appears. Home, warm and dry.
Ah, the end of daylight savings time. It was so great to ride to work in the daylight with the warm sun and a steady tailwind. Wait! Let’s start over. It was flippin’ cold out there this morning. The relentless headwind was not so great either. It took me an entire 15 seconds to shake the fog of sleep out of my head. Sheesh.
The Mule was put back in action today thanks to a new seatpost binder bolt from Bicycle Space. Mechanic to the stars Paul was concerned that it might be too short but that’s probably because the bolt I broke and showed him might have been too long. Everything’s relative, in it’s own way, because Ray Stevens said so. Or maybe not.
It was cold on the river. A gaggle of geese was making a racket near Belle Haven Park just to stay warm. A lone cormorant swam silently out into the river looking like a sub at periscope depth. Ducks were quacking their fool heads off in the marsh north of Old Town. It made me wonder why cormorants don’t get with the program.
I managed to get to work only ten minutes late, which was about the amount of time it took to put on and take off all the damned layers of clothing I wore. I wasn’t particularly aerodynamic but I felt like it when a guy rode by me with his bike jacket flapping in the wind like a flag in a hurricane.
The bike rack at the office was nearly full. I was shocked. I have no idea what happened. Maybe I work in a building with lots of Aussies who think it’s early summer. Nobody said G’Day to me so maybe I’m wrong.
I left the office just as the sun was setting. Within two blocks I was shoaled. Shoaling is not allowed in Rosslyn (because I said so). If you get to the circle of death first, I will ride on your cold, lifeless, shoaling, loathsome body. And then The Mule will kick you in the head for good measure.
The Mount Vernon Trail was much busier in the evening. Nothing says “Lets go for a walk in our dark clothes, honey” like a cold dark night on a narrow trail with headlights backlighting everything. It was like a ninja convention. Adding to the fun, about a quarter of the cyclists coming toward me had no lights. Tonight, I will have nightmares that I am going to end up in a heap with my front wheel lodged up some ninja’s ass like its a bikeshare docking station.
South of Old Town I encountered my first deer of the rut. It was a young deer, perhaps a year or two old. Probably a doe. She stood on the left side of the trail, facing the trail, seemingly preparing to bolt across my path as I approached. I turned on my high beam. She didn’t even flinch. Until I was 15 yards away. Then she bolted. Thankfully, she turned as she did because she ran up the trail in the direction I was coming from. Deer ninjas are creepy.
Tomorrow, I get to ride to the polls. I love standing in line with my helmet on. Makes my neighbors think they are in line with a weirdo. They’d be right.
The Washington Area Bicycling Association (WABA) is a membership funded bicycle advocacy organization. They’ve been hard at work for over 40 years helping the DC area become a better place to ride a bike. This week they are holding a membership drive so I volunteered to help out at a sign up location on the Mount Vernon Trail near the 14th Street Bridge.
I arrived early and waited for the WABA staff person to show up with the sign up materials. It was warm and the sun was still shining. At around 5 o’clock I saw something that I have not noticed before. There was a torrent of bicycles streanming down the ramp from the bridge. This was especially surprising to me since I hadn’t seen many bike commuters in the morning. They were coming fast and all I could think of was how do you get them to stop?
After a few minutes, Lolly showed up. She is WABA’s membership coordinator. She had all the paperwork, clipboards, pens, and a gizmo on her smartphone for taking payments. And she had sidewalk chalk. After getting our bikes secured, she went up the ramp to write WABA and draw arrows on the trail. She is brave. And crazy. Meanwhile I decided that this membership gig called for some serious extroversion. Being a total introvert, I decided to put on an accent and bark like a hot dog vendor at a ballpark (Get your WABA memberships heah!) Cyclists just kept zooming past probably wondering what that lunatic on the side of the trail was yelling about. Many of them had ear buds in. I HATE earbuds. I thought, “This is going to be a long evening.”
I bike therefore I am Lolly
Then, as if by a miracle, a rider stopped. Lolly did her smartphone thing and I ran off with the chalk to write on the trail to the north and south. More ballpark vending ensued. This is TOTALLY not like me. I was really uncomfortable, but no guts, no glory. Another person stopped and another. One was a guy who had let his WABA membership lapse. He originally joined in 1973! He re-upped. Go team!
Mr. WABA 1973
Dana, a jovial and somewhat insane bike commuter and frequent attendee at cycling get-togethers like Friday Coffee Club and the Third Thursday happy hour, stopped and pitched in. His voice and enthusiasm project better than mine and he worked the trail like a man possessed. More and more people stopped to sign up. I kept barking out my pleas for members. “Sign up for WABA or I’ll kill my cat!” (Note: I don’t own a cat.) Dana handed out some chewing gum to us which helped immensely as I was starting to lose my voice.
Our numbers grew again when Larry showed up. He had walked over for the Columbia Island parking area on the opposite side of the George Washington Memorial Parkway. Unlike the rest of us, he looked like a grown up in normal office clothing. He started right in soliciting memberships. Somehow he managed to speak entire sentences to passing cyclists. Meanwhile, I was falling to my knees shamelessly begging for people to sign up. An old school DC lawyer once was overheard telling his protégé. “Never be afraid to make a fool of yourself for your client.” I took his advice to heart.
After a while Dana rode off. Thanks, for helping. We really couldn’t have done it with out you, sir. WABA owes you a tall latte and a fritter.
Occasionally, people would stop by to chat. An “old” (hey, he looked about my age but he self identified as old) man came by with a big yellow bucket sitting on the top tube of his bike. He had a fishing rod, broken into two parts like a pool cue, strapped to the top tube a well. The bottom of the inside of the bucket was covered with bait fish. He didn’t sign up but he talked a blue streak about fishing and his 1955 gas guzzling Chevy. I tried to be polite but the cyclists were still passing by and the sun was setting. What made it doubly stressful is that (a) I don’t know diddly about fishing and (b) I am an introvert (see above). After about five minutes, he rode off to land the big one.
In the process of the event, Darren Buck stopped by. We hadn’t met in the flesh before, but knew each other from various Internet dicussions. He will be working the same site on Thursday night with WABA’s Alex. Also Lane, one of the DC randos and a Friday Coffee Club regular, blew on by with a wave. And Bike House Chris, who was in the 2013 Hoppy 100 posse and an excellent two-bikes at once rider, came by to shoot the breeze.
Larry and Lolly at the End of the Day
We called it a night as the sun set. Lolly was a happy camper with a great big pile o’ memberships. Larry walked off into the sunset. Big Nellie and I rode off into the dark with my introversion restored.
A Few Spokes Shy of a Wheel 