June 06, 2009

PANCAKES ANYONE?

This morning, rather than having my usual big bowl of cereal in preparation for the days's big ride I figured I might whip up a few pancakes. After all I haven't had any in a good long while and what with a good 140 miles ahead of me I'd need the additional nourishment. Upon having mixed up the batter, complete with blueberries for a little antioxidant fortification, I poured it on the griddle. Following was the result:
I don't know what happened. The second pancake didn't turn out all that much better:
By the third and final pancake, I was just beginning to get the hang of things:
And then it was over. Kind of like life itself. You set out to create a masterpiece and if you're lucky you reach the end remotely resembling something that bears the mere appearance of a human being.
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June 03, 2009

WAITING ON AN "N" TRAIN

Morning commute at the 36th Avenue Station Stop in Queens. 7:00 am. Humid as all hell. Waiting on an N Train. The N Train. Sinus headache and the smell of Windex and nicotine on my fingers. Can’t seem to get rid of it. Another day of cleaning some rich bastard’s apartment. Again. Is this it? Is this as far as I’m going to go in life? Beggars can’t be choosers though. It’s not such a bad gig after all. A few hours work and I’m out the door with cash enough to make it through the next day or two. Today’s job on the Upper West Side. Jeff Buckley’s “Grace” on my Walkman. “Hallelujah”. How in the hell’d he do it? I press my way into the mass of flesh that becomes one with the greasy metal interior of the train. A tantalizingly tender scent rising up from the nape of the neck of the girl standing next to me. Lovely Latina Lady. If only she were with me I’d have it made. “Dream Brother”. Queensboro Plaza. Train stalled out for what seems like an eternity. Sure hope she doesn’t get off the train. She’s the only thing that’s keeping me sane at the moment. I think I need to quit drinking. I know I need to quit drinking. Why can’t I quit drinking? Damn. She’s getting off. Salvation passes me by yet again. Free spot by the door. Quick. Take it before somebody else does. The subway shuffle is a pain in the ass I tell ya’. Why can’t I just stay in the same spot until I reach my stop? Why do I have to move all over the train as we reach each new station? Train’s moving. Good. There she is standing on the opposite side of the platform. Waiting for the 7 Train. Probably going to work in Woodside, or Sunnyside maybe. Who knows. It doesn’t matter I’ll never see her again. Even if we lived next door to one another. That’s how messed up this city is. And yet I’ll see other people visiting from across the other side of the country. I don’t get it. Descending under the East River. How many times I’ve done this over the course of the past couple of years is anyone’s guess. Not that anyone would guess, let alone care to. I wonder if it’s possible to age ten years in two years time? God, I sure hope I don’t end up living here for ten years. Cream-colored coffee running along the silver floorboards of the train. Dunkin’ Donuts & The Daily News. I’ll take Dunkin’ Donuts. Fuck The Daily News, you can have it. Nothing “Daily” about “The Daily News”. Same shit every day, they just rearrange the words and pictures. Don’t know how in the hell I got here. I think it had something to do with her but seeing as she’s gone I can’t verify it one way or the other. Whatever the case, it appears there’s no way out and save an act of Providence I may well remain here for the duration. Born in San Diego died in Queens. Speaking of death I think I’m dying of some sort of wasting disease. Tingling sensations all over my backside like a hundred thousand ants crawling all over me. Extreme fatigue. Diarrhea. Muscle cramps. Yep. Wasting disease. I’m sure of it. They’re closing down all the strip clubs in Times Square. Big deal. Strip clubs are a joke. Use your imagination for cryin’ out loud. It’s a hell of a lot cheaper and you don’t fear nearly as lousy about it when it’s over. Who the hell are all these people? All I ever wanted was to be somebody. I don’t care now, though. It’s hard enough being nobody in particular without all the pressure that goes along with being somebody. Just give me a regular stipend, send me off to some remote wilderness area with plenty of food and I’ll be fine. Oh and if you don’t mind send that Lovely Latina LadyLady out every now and then so I don’t go entirely insane. Wow, I didn’t even realize the train just stopped. It always stops under the East River. Guess I’ve gotten used to it. Maybe I already have. Maybe she and I are laying next to one another at this very moment, out in that remote wilderness they sent me to. She’s wearing a dark blue cotton t-shirt with short sleeves and frills and a drawstring neckline. It goes down to her thighs when she’s standing upright, but at this moment it’s riding up over her waist. We’re tight up against one another our legs entwined, she fast asleep and me there running my fingers through her dark brown tresses, tucking it gently behind her ear. Ah. New York was nothing but a nightmare after all. Suddenly I hear the heavy creak of steel wheels as though somebody were pulling the bed away from the wall. Ah, hell. Could you just give us five more minutes? That’s all I ask. Five more minutes? I bolt upright eyes wide open to find that New York wasn’t a nightmare after all. I’m still there, but she’s not. Something seems to have broken loose in my head and my temples begin to throb. An aneurysm perhaps? Excess mucus, maybe? Who knows. Nobody. Nobody knows. Nobody cares. Feels like I’ve been on the wrong side of life, trying in vain and dying to make my way across to the other side. Here we are at Lex. Lexington Avenue. Junction of the 4, 5, 6 and the R Train. Take the tunnel up to 59th for the Q. Train’s moving along now. No rhyme or reason to any of it. Don’t understand how the subway system works. How in the hell they coordinate it all. Thank God I’m not in charge, I’d really make a mess of things. Something large and yellow taking up the bulk of the periphery on my right. I take a glance. Holy shit. It’s Tom Brokaw. What the hell’s he doing here? For a moment I feel as though I may well have happened upon the man who has “The Answers”. “So Tom, what’s the inside scoop? Have you got any hot news tips? Is this all just one horrible joke? Is The Director going to say ‘Cut’ and relieve us of any further burden so that we can all just be ourselves for a change? Huh, Tom? What’dya' say? Tom? Tom?” Tome hasn’t got a clue the line of inquiry I’ve just posed him with. That’s the great and terrible thing about thought, you can be standing right next to somebody and they won’t have the foggiest idea just what in the world it is that’s going through your head. It’s a strange thing, thought. I haven’t much use for it, but I use it nonetheless, or it uses me rather. 5th Avenue. Tom gets off. Important interview with Arafat probably. Or the pope. Or the rich bastard whose apartment I’ll be cleaning in short order. Up next West 57th. An empty seat right next to me. To hell with it I’ll stand. Just close my eyes and ride it out. No sense in sitting down for sixty or so seconds only to stand again. I wonder if Tom Brokaw feels the same on the way to work as I feel on the way to work? I don’t think so. I wonder if he’d feel the same on his way to clean an apartment as I feel on my way to clean an apartment? Probably not. I wonder if I’d feel the same as way in preparing to deliver the evening news as Tom feels preparing to delivery the evening news? It’s highly unlikely. “Times Square, 42nd Street Stop, let ‘em off, let ‘em off!!!” Holy shit, how’d I miss 57th Street? Did the train even stop at 57th Street? Alright, alright, get off the train. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle. Why in the world folks waiting for the train have to stand in front of the doors as it comes to a stop is beyond me. It’s as though we’re all unconscious, just brain dead stumbling from one place to the next reaching out blindly into the darkness with the hope that a few filthy buckskins might land in our grubby little hands. Yeah that’s nice, there you go, get on the train as people are trying to get off, brilliant. Nice guys finish last. Fuck the Dalai Lama. You’re not nice you’re just lazy. No, you’re not lazy, you’re just chicken shit. Just be an animal for Chris’ sake, do like all the rest. Care and concern for other human beings, you’ve gotta’ be kidding me? Who the hell do you think you are anyway? I don’t know, that’s the problem. What proof have I of my supposed brilliance? A box of journals? A few old recordings of off key guitar and vocals? We’re moving like cattle now up the ramp. Off to the slaughter. I trip a hoof on the third stair and stumble, all the cattle behind me moan. Shaking that brain clot loose I can feel the aneurysm coming closer, it’ll be here any second now. That’d be something. My last memory being the smell of bleach from the scoured out subway tunnel and nothing but an endless succession of hooves crushing me to death as my brain convulses in a pulsating explosion of purple plasma. I make it to the top of the stairs. Mexican woman selling churros, a massive mountain of them under a big blanket of plastic wrap. Two for a dollar. Wish I could just buy the whole damned tray and head back to Queens. Sit around in the apartment and eat churros all day. That’d be something. The thought of eating anything these days makes me sick to my stomach though. It seems whatever I eat makes me feel horrible. If there’s a hell it’s the subways in New York. I have to believe that. No more oppressive place I’ve ever been in the middle of summer or any other time of the year for that matter. Grab the rail. Hoist yourself up the stairs. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle. As many times as I’ve done this I’ll bet it’s never been with the same people any of them. And there’s thousands. Grab the rail. Step down. Down. Down. To the 1,2,3 & 9 platform. Nothing coming on the 1,9 side. Nothing coming on the 2,3 side either. Just find a sliver of tile and wait against the wall. I wonder what Chris Whitley’s up to. “Vacant above the din…” Two rats, big ones scurrying along the tracks. Oblivious. I wonder what would be better, qualitatively speaking, this life I’m living now, or the life of one of those two rats scurrying along the tracks? There’s got to be something wrong upstairs to make one wonder such things. Do you think any of these people here are wondering or have ever wondered such things? No. Why would they? Why would anyone wonder such things? Mental illness. A likely cause. New York is filthy. Unless you’re rich. Then you’re filthy rich. Ha-ha. I made a joke. Did you hear that everybody? Apparently not. Then you take a cab everywhere and hire somebody to clean your apartment instead of doing it yourself. What is it I’m seeking? Love? Maybe. No not maybe. That is it. That’s all. Transcendence. The most potent form of transcendence I’ve ever felt. Suddenly a 1 train comes screeching to a halt in front of me. Where the hell’d that come from? “Stand clear of the closing doors!!!” Holy shit! Something wrong with me. Either time is moving faster, or I’m moving slower. Squeeze in between the closing doors of the train. Must be some combination of both. Empty car. Just a few folks scattered about the train. Sit down. Feels as though I’m still leaning against that wall. Old woman in an orange dress sitting in front of me. Bright red lipstick and heavy mascara. Staring at me. No, through me. Past me. At death. Probably doesn’t even see me. Still bugs me nonetheless. Close your eyes. How does anyone manage to live that long? The prospect of living to 30 makes me tired as all hell. Looks like the train is going to blow right past 51st Street. Guess they got the order to take the 2 track. Backed up trains maybe. There goes 59th Street. And 66th. Wow, we’re really flying. “So I wait for you…and I burn. Will I ever see your sweet return? Oh will I ever learn, lover, you should’ve come over. It’s not too late.” Hmn. Seems we’re stuck waiting for that serendipitous something or other that sneaks up on us and takes us entirely by surprise. No way to make it happen. It has a life of it’s own. She’ll either come over or she won’t. Don’t think there’s anything you can do to convince her otherwise. You know the deal. West 72nd Street. Time to get off. God I don’t feel like cleaning another fucking apartment. You can sit and moan about her as long as you like and it ain’t gonna’ make a bit of difference. Up the stairs and into the blaring light of day. It’s hotter than ever. As though the heat and humidity were on some sort of solar powered mission to put me out of my misery once and for all. It’s over on Riverside, today’s job. Alright. Stop into the deli on the corner. Pick up a pack of American Spirits and a Diet Dr. Pepper. Rip that cellophane off the top. Flip the lid. Tear away the silver wrapper. Pinch a filter and pull one out. To the tip of the lips, a flick of the lighter and it’s lit. Crack open The Doctor and take a swig. A long, slow drag of smoke and there she is on the other side of 72nd Street, my Lovely Latina Lady from way back in Queens. Holy shit. How in the hell’d she end up out here? You think it’s a sign, maybe? A divine dispensation from The Celestial Director, an intimation of sorts that I might have her hand in marriage, or at the very least a magical week or two together under the stars? No. Its just New York. Things like this happen all the time here. Nothing unusual about it in the least bit. That’s just The City’s way of fucking with you. Make you think it’s something special, when it’s just another random incident thumbing it’s nose at you in schizoid glee. Enough with the seeming significance of things. Just get on with the day. Get real for cryin’ out loud. We are headed the same way though. Maybe if I walk fast enough I’ll catch up to her. Nope. There he is waiting for her on the steps halfway down the block. They’re waving at one another. Shit. Shit. Shit. Of course. And he’s some rich bastard. I screw the cap back on my soda and hit play. Make my way toward Riverside. “Don’t fool yourself, she was heartache from the moment that you met her.” You can say that again, Jeff. “My heart is frozen still, as I try to find the will to forget her somehow, I think I’ve forgotten her now”. I hear ya’ loud and clear, brother. Loud and clear, I hear you. I’m trying to find the will myself this very minute.

May 31, 2009

AN UNLIKELY SCENARIO

This afternoon, as I was riding my bike north up The Silverado Trail in Napa Valley, I went flying by what at first glance appeared to be a dead humming bird sitting stone still in the glaring sun. Upon closer inspection, I found that it wasn't dead, but rather in a serious state of debilitation.
It sat there, eyes closed and teetering with every gust of wind that trailed off of each passing car. My conscience made it quite clear that something had to be done and fearing that it'd end up being run down by another cyclist, or worse yet a car, I concluded I'd best pick it up and go about figuring out just what to do with it.
The poor fellow was weak as can be and made but only a few feeble flaps of it's wings as I picked it up off of the pavement and placed it in the palm of my hand. I rode along for some time, trying to figure out just what in the world to do with it.
At first I thought I might call around and see if there was some sort of bird rescue center in Napa Valley that might be able to come pick it up, but if there was one, I'd have a hard time seeing them drive out to save a hummingbird. A red-tailed hawk perhaps, but a hummingbird? It seemed an unlikely scenario indeed.
The only other alternative would have been to wrap it in one of my arm warmers and take it back home with me, but with 70 miles remaining in my ride, that seemed no more realistic an option than the former.
Musing on what other prospects might pose as probable I rode on for a mile or so with it in the palm of my hand. Aside from the aforementioned considerations, the only other option that ocurred to me was to find a large stone and put it out of it's misery.

As I remained uncertain of it's true status however, I couldn't possibly have done so with the complete assurance that I was doing the right thing, so this option was swiftly dismissed. Perhaps it simply had a hangover from too much humming bird feed the night before and would soon make a full recovery. With no further options in sight, I rode on.

Eventually I came upon a stone bridge alongside the road with plenty of shade and a small creek running beneath it. I decided I'd simply leave it in the shade and hope for the best. Oddly enough I had a bit of a difficult time getting the sucker out of the palm of my hand as it's tiny nails had gotten caught in the mesh of my riding gloves. With considerable effort I eventually managed to unhook it's nails one by one. I didn't want to break one of its tiny toes and further incapacitate the poor thing.

I placed it a cornerstone, grabbed one of my water bottles, turned it upside down and dribbled a couple drops of my energy drink on it's beak, thinking it could use a shot or two of glucose to lift it's spirits. Lo and behold it's beak sprang wide open and it took in a good couple dozen gulps in rapid succession. I then poured some into a small indentation in the rock hoping perhaps it might be able to drink more as needed.

With that I bid my hummingbird friend adieu, praying that in some slight way I'd made it's life a little easier. I hopped on my bike and resumed my ride down the road ahead. I briefly wondered whether or not I'd done the right thing. Perhaps there was more that could have been done and my failure to have investigated any further meant the difference between the life and the death of a seemingly insignificant hummingbird.

Thankfully, I didn't puzzle over this for too long. The realization came that I could have done everything and then some to save it and it may well have died nonetheless. No doubt I'll never know what ever happened to it. Given it's condition I'd be surprised if it made it through to the end of the day. Perhaps having moved it from the hot tarmac at the shoulder of the road to the relative protection of the shade made all the difference. Perhaps it didn't.

Sometimes we just don't know what the results of our actions will be. Nonetheless when presented with a situation, however perplexing it may be, we have to do something. We can hesitate indefinitely, but that in and of itself is an action of sorts. Assuming we've done what we deem to be "the right thing", acting in the best interest of all concerned, all we can do from there is rest in the faith that Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom will act accordingly.

May 25, 2009

AN EPIC DAY ON THE BIKE

This last Saturday was an epic day on the bike to be certain. The Geysers, Skaggs Springs, Fort Ross, Cazadero, Occidental. 166 miles. 12 Hours. I set out upon the roads of Sonoma County at 8:30 am, well after my planned start time of 7:00am. In typical County fashion it was cool and foggy in the morning and would remain so for the first couple hours of my ride. However, having checked the weather to find a forecast of sunshine and an expected temperatur Sonoma e of 73 degrees, I felt fairly certain that the fog would lift and things would warm up a bit. That said, twenty minutes or so into my ride, I'd finally settled into the slow and steady rhythm required for such a ride. It's on long rides like this that my mind runs wild. Occasionally my musing is interrupted by some external oddity and around about twelve miles in I came across a telephone line that had what looked like a stump straddling it:

A strange sight to be certain. I never cease to find myself fascinated by such things. If it’s unusual, extra ordinary or just plain weird I’m there. "What", "where", "when", "why" and "how" are all questions that pester me relentlessly when I stumble upon such sights. Of course what one deems “extraordinary” is by necessity relative to what one deems “ordinary”. That said, I’d like to think I’ve cultivated somewhat of a penchant for finding the “extraordinary” in the “ordinary”. I am admittedly biased where my own personal idiosyncrasies are concerned however, so I’ll leave such judgment to you the reader and disgracefully digress.

At any rate, after a relatively flat couple of hours spent winding north through the vineyards that line either side of Westside Road, I hit the base of The Geysers climb at about 10:30 am.The first portion of The Geysers is a 6 mile grind that rises high nearly 3000 feet above the valley floor. From the bottom of the climb right up to the summit it was covered in a thick blanket of fog, however, upon reaching the summit of the first climb the fog on the west side had begun to yield to a bright blue sky on the east side:

Mind you it was a far more magnificent sight than the picture might indicate, but you get the idea. Just short of the top I spotted a rider up ahead of me and upon descending and beginning the second of The Geysers climbs, an incredibly unforgiving incline of hot tarmac, I caught up and rode with her. It was a welcome change of pace and we chatted for the duration of the second climb and straight on through the rest of The Geysers. Turns out she'd done The Terrible Two a coupla' years back. I've been training for The Terrible Two for the past four months and so I bombarded her with an endless round of questions regarding the event, which she graciously answered.

Parting ways with my Geysers companion, I stopped off to refuel in Cloverdale and made my way south down Dutcher Creek Road. Taking an eventual right on Dry Creek Road I rolled north for a couple of miles and before I knew it Skaggs Springs Road was upon me. Skaggs Springs is an entirely different beast compared to The Geysers. It's a series of lengthy ascents and descents that rise successively higher into the sky, ultimately offering an impressive view of Sonoma County. Just short of the first summit, I paused for a shot of Lake Sonoma.

I suppose I should offer something of a disclaimer here before I proceed. I am admittedly, something of a curmudgeon where the masses are concerned and I suffer a bitter distaste for much of what passes here in America as recreation. There's few things I love more than the silence and solitude offered up in generous abundance by Mother Nature herself and I find it incredibly irritating when such scarce qualities are rudely interrupted by the din of Man and His Machines.

Skaggs Springs Road is a haven for motorcyclists who like to play Evel Knievel up and down it's various twists and turns. I can usually hear them well up the road, like irksome mosquitoes humming about my ear lobes. They fly by in twos and threes at breakneck speed every twenty minutes or so. Typically motorcyclists are the only motorists I've ever seen out on Skaggs Springs Road, which makes their presence all that much the more unnerving. Almost as unnerving are the motorboats out on Lake Sonoma:

They whirl about in droves, performing an endless succession of doughnuts, usually to the tune of some wretched Creed anthem or other, spewing several cubic tons off filthy exhaust into the virgin air and making a general nuisance of themselves. Yep, at a reservoir near you thousands of Americans can be found each weekend enjoying the outdoors by drowning it out in a cacophony of competing outboard engines. Call it a case of testosterone gone awry, I prefer to work out my masculine angst by actually working it out, which in my case would be silently grinding my way up a seriously steep grade, legs a burning and lungs a bursting, disturbing the peace and quiet of my lactate threshold and nothing more.

The folly of such an argument however, is that I too am seen as something of a disturbance to those about me, motorcyclists notwithstanding. My very presence on the road, however far to the right it may be, has been enough to inspire the ire of many an angry motorist with profane outbursts, obscene hand gestures and on a few rare occasions, projectile matter which I'll tastefully decline to describe. Granted, such expressions of brotherly love are above and beyond what's called for, but they do likely have their origins in some earlier such event wherein one of my fellow cyclists failed to respect the rules of the road. That said, it isn't so much a matter of presence that I object to, but rather proportion. I digress once more, however.

After pausing for the Lake Sonoma shot, I proceeded onward. This being the second time I've ridden Skaggs Springs, I found it both easier and harder by turns. Easier in that I knew what lay ahead of me and harder in that, well, I knew what lay ahead of me. I've ridden a fair share of climbs here in California and this stretch, 32 miles of continuous up and down, is among the most formidable I've ever faced. Around about halfway through I came upon a Harley Davidson Guy and his Harley Davidson Girl. Harley Davidson Guy was taking photos of His Harley Davidson Girl as she sat upon His Harley Davidson.

As I passed them, Harley Davidson Guy said to me "You need an motor on that thing", to which I responded somewhat cryptically "I'm not going anywhere". I recall hearing a bit of befuddled laughter as I climbed my way past them. I suspect he failed to understand exactly what I meant. But then again, I suspect I failed to understand what I meant as well. Unfortunately this would be a characteristically typical retort on my part. I might have responded with "It's already got one!!!" thumping my chest with a firm fist indicating my heart, but no, I had to make some ethereal statement that would be entirely lost upon such a fellow and thus render myself incomprehensible. Such is the story of my life however, thus, I digress, for what, the third time? Yes. The third time.

Speaking of thirds, about two thirds of the way down Skaggs Springs the ladder collapsed as it were my legs and lungs received a welcome respite with the series of light rollers that run along the Gualala River. At Camp Gualala, I was greeted by a Sag Crew that had been following a number of riders on an organized ride put on by the Santa Rosa Cycling Club. No sooner did I ask them where I might find some water did I find a half gallon jug of cold spring water in front of me, as a generous portion of Peanut M & M's, dried apricots and granola bars.

I sat and chatted with them for a good fifteen minutes or so. Turns out a handful of them will be working The Terrible Two, so I'll be keeping any eye out for them come June 20th. Having enjoyed several fists full of Peanut M & M's, I bade my newfound friends thanks and made my way on down the road. It was 4:45 and with a good 70 miles to go, I'd have to pick up the pace if I was to make it home before nightfall. Unfortunately, I had what was the steepest climb yet ahead of me, The Rancheria Wall, a 1.5 mile monster with an average gradient of nine percent. Oddly enough after several thousand feet of climbing behind me, it was The Rancheria Wall I dreaded the most.

Fort Ross Road was yet to come however and in retrospect, it's this final climb of The Terrible Two route that I now look forward to the least. Having now ridden the entire course in successive segments, I know what to expect and Fort Ross road is going to be one mother of a climb at 165 or so miles into the ride. 2.5 miles in length, some portions of the climb reach a gradient of twenty percent which means the old quads will be searingly sore at that point. Suffice to say I eventually made it to the top of Fort Ross Road, but it took all I had within me to do so. Shortly after reaching the summit I came across this street sign:

I've seen a strange street sign or two in my day, but this would have to be amongst the strangest. Wahoo Court. Nowhere Way. Celebration Street. But Brain Ridge Road? No doubt there's a story in there somewhere. At any rate, following the intersection of Fort Ross and Brain Ridge Roads there came a series of twisting descents, followed by a handful of small gradual rises and an eventual screaming swoop down into the woodsmoke laden town of Cazadero. At that point it was gaining on 8:00 pm and though theoretically this meant a good forty-five minutes or so of daylight to avail myself of, for all intents and purposes it was night time in Cazadero, what with the towering redwoods blocking out what little was left of it.

It was full gas from there on out and rather than taking the busy River Road, I decided to opt for the relatively vacant Bohemian Highway route, leading up into Occidental. It did pose the challenge of additional climbing, but where it lacked in ease, it promised little if any traffic. After five miles of gentle incline, I reached Occidental, took a left onto Graton Road and ground my way up one brief and final rise in the pitch black cover of a densely packed forest of redwoods. When I emerged, the evening sky was a deep purple and were it not for the faint trace of a white line marking the shoulder, I mightn't have had anything to guide me.

I time trialed my way home, flying down the hills to the west of Santa Rosa. Hopped onto 116 briefly, then Occidental Road for a slight stretch and finally reached Sanford Road, wherein my penchant for the mystic kicked in. Night had fallen and a bright moonlight shone upon the pastures on either side of the road. They were being watered by giant sprinklers and dozens of streams of water whirled about in all directions producing a fine mist that soothed my sun baked bones. How many times I've ridden along Sanford Road in either direction I don't know, but on this occasion, it was as though it were the first. With the road ahead entirely obscured and only the light of the moon and stars to guide me I felt for a moment as though there was nothing beneath me but infinite space. I felt as though I were flying.

The remaining couple of miles home were a celebration of sorts. It was 9:30 pm and I had spent the entire day out on the roads of Sonoma County. 12 hours and 166 miles later I was finally home and what a journey it had been. I pulled up to the curb in front of my place on 4th Street, heaved a deep sigh, looked up at the night sky and thanked the moon for guiding me the rest of the way home. A great sense of accomplishment washed over me and I felt as though I could do anything.

But first I'd have to do one last thing before I entertained the notion of any further pursuits. I hoisted my bike up over my right shoulder and completed what would prove to be the last climb of the day: making my way up the stairs that lead to the courtyard of my building. Ironically, of all the climbs I'd done that day, it was this last one that took the most out of me. And yet it was the most rewarding climb of all, for it meant my journey had finally come to an end and I had made it home at last. And what a journey it was.

May 18, 2009

A DAY FOR THE REPTILES

Yesterday was among the more brutal rides I've done in some time. Did a hundred miler heading south toward Glen Ellen, up over Trinity Grade, down into Napa Valley, up Silverado Trail into Alexander Valley, east into Healdsburg and south back into Santa Rosa. with the temperature approaching triple digits it was a scorcher and I was loving every minute of it. So too were the reptiles. With the heat cranked up full blast and miles of hot asphalt to warm themselves upon they were out in force. They're my kind of people, them reptiles.

Lizards and snakes were on display all over the place and I spent a fair portion of my ride trying to avoid them. Blue Bellies, all too literally known as The Western Fence Lizard, are tough to avoid at 20mph as they blend right in with the asphalt and they typically can't be seen until they've begun hauling ass out of the way in the attempt to avoid being crushed. At one point I thought I might have run one down. Unable to carry on in good conscience I circled back and was relieved to find it was simply a twig.

Snakes are a different story though. I can usually see snakes well up ahead as they lay strewn about like discards of old rope. They're not so easy to spot, however, whilst flying downhill at 40mph and if I did run one over, chances are slim to none I'd circle back to put the poor bastard out of its misery. At any rate toward the end of my ride and just short of making a left on River Road, I caught sight of a baby Rattlesnake sunning itself out on the side of the road. I'd seen plenty of snakes out on the road, mostly King Snakes and Gophers, but the only Rattlesnakes I'd seen had been relegated to roadkill status.

As I had my phone with me I figured I'd snap a shot of it. Given the prospect of being bitten and dying on the side of the road from snake bite with complications of heat stroke, I proceeded with caution. First I rode by it a couple of times to test it's responsiveness. It made nary a move. Taking that as good sign I made a couple more passes, snapping shots each time.

Unfortunately this didn't work too well as the lo-tech camera on my high-tech phone has the no-tech inability to maintain it's focus whilst in motion. I can't blame it entirely on the camera as it's damned difficult taking pictures with one hand while pedaling a bicycle, particularly when Rattlesnakes are involved. Thus I gave myself over to the prospect of getting close enough to get a good shot whilst remaining far enough away to hop on my bike and haul ass in the event it decided to make any less than amorous overtures. Here's the result:

Given the lack of anything in the background that might provide some perspective, it looks as though it might be an adult, but in reality it was much smaller and consequently less threatening. And as it seemed entirely absorbed in it's sunlit reverie, I thought perhaps I might get a bit closer, hoping to get a better shot. No sooner than that thought arose, however, did it suddenly begin to wiggle a bit at which point I wisely decided not to push my luck and settled for what you see above. Whatever the case, I'm always excited to chance upon the diversity of wildlife here. It's but one of the many things I love about being back in Northern California, the wildlife.

You just don't see this kind of thing back in New York City. You see other stuff, like rats the size of cats and cockroaches as big as birds, but not snakes and lizards. Oh, there've been a few Coyote sightings in Central Park, but they're rare indeed. No, I much prefer to witness wildlife in it's natural environment whilst pedaling my way through the lush Sonoma County countryside, than to encounter it's urban counterpart, gnawing on the baseboards. City critters do have their own unique appeal, mind you, particularly when the only other living creatures you have access to are of the human variety. But given the choice, I'll take a Rattlesnake on a dusty back road over a Renegade Rat any day, or a human for that matter. It was a day for the reptiles to be certain.

March 11, 2009

HELLO OUT THERE

Hello out there. No doubt if you visit this blog as infrequently as I post to it, you haven't missed a thing. And if you have missed something, well then there's two things you can be sure of: first off, you'll never know what you’ve missed, thus you remain blissfully unaware of nothing in particular. And secondly: it's highly likely that if you did miss something, I had nothing do with it, which is something in and of itself. That said, I’ve decided to post a little something with the grand hope that you’ll be able to make nothing of it. So far, I’m doing pretty good, right?

At any rate, in the name of progress, I digress. The purpose of this blog after all, is neither to entertain nor bore you, though both may have occurred by turns…no the purpose of this blog, as with any blog worthy of it’s weight in html code is sheer self indulgence and nothing more. You see, over the course of the past two plus years I simply haven’t felt the urge to share so much as a single sentence with anyone, let alone a sentiment of any sort, sardonic, sordid or any combination thereof. No doubt the world at large is no more the worse for it and apologies entirely unnecessary at this time. But seeing as all constructs as we know them seem to be unraveling before our very eyes, it occurred to me that the time is ripe to contribute to said unraveling. My muse has come a’callin’ as it were and I’m feeling the urge to document a thought or two for public consumption.

There’s just too damned much silly stuff going on out there to simply sit back in a mutely bemused state of wonder as it were. That said, I’ve a tirade or two to embark upon, at least one related to that supercilious segment of society known as the Redneck Sector and another on the absurd vanity of those given over to Racism. In addition I've a few forthcoming reflections upon the more mundane aspects of life like standing in line at the Post Office and the ever elusive search for that “special someone” via the wonderful world of Online Dating.

No need to stay tuned, however. I guarantee you you won’t miss anything. That is if you're paying attention. And if not, well, it's probably because you have better things to do than track the offbeat observations and improbable insights of an erstwhile anarchist such as Seamus O’Rourke. Better things, such as catching that latest episode of your favorite Reality Show, regaling your friends with that latest inane Facebook app and updating your Twitter status are no doubt in order. That said, I don't blame you in the least. That's what we're here for after all. Life is short. Our days are numbered. Why waste them?

Vox Clamantis in Deserto…