Commitment, or "Follicle Tectonics and You"

There are lots of reasons cyclists shave their legs. Not one of them was good enough on its own for me to actually do it.

Keep in mind that while I've still got hair on top, it has been thinning out and showing up en masse on other parts of my body over the last couple years in some weird southerly migration. When I was in junior high, I prayed for body hair so that the other guys in gym class wouldn't make fun of me. Now who's laughin', assholes? That prayer was answered, albeit late, seeing as I now have to go to the barber not just for a haircut, but in order to hear and breathe.

I took Spodiodi out for a nice long spin a few days ago, we had one of those days that you're supposed to have in late March. The sun looked down from a cloudless sky, it's warmth lazily arm wrestling with the cool headwind. I was just this side of breaking a sweat, I mean I was really trucking along. My one cigarette a day allowance was cut off about three weeks ago, and the ol' lungs were noticeably stronger. I thought I must've been going about 20 or 22 mph, and maintaining it. I looked down at the speedometer. It said 14.

“Oh, Kiss. My. Ass. 14? Are you kidding me?”

Rolling up to the coffee shop I had to circle around a little to find a spot to lock up. Evidently everyone else in the neighborhood had the same idea I did. Here is where I really stand out; all the cyclists at this particular coffee shop are riding the newest machines from companies that I can hardly pronounce in colors I wouldn't be caught dead on. Each rider is freshly shorn and looking fabulous in their race kits.

Then there's me in a get up I cobbled together about 4 or 5 years ago through a sale on a cycling website that doesn't exist anymore. By appearance alone, I hardly belong on a carbon fiber bike. Looking like a drunk man trying to navigate an icy street, I made my way along the tile floor of the shop and tried to look inconspicuous in light of the “skrik-skrik-skrik” sound bike shoes make when you walk indoors. I ordered my latte and began facing all the bills the same way before tucking them back into my sweat dampened jersey pocket. With both hands fumbling behind my back I noticed several little black chest hairs corkscrewing this way and that through the fabric. Further down, a shag rug surrounding each leg. This looks pathetic or awful, I can't decide which.

“Ok”, I thought aloud. “I give. I'll do it.”

I picked up all the necessary accoutrements on the way home. The bottle of Jameson I already had. Coupla things here: don't get Nair on the twig OR the giggleberries. Don't get the razor on them either. In fact, just let that hair be.

Mine have to be the ugliest legs in creation. They're thin and lean; imagine pale white strips of beef jerky at the gas station check outs and you've got a good image. And with a big hunk of gristle in the middle. That would be my knees. I can remember how I got each ding and scar. My favorites are the one from ACL replacement surgery, that 6 hour day at Deer Creek, and the first day I rode with SPD pedals and fell off the side of a 5 foot log pile at Lewis and Clark. 14 punctures from the big ring. I can still count 5. And there's a brand new one as of Saturday's mountain bike ride, four chain ring gouges on my left calf. Got those when I was about 3 miles from the parking lot when a storm rolled in. For a minute it was nice, listening to the peepers sing in the rain. Then a sound that turns my stomach and chills my blood at the same time interrupted the zen. A sound that strikes fear in the heart of any midwesterner.

That siren went off and images of every close call storm I've been in since I was 5 years old rushed through my helmet. Add to that the fact that nobody knows I'm here, and I'm the last guy on the trail. Needless to say I hauled ass outta there. No idea how quick since I don't have a speedometer on the mountie, but it was fast enough that I wasn't able to handle some of the obstacles like I normally do. Getting sloppy in the turns isn't smart even when it's dry. I ended up ass over teakettle and landed pretty hard at the base of a tree. I'm still moving slow from that one, but since the manscaping had been done the day prior, cleanup was no sweat.

In my experience, here's what you need to know:

Shaving your legs doesn't make you go any faster. Tornado sirens do.

Shaving your legs does save you from social cycling circle ostracism.

Shaving your legs does help keep your legs cooler.

Shaving your legs makes cleaning wounds much easier. (this one makes sense to me)

Plus I hear women dig it. I'll have to experiment with that one and get back to you.

The Hunching Dog

Best full moon in ages. Damn near drove through a red light, watching it in my rear view mirror. Amazing how it just hung there, a buttery biscuit on a pale blue plate. You half expect it to fall to the ground. Try to reach out and grab it maybe, it's right there. It's my experience that the best full moons happen just before sunrise. You could confuse east and west on mornings like this.

Lucky Dog was staying with me for a couple days, so when I got home we went for a quick walk and more moon gazing. Lucky Dog spent a little too long getting stretched out and holding for 5 in Downward-Facing Dog, so we didn't see much. We had a nice, lazy stroll through the neighborhood, we were the only ones up. Not even squirrels. She had been sleeping all night and was starting to perk up pretty quick, so we headed back before both of us would be up for the day. I looked down at her, she blinked and started thumping her tail, then flopped down the rest of the way. Good dog.

We seemed to have finally, nonchalantly, transitioned from snow to rain, but the last few days we've had good luck. I figured a walk around the lake was in order, and a dog is a good excuse to just go amble. Plus they're great conversation starters, especially dogs like Lucky Dog.

As soon as we hit the end of the driveway, Lucky Dog stopped, situated herself, and started hunching. Trying to keep a good attitude, I scooped up the pile through a grocery bag, reversed it, and threw the knotted-up parcel in the trash can thinking “cool, now I don't have to carry a steaming bag of pooh around the lake.”

Lucky Dog's toenails need a trim, they set down a rhythm on the pavement like she was playing a beat up old washboard, panting out a little “Hambone” with a waggling tongue. She set the pace, and I just followed along. We went whichever way, following the breeze. Her nose knows, I figured.

About half way around the lake we ran into a young woman propped up against a tree next to her bike. Lucky Dog walked right up to her and sat down. “Atta girl...” I thought.

“Nice dog.” the woman said, grinning.

I started to explain that she wasn't mine, that she was just bunking with me for a few days while my co-worker was out of town, but instead I decided to act like I'd had her for years. While the two got acquainted I told stories about how before I got her, Lucky Dog had survived being caught out in a blizzard and a flesh eating skin disease. I said at one point she made it through a timber rattler bite she got while disarming a bomb at the bottom of a well where some little girl had fallen.

“Yeah, lucky.” she said.

This was great, Lucky Dog was workin' like a charm, but just as the conversation was kinda warming up, Lucky Dog left and started walking around a few paces down. Nose to the ground, she did a couple circles and started hunching again. I tried to not draw attention to Lucky Dog, but as it turns out I didn't have to. The head-forward-tail-up position her hunch creates was aerodynamically perfect to route the northeasterly breeze down her back, over the mounting pile of scat, and into this gal's nose. She held her hand up to try to block it out, but what could I do? I had already used my bag, and normally it's me that takes a shit (figuratively speaking) while talking to strange women.

“D'yaaaaaaah you're doing this at the worst possible time!” I thought, but it was too late.

Luckily a mismatched couple with a little bug-eyed rat dog came along, they were good enough to give me one of their little store bought bags which frankly, wasn't enough to get the job done. You've heard that phrase “like 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag”? Yeah, it was like that.

“You're seeing me at my best here.” I said to the woman.

By the time I had raised up she was on her bike and riding away, leaving me to hear this guy's toothless stories about how his bug-eyed rat dog had saved him from a St. Bernard attack.

A St. Bernard. Pbbt. Yeah right, what bullshit.

We got the hell outta there, tout suite.

"You're pretty rough on my savoir faire there, Lucky Dog."

Bill's IPA

The shuttle launch was a few days ago. The candle on Endeavor's last mission was lit right around the same time I fired up my home brewery for the first time. It was her 25^th mission, and my first. I logged into Facebook and updated my status.

“About to light the burner in my home brewery. Hit 'refresh' a few times. If this message is still here, call the fire department.”

Suddenly everything went into launch mode.

“Control, uhhhhhh, we are in place...initiate the ignition sequence, uhhhhh.” ~chirp~

Grabbing the valve, I stopped and scanned my work one last time. Plugs. Pipe dope. Nipple. Dope. Flex hose. No dope. Reducer. No dope. Valve. Dope. After just a quarter turn there was a sharp hiss, like a gap-toothed yokel about to whistle Dixie. A spark is all you need, and I forgot to start the countdown as I stared front, realizing I didn't have an extension lighter. Just a Bic.

I leaned down and closed my eyes, briefly wondered what I might look like with no eyebrows, and let the Bic flick.

No explosion. I deleted my Facebook entry.

“Control, we uhhhhhhhh, we are go.” ~chirp~

“Kettle, you are clear. Set countdown for 20 minutes and immerse whole grains.” ~chirp~

While the grains steeped I laid out the hopping order and started sanitizing everything I'd need. Holy shit, it's already pretty hot in here. I had a fan on full blast, trying to get a current going out the window, but it wasn't easy.

“Control, we are at 160, that's one-six-zero, degrees.” ~chirp~

“Roger that uhhhhhhhhhhhh prepare to empty malt extract at one-seven-zero.” ~chirp~

This brew table was custom made, and in a word...it's perfect. I'll bet the guy who made it will be taking orders for more as soon as other people see it. You have to move the pot on and off the flame a couple times, so I had him make the boiling surface level with the table top, the burner sets on a little adjustable platform beneath. Bam. Back to boiling, 212 degrees, and then keep it there for an hour. It took about 15 minutes to get there.

“Control, we are approaching the hop break, please advise.” ~chirp~

“Stand by, Kettle...back off on my mark....3...2...1...mark.” ~chirp~

Damn...it's hot. I had a little bit of a headache, but now all I had to do was watch the time, pitch the hops at the right intervals, and sanitize the carboy. Across the room at the bench I plunked down and started taking some notes and some big pulls on the pint of beer I had poured just before I started. The glass was so sweaty it nearly slipped through my hands. Looking up, I saw an old bottle of Biere D'Or, brought back from my trip to Melton Mowbray, sitting right alongside a can of WD-40. Biere D'or. WD-40. I kept saying it over and over.

“Beer-dee-or...dubya-dee-fordee”, over and over. If you cheat and put in an extra 'dee', the two of these kinda sound Swedish. I said it out loud, “beer-dee-or-dee dubya-dee-fordee”.

Laugh? I nearly peed my pants. Now, I had drank only one pint of beer at this point, but man was I feeling loopy. I left the brew room and leaned against the basement wall. It was 25 degrees cooler, at least, and the air didn't seem as thick.

This is one of those times that you wish someone was there to be in on the joke. I used to have a cat, Whiskey, but I found him to be pretty stingy with laughter. You know, talking to pets isn't so crazy...it's better than talking to yourself. Wagner talked to his dog all the time when he wrote The Flying Dutchman. Socrates ended up talking to his donkey. I'd much rather talk to my dog than my ass. I don't know, I need to think about it more.

Anyway, there I was all by myself and laughing till I could hardly breathe, when I turned toward the wall and found myself face to face...with Bill...on a promo poster for a play I was in years ago. The laughter slowly stopped, I stared a bit. The play was about a man who somehow becomes unstuck in time; this man believes he is a Federation Starship captain from the future. Capt. John Wisher thinks his mission is to find a woman he doesn't know. In fact it is his wife, long since passed. Everyone thinks he's crazy, but he's just not from here. I don't want to give away too much, but you'll never see the show anyway...so it turns out the guy's kids were also members of Starfleet, sent back to get him. It was a great show.

Time had flown by with all that reminiscing and I ran back into the brew room with only 15 minutes left in the boil. Time for the wort chiller.

“Control, we are ready for copper.” ~chirp~

“Roger that. Immersion process initiated. Kettle, be advised, the thermometer probe is four inches from the bottom.” ~chirp~

“Affirmative. We're in the wort, five by five.” ~chirp~

Bill was one of those guys that you are always glad to see. He had a calm cheeriness about him, a serenity. Never heard him talk down about anyone. Quick to laugh. Your dad would say "he'd give you the shirt off his back". He rarely swore, but if he did it was only because the word was absolutely necessary in that instance, so he never sounded vulgar.

I was too far away to read the names of the cast, so I tried sounding it out to remember instead. “Bill Hendrix...Henson...Hanson? No...HENJUM! Bill Henjum!” The downside to all this is that Bill died unexpectedly. This was years ago, not long after this show closed. It bothers me that I can't remember how. I want to say it was a car accident, I don't know. I remember being somber for a few days after I got the word. Bill was one of those guys that you try to be like, you know?

This recipe is called “Chinook IPA”, but I think I'm just gonna call it “Bill's”. There are about 32 pints of beer in a corny keg. In 5 or 6 weeks when this this batch is ready to drink, there will be 32 toasts to Bill.

Oh yeah and a hood with a fan. Gotta install a hood with a fan. Too much carbon monoxide...that's bad, right?

The Rise of Slim Handy

"Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in." - Robert Frost

"I'd like to thank my family, they know me and they love me anyway." - Tom Waits

It was a really good week. I mean really, really good.

This past winter had all but sucked the life from me; 88 inches of snow and temperatures that have kept the brass monkeys in storage for way longer than they should be. Hibernation is fine, but this was rigoddamdiculous. Add to the equation the extreme isolation that amounted to nothing but boredom, cynicism, and paranoia. I ain't gonna lie...my spirit was in bad shape.

Two friends that I've known for the longest time were nice enough to come visit for the weekend before my birthday, the best gift they ever could've given. I was under water, and this visit was a snorkel. I took their time here as an excuse to throw a little dinner party with some acquaintances that may well be budding friendships. Good food, good drink, good company, and weather that was good enough to allow us to feed on fajitas out on the deck. Nothing pleases me more than to share food with people, and to hear their stories while slowly getting drunk on craft beer and a surprise bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon.

At the end of the weekend, I followed my friends back down to my hometown for 5 days of catching up. It was a long drive. Emotional. It started to rain just as I was leaving, small drops falling slowly. Not even enough to merit the intermittent setting on the wipers. The further along I got, the brighter the sky seemed. Warming temperatures. During the 5 hours in the car I listened to music that reminded me of mom, of leaving home, of visiting mountains, and riding two abreast on fire roads. Growing up and growing old. Arriving back at my former home, the sun was setting in a panoply of orange hues. You gotta remember that it never rains everyday, and all storm clouds eventually break up and let the sun through.

For some reason Pa had all the windows closed in the house, but hadn't turned on the air. These are the sort of conditions that cause the bowl of hard candy on the coffee table to all weld together. I must have turned into a true northerner because it wasn't five minutes before I had taken off my jeans and situated myself to where the fan was blowing up my leg.

That was nothing.

My birthday boasted a record breaking temperature for that day in history, 97 degrees. Normally I'm well prepared for trips but man, did my planning suck for this one. My suitcase held only long pants and for some reason I had every pair of wool socks I own. No idea what the hell I was thinking. Truth is, I wasn't thinking.

I woke on my birthday morning in the same bedroom I occupied in high school and college. No alarm. No schedule. I was sleepy enough to wonder if I had somehow transported myself back to 1977 when my parents slept in this room, laying mere feet from where mom and I had shared our gift of breakfast in bed three decades earlier. I touched my face...the beard was still there, it's 2011. I went back to sleep for another hour.

I have vague recollections of the birthday when my brother made me close my eyes so he could carry me outside and put me on my first brand new BMX bike, and my 16^th when Pa handed me the keys to the family car so I could go pick up pizza, and even fewer memories of my 21^st when I got blitzed in the traditional bar crawl right of passage. This birthday I'll remember till the day I die, in exhaustive, vivid detail.

It started with a latte and a visit to the cemetery where I played my guitar for mom, and took in the view the bluffs in the distance. Sitting there by myself I finally let it all out with a heave and a sob. Ah, release. I just talked to her, remembered, and played songs. The wave of memories washed over me with tsunami force and I just let them come. There were belly laughs and tears, sometimes simultaneously. I asked her for forgiveness, guidance, and blessings before going off for a nice, long lunch.

That night, Pa hosted a little grill out that turned into a real affair. Everyone was was there with their most precious gift for me; their time. Amid the brats and taco salad, the beer and cake, I heard laughter in person and stories that have been told dozens of times. They have grown more outrageous with each telling. They're tall tales now, soon to be legends.

So many gifts, the kind that take up no space in the car.

I've been gone for awhile, but I'm back now. Watch your ass.

The Syrup/Peanut Butter Mixture

About 33 or 34 years ago, my birthday and Mother's Day fell on the same Sunday, and I woke up to the sound of stacking plates and the smell of bacon.

Early May is a fine time to have a birthday. Warm with cool breezes, and usually the April showers have moved on by. You can tell a lot about the kind of summer you're going to have by the way early May behaves.

I got up and started to walk down the hall for breakfast, but mom's voice stopped me at the doorway to my parent's room. She started singing Happy Birthday, and said “come in here, come sit next to me, we're going to be served breakfast in bed.”

I ran in at full speed and leapt into a perfect swan dive, landing roughly on the folks' bed (this was the one day out of the year I'd get away with that...and I knew it). Mom just laughed and started back in on Happy Birthday. Clambering up the bed, I kicked my feet under the sheets and settled in.

This Mother's Day, the trees just outside the window had a full set of leaves but I could still see clear blue sky behind them. All around their trunks the tulips were just starting to wake up, and the sweet smell of lilacs under the window mixed with breakfast. Spring pajamas. Pillows propped up against the headboard, lounging in the cool, clean sheets. She held my hand and swiped her thumb slowly across my knuckles and cleared the matted rat's nest off my forehead, making way for her cheek.

I don't remember what we talked about, but I do remember wondering what those three guys were making for us...and how much longer it would be. Not long, evidently. It seemed like my thought willed their appearance. They brought in two TV trays loaded with pancakes and bacon, and not just syrup...my brother had made his special syrup/peanut butter mixture. He had the proportions down man, he says "you gotta hold your mouth just right." He slathered a healthy layer in between each pancake, with another layer on the top just in case. It takes about four times longer than normal to eat the syrup/peanut butter slathered stack because it feels like you never get all of it off your lips, so even after you've cleared the mouthful your tongue keeps going. You know what a dog looks like when it eats peanut butter? Yeah, imagine a little kid doing that, but with a pancake in there too. There was a tall glass of cold milk that I nearly drained after the first fork full. Damn, that's good.

Feels weird to be talking about breakfast with no coffee.

Anyway, presents for each of us followed right after we handed off our empty trays. I have no idea what I got, only that there were bits of wrapping paper and ribbon stuck to me, mom, and the bedpost. That mixture is tasty but it's like glue that never quite sets up. And I know I dropped the fork in the sheets at least once.

I miss her extra this time of year, when the tulips start to wake up.

Lois Ann, 1936-1994