Average Speed: 68.2 mph!

I recently had a birthday - not an "age-group significant" one, i.e. one divisible by 5 or 10. Let's just say this was one of 24 prime number birthdays that accrue to people who reach the age of 89. I received thoughtful gifts, cards, and greetings. Among the gifts was a new TREK bicycle, and accessories including a small wireless bike computer. This device displays current, average, and max speed; trip distance and odometer; clock and trip timer; and several other mysterious functions.

I took my third ride on the new bike this morning. But before I took off, I puzzled over the pictures that illustrated how to attach the computer and sensor, and how to set it up. I had wanted to leave home at 8am, but the installation wasn't going smoothly. I wanted a thousand words, not the picture instructions included in the clear plastic packaging. It was 8:30 when I uttered my final WTF! and left the kitchen (bike work area today) and headed out the front door carrying the bike with newly installed computer that registered 68.2 mph. Something's not right.

Today's route included a stop at the bike shop for help. When I got there, it wasn't open yet. No matter...I'll stop on the way back. I had a good ride in beautiful weather, going east on the bike trail toward Vienna VA. Destination: Whole Foods for coffee and a blueberry scone. En route, I met a group of my running friends who were on a long trudge. Got my coffee and scone and sat at one of the bolted-down metal picnic tables outside the store. I leaned my bike against one of the several large wall paintings. Sitting there is pleasant because it's interesting to watch the bike traffic on the trail, and the comings and goings of people. Birds looking for handouts hop close to the tables.

I retraced my route back to the bike store that appeared to be open since the display bikes were sitting outside. The automatic doors opened and I stepped into a dark store that the worker was in the process of opening. He fiddled with the sensor attached to a spoke, moved the transmitter attached to the fork, but the computer still registered 68.2 mph. He needed the directions. Other customers were entering the store, so I cut my visit short.

This afternoon I set up my work area on the front porch, studied the picture directions more carefully, and discovered I had attached the sensor and transmitter to the wrong side of the fork. The sensor was not being sensed, thus the transmitter had nothing to communicate to the computer. I made the switch and all is well. A neat gift. Now I can spend time figuring out its mysterious functions.

3, 2, 1 ...You're On!

It's not everyday that a person goes public...I mean really public. We tend to move in our own comfortable orbits - meeting the same people, using the same streets to get to familiar places, doing things on an established schedule. As we do all this, others we don't know might notice us as we intersect their lives and schedules anonymously, but they don't know much about us. Then comes the opportunity to appear on community television. My friend Carol and her business associates are taping a one-hour program today. They'll be interviewed about their professional lives and the significant features of their dog care enterprise...all in a single one-hour take. They'll go public.

Joining them on the set will be a small, white, mixed breed short-haired dog - a loveable lump that was put on the earth to attract, and then absorb, any excess adoration that may exist anywhere. If this dog only knew the potential of the medium, she would shift into a level of unsurpassed "high cute." During the taping, this dog will bliss out on a dog bed or a lap and will wag as glances come her way. She'll nuzzle and get close. And there will also be a pit bull. Fifty pounds of competitivly trained rippling muscle under a brindle coat, docked ears, piercing eyes. She's very obedient, but she has an edge. She is, as they say, "ready to go."

Unlike the dogs, the people do appreciate what's at stake. Knowing the flow of the interview in advance they divvy up topics, hone their messages, and figure out what to wear (nothing that will show armpit rings, please). The show will air in a couple of weeks to those who will watch any program that has a dog in it, or to (ta-dah) potential clients. I have every expectation that the show will go well. The interviewer is benevolent, the business is doing well and expanding, and Carol and associates will be discussing topics they know very well.

The small white dog may be subtly miffed at the absence of close-ups she deserves, and the pit bull may harbor lingering distrust of the production staff. But the people will get their message out about a business that has consumed their lives, and will enter the orbits of people they do not know.

Improving My Shelter

Early morning, April 3rd. While my running group friends are getting ready for their usual Tuesday jog, I'm thinking about what I have to move to make way for the roofers who will arrive at 8:00. They will strip off the old shingles and "underlayment" (used to be called "tar paper") using long-handled metal scrapers, and will remove the shingle vents. All the old stuff will land on the patio, surrounding yard, and front porch areas. The agreement says they will sweep the yard with a magnet for any loose nails. I suppose this task also includes picking up the nails and disposing of them...but I get too literal. So, I'll move my vehicle to make way for their truck, reposition a couple of kayaks, and slide patio furniture and planters away from the drop zone. My son's aging '78 Blazer will stay in place...as one would expect of a 5,000 pound piece of immovable driveway sculpture. Well, maybe less than 5,000 pounds these days since it has probably shed a few ounces a week due to corrosion...for the past two years.

The new roofing material has been perched on my roof for about 5 days. Neighbors have said pithy things like, "So, you're getting a new roof," and "Hope you get better workers than the stumblebums we had on our roof." I'm expecting the best. Upgraded shingles, a slight color change, and the satisfaction of knowing that I, and any others who inhabit this place, will be sheltered from the elements for the next 25 years. Guaranteed.

Evening Shadows

It's that time of day when breezes calm, light softens, and birds go still. It's a gentle time. I go quiet at sunset, wishing the time could be shared. The outline of trees moves up the sides of houses that are bright toward their peaks and darker below. The early blooms of flowering trees and shrubs have their colors for a few more minutes. The moon appears above it all. I'm drawn gently into night. With warmer weather, I'll enjoy the sound of cadydids.

Some places I've been, this time of day is a cue for the spirit world. Parents bring their children indoors so the shadows of the evening don't fall on them. Shutters are closed - pulled flat against houses so if spirits are afoot, they can move unimpeded around the outside walls and be on their way. Clothes lines are placed parallel to houses, not perpendicular to them for the same reason. Prayers are said before or after, but not during this time of spiritual risk. After dark, the shutters open and the night is filled with outdoor voices.

On the Bike Again

I just got back from my inaugural bike ride of the year. Right...I'm real hard core. I pawed around in several dresser drawers and located my bike shorts and long-sleeve bike shirt. Shoes were on a bottom shelf under a box that once contained a Christmas gift. Dog hair clung to the velcro straps. I opted for a bright yellow-green vest for my outter layer. It was visible in the closet. To the garage. I had to move a few storage boxes, my son's tools, canoe paddles, snow shovels, and a big bag of grass seed to get to my bike - an aging (but good in its day) cyclo-cross job. Returned to the bedroom to get my biking gloves. Helmet was in the garage in its usual place - on top of my office archives kept in a wall of cardboard boxes stacked against two cupboards containing my sons' old athletic gear and other unclaimed items. Replaced a really funky water bottle still on the bike. Tires were at 40# so pumped them up. I was ready to ride so didn't bother to lube the chain or anything else.

I exited my subdivision and stopped at a major intersection in a line of traffic waiting for the light to change. Rush hour begins in earnest at 4pm around here, and traffic speeds down the parkway that my line of traffic must cross. Have to be careful here since a green light doesn't necessarily mean it's safe to venture into the intersection. Parkway drivers often run their red light doing around 50. I got across the intersection and headed north paralleling the parkway on a bike trail. After crossing two more busy intersections and one blind off-ramp, I was headed west on the Washington and Old Dominion bike trail. My destination was Ashburn, Virginia, a round trip of 24 miles.

There weren't many riders on the trail, but a high percentage of them were obviously regular riders in good condition. Their bikes sped by silently. Mine clicked along as I took in the sites. (Should have lubed.) A new golf course is nearing completion. The jarring planks on a bridge spanning one of the creeks had been replaced with smooth synthetic boards. I heard peepers near a wetland area. Vultures caught the wind and flew over trees that line the trail. Large planes on final approach flew low over the trail en route to Dulles. About one mile from Ashburn, a group of teens from a nearby middle school were standing on the trail oblivious to bike traffic approaching from both directions. They made desultory moves so bikers could pass. I started thinking about a snicker bar.

One mile ahead is Partlow's Store, a landmark of sorts from simpler times when the area was cropland and pasture, and the bike trail was the railroad line that took dairy products and produce from Loudoun County to DC. More recently, the land supported sod farms to make instant lawns during the building boom which began in earnest 25 years ago. Housing and shopping centers now sit on the sod farms. With a snicker on my mind, I parked my bike and clomped across the porch of the store. Closed. It's 4:30 in the afternoon! The sign says they will open at 10:30 tomorrow morning. So much for this community fixture where one used to get a cup of coffee or a sandwich, fishing tackle and live bait, and biking snacks (SNICKER BARS) from early morning until dark.

I took a long pull at my water bottle and headed back. Teens were still in the middle of the trail. Peepers were still making their spring sounds. A few more miles and I was back at the parkway. I headed south, crossed the intersections without a problem, and arrived home pleased with the ride. I enjoyed the crisp air, the small gestures that bikers make to each other as they pass - sometimes just a nod or a subtle raising of a hand from the bars - and the look of the sky as it darkens toward evening. Bike is back in the garage. Water bottle is in the sink. Dog is now by my side shedding a fresh supply of hair destined for the velcro straps of my bike shoes.

Saturday Kitchen

One of life's simple pleasures is getting up early on a Saturday, padding down the hallway, then entering a kitchen totally cleaned up from a particularly enjoyable Friday night dinner. I like cleaning my kitchen. I hit a mental button and view the instant replay of conversation, looks and glances. I remember as I stow the evening in the dishwasher. Here go the small dishes that held butter sauce for the steamed artichokes. Next are the plates used for salmon, rice, and spicy eggplant currie. Then a large round casserole dish that held the discarded artichoke leaves. Inscisor scrapings still visible. I'll swish out various pots and pans, clean the stove top, and toss away a few paper towels. Left over salad goes in the fridge. Then the wine glasses. I like the smaller ones brought home from a tasting at a Virginia winery. A good memory. Using them, we serve each other multiple times during the course of a meal. Dishes and glasses, pots and pans each become short-hand to the thread of conversation. I chuckle with some; get serious with others...accompanied by remaining music.

Ready for Spring

I was up early this morning so I could move ahead in a thick book for a while, glance at the paper, take care of Bass the dog, and maybe do a few office tasks I've been ignoring (i.e. "rat killing" as a good friend calls it). There was a light snow yesterday afternoon, followed by a very cold night. Slick patches formed on pathways and streets by morning, hence the plan to get the routine going early and be at the health club by 7:00 a.m. to do something that didn't involve running on ice.

This afternoon I wandered into my back yard to do routine pick-up (dog, you recall). I'm really ready for spring. I like getting my patio back in shape...planters, table umbrellas. Two varieties of sage are still alive out there, as are the chives and lavender in whiskey barrels. Clamatis is brittle and clinging to its trellis. Downstairs in the family room, I've been coaxing along a planter of last year's daisys - positioning it to take maximum advantage of a splash of afternoon sunlight that moves across the floor in front of the t.v. A hibiscus tree and a bougan villa are upstairs in the room adjacent to my office. Both have bloomed most of the winter thanks to hours of sunshine coming through a large southeast window. Not too much longer and these plants will be on the patio, too.

Beyond the confines of the patio, the birdbath is frozen solid. In one plant bed, the gazing ball is not yet surrounded by oregano, mint, horehound, and sedum. In another, the ornamental grass needs to be cut back before its dry leaves scatter all over the yard. The large flowering quince bush is covered with brown frozen blooms; a reminder of premature warm weather a few weeks ago. Spring will be sweet.