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.