inspiration comes in many forms...

Tough Cookie has been battling lung cancer for the better part of the last 2 years. After the first time she laid the smack-down on the disease, she rode 40 miles in the LIVESTRONG challenge just 6 months after having 2/3rds of her right lung chopped out. This may help provide some insight into her nickname...

Nonetheless... before leaving remission and re-entering into a world of CT and PET scans, Carboplatin, and fighting for her life, she signed up to do this year's 100 mile LIVESTRONG challenge. Now she is not only striving to rid her body of cancer, but planning on riding a century in support of everyone else fighting for their health.

A century is a great accomplishment, even for everyday cyclists, let alone cancer fighters/survivors. I decided to sign up for the ride to support Tough Cookie as well as raise some money for a cause that has made a huge difference in her fight. The thought of begging for the minimum $250 was a little daunting, having never done such a thing.

I sent out an email to a small group of friends, family, and co-workers. Basically anyone who Tough Cookie wasn't asking in her goal of raising $5000. I asked for a small sum, that if multiplied by the number of people on the list, would quickly get me to the $250 mark.

Within 4 hours, I had surpassed that line. I started getting choked up at my desk. I can't really explain how much it means. Watching someone go through this battle is tough, and at times inspiring.

A large part of that inspiration stems from the support people give total strangers. So thank you to all that have donated. In a quick, overwhelming moment, I realized how lucky I am to have myself surrounded by the kindest, most compassionate people on the planet.

Having reached my initial goal, I won't post the link to my fundraising site. But, I will ask that if you are feeling generous, or haven't found a good use for your Pandering-to-the-masses-re-elect-the-Republicans Bush Bucks, or you just want something to write off on your taxes next year, you should help Tough Cookie hit her goal of $5,000:

Tough Cookie's Fundraising Page

function over form...

Form is out these days. My body is road-weary, my belly is a little bigger than usual. This was evidenced most recently while riding with Faticus and the Keg Breaker. There was some snap in the legs, but there was no endurance. One hour into our traipse around Fair Hill and I was cooked. Two hours and I was pretty cracked. At the three hour mark I was shattered. But not that painful, I-hate-riding shattered. I was still smiling, still happy to be out on two wheels and hanging with good friends.

Form is also going out the door with my Spot Brand 29er frame: classifieds.mtbr.com/showproduct.php?product=20180&cat=38. Which must mean I'm on a new bike:

The Kona does not yet have a nickname.

Function is the word of the day on both fronts. My legs are spinning. They will pedal a bike and take me from point A to B. The Kona rides beautifully - possibly better than the Spot. It just feels more balanced, and I'm using the rear wheel I've always wanted to use.

But I must admit. Form is suffering a little with the loss of the Spot frame. I really like the clean lines of the steel tubing. I really liked the solid white frame with black components. I liked that the Spot was one-of-a-kind (for better or worse). The Kona is a sharp looking bike, but it doesn't have the same panache as the Spot.

Finally, I'll post this because I think it's a good cause and I know how little funding cancers outside of the Boob Cancer world receive. Plus you can win some cool shit.

www.bikereg.com/events/register.asp?eventid=6529

Please enter early and often, and send along to your friends.

This last month has been a whirlwind tour covering nine time zones of our fair planet. I intend to update you shortly on my worldly travels. First, however, I intend to calm your worries.

Fear not, dear reader, that I have been separated from the beloved Stall #2 at the place of my employment. I am happy to inform you that developing countries – such as California and Italy – have made great strides in both indoor plumbing and personal hygiene. The facilities away from home have been adequate, if not luxurious.

I captured a shining example of such advancements in porcelain technology at the Una Malpensa in Milan. The facilities, shown below, are equipped with more than your standard toilet. Here, and many places in fact, an additional tool is at one’s disposal.


I was perplexed at first, but after some reverse engineering and experimentation, I was able to operate the device. In addition to the attached control interface (which provided a wonderful spectrum of water temperature), the apparatus included a separate bottle of “Intimate Wash” for all of ones cleansing needs.


While I was more than satisfied with the results, I am excited to return to the more refined and technologically sound accommodations offered in Stall #2. Now onto the trips.

First was a venture to the West Coast. My employer required my presence at the Sea Otter Bike Festival in Monterey, so I thought it best to leave a few days prior to the planned event to acclimate to the strange habits of Western US culture. I was joined by Tough Cookie, and together we visited with friends who are currently engaged in long-term field studies in the area.

There were some pleasant discoveries made along the way – a bike ride to Marin and around San Francisco, a visit to Muir Woods, some climbing and hiking, and consumption of local fare and spirits. I was slowed in my exploration, however, by the onset of sever stomach cramps and a case of food poisoning. The bright side was the great amount of field data I was able to capture during 30+ visits to the toilet in 36 hours. Below are some photos of these adventures.

Tough Cookie riding a borrowed bike.

As with deer in the Mid-Atlantic, controlled hunting in the Bay Area could help keep the hipster population in check.

Hot Chicks H2s with Douchebags.

The 'stache had to go.

There was plenty of love at the Sea Otter Classic…

And mannequins with a nice set of... teeth.

I should be collecting royalties somewhere.

After a brief respite at home – long enough to wash some underwear and socks – it was off to the home of wine and hand gesticulation. Again, I was joined by Tough Cookie, who decided to fly out for a rock-star tour of Tuscany and its surroundings.

In three days we visited Cinque Terre, Lucca, Firenze, and Bologna. Guided by a GPS device, whose presence reminded me of friends lost, we navigated close to 1000 kilometers of autostradde, single lane switchbacks, and batshit-crazy drivers in under 72 hours. The scenery was incredible, and the history was hard to grasp.

Tough Cookie returned stateside to allow me to go to work in Riva del Garda - a beautiful place where weight-weenie German cyclists are slowly displacing the Italians so they can test their cross-drilled brake levers on hairy mountain descents. It appeared that the area offered a fair amount of wind-surfing and climbing as well.

I was only able to sneak out for two short investigative rides as most of my field work was predetermined. However, these small explorative missions will probably require a return visit to fully understand the region – I think it has a lot to offer. Some canceled meetings on our final day abroad resulted in some free time to explore both Verona and Venice. The former looked like a nice place to work, while the latter was almost too surreal to soak in. It felt like a strange cross between an amusement park and a Renaissance art museum. Below are some photos of this field work.

Dear reader, take note. When walking your dog in Italy, you do not need to carry a plastic bag.

I stand corrected **shudder**. Most of the scenery was incredible.

My first grey hair was discovered… in my beard.

Tough Cookie the carnivore: tearing flesh from the bone.

Italians are known for gratuitous public displays of affection.

Old stuff.

The only healthy thing I ate during my entire visit.

Dear reader, some advice for Italian travel: Drinking beer in Italy is like jerking off in a whorehouse. Stick to the wine.

In one enlightening moment, I learned that Verona bans almost all things native to San Francisco: hobos, public drinking, graffiti, hobos with dogs, and cross-dressing.

Venice may look soft and friendly…

But don’t let down your guard – a skull made from the armor of knights killed by an unnamed canal-lurking beast.

I apologize, dear reader, for taking so much of your time on a long post. I can only hope it will make up for the recent lack of content, and you will forgive me the surge in blog activity.

The rest of the West Coast pictures.
The rest of the Italy pictures.

a little R & R & R...

Red Rock Rendezvous is an annual gathering of dirtbags in the eastern reaches of the Mojave desert. Some good friends, now living in the West, convinced me to join them in an attempt to shed the soggy ups and downs common to Mid-Atlantic spring weather. The weather was interesting, but we'll get to that.

Silas and John TP.

Like a rock star, I decided to do this over a long weekend - using only a day of vacation. Fly out Thursday night after work, taking the red-eye home Sunday night in time for work on Monday. Unlike a rock star, I slept in a tent that would eventually be blown over in a strange 70 mile per hour wind gust.

Awkward.

To sum it up, we climbed on some sandstone, climbed on some limestone. We led, followed, and top-roped. We hit the Ultraman Wall, the Rescue Wall, the Black Corridor, and some other crap. We drank some beers. I made some loud, drunken disparaging remarks about what activities I would do if given the choice between solving world hunger and doing said activities. We learned from some PROs. We climbed a little sandstone/limestone laminate. We laughed. We drank some beers.

JF playing rope gun on the hard stuff.

The weather was great. Sunny and 70 during the days. At night the mountains would cool and wind would rip out of the canyon over the campground. Between that and the burros braying, sleep was in interesting proposition. It started raining Sunday afternoon, so we had to bail on the climbing and we headed to the Vegas strip.

Desert weather is more fickle than a 7th grade girlfriend.

Heh... lion balls.

And I ran into my dad on the way home.

[open curtains, Monday morning, Just getting off the red-eye with 3 hours of sleep, I'm walking down the ramp from the plane to the airport gate. I turn on my phone. As I go to put it in my pocket it rings.]

ME: Hello?

CALLER: Hi Robert it's Dad.

ME: Hey Pop.

POP: I'm sitting here in the Philadelphia airport and thought I'd call to say hi. I always think of you when I come through here - I know you're in and out of here like food in a bulimic's gut.

ME [look of surprise and amusement on face.]: What gate are you at?

POP: I'm in the Philly airport...

ME: I know. At which gate are you located?

POP: A5, why?

ME: I'm at C24. I'll meet you at Terminal B.

POP: What?

ME: Just walk to Terminal B, wait at the Dunkin' Donuts stand.

[End Scene]

Family resemblance.

Turns out the old man had a layover on his way to OK City. We had about 5 minutes to catch up, laugh, hug, and head on our merry ways. The world is a small place indeed.

PHOTOS HERE.

heartbroken...

It has been a while, dear reader, since I have updated this - your grimy window into my modest microcosm. I must assure you, I have not been avoiding your prying eyes. My shades have been drawn tight during my period of mourning.

My heart, you see, is broken. There is no more anger; there is no more denial; there are no more black clouds loaded with tension, ready to burst forth with tears. There is just sad, silent acceptance.

My Garmin has been murdered. After a short, but exceedingly rich life, my Edge 305 has been laid to rest; its beauty in display and simplicity in interface slaughtered by wanton carelessness. Reduced to a plastic and PCB brick from a shining beacon of information-overload in a dark, dismal world of unknown gradients and cryptic coordinates.

Not only is the backlight dead, Garmin's blood has run all through her screen.

No longer will I be able to dork out after a ride; learning, as my legs still twitch in a bath of lactic acid, that my heartrate ebbs and flows in concert with the undulating terrain of the Mid-Atlantic. No longer will I be able discern the exact duration of a zone 4 interval. No... no, dear reader, those days have passed. And now I enter an age of murkiness, an anti-renaissance, where I must rely on my body's internal alarms and warnings to ascertain the difficulty of a just-consummated group ride.

Sparing you the details of her grisly demise, I will tell you this. No GPS device, no matter how tough the exoskeleton, can bear the overwhelming force delivered by the closing of a Mazda3 hatchback door. My complete disregard for her safety in such a situation has left me ridden with guilt, bereft of hope, and disillusioned with myself. I only hope that time will heal the wound.

Garmin: as she would have wanted to be remembered.

Thank you for your ears and tender understanding in this, my darkest hour.