Soul...

Update, 11/24: She's gone. I'm not even sure why it matters enough to write about. I mean, it's just a bike. But as anybody who spends time with old stuff knows... these bits of metal and plastic accumulate more than rust and scratches over the years. They grow soul.

Soul, whether belonging to man or machine, is not some kind of divine gift received at birth. It is the accumulation of time and experience. It's your first love, and (probably much later) the love that's forever. Soul is the playground fight you got into in the 5th grade (and then again in 7th, and uhh... let's not talk about years 21-28). It is also the voice that keeps you out of a fight now.

For a bike, soul is built as miles disappear beneath the tires. It's joy on Christmas morning, garden hose washings, and even the months of neglect out in dad's garage. This bike had soul in spades, and it showed over every square inch (if you took the time to look).

So while it's tough to say goodbye to an old friend, comfort comes in knowing that I nurtured an old soul. My mom, keeper of a million such living objects, will appreciate this closing statement...

It's not just stuff.

Everything's Coming Up 'Cross...

My professors warned me about something in design school. They said, "When you leave here, you will never look at the world in the same way. You'll go out to dinner and critique the typography on the menu." Check. "You'll appreciate sharply-executed airport signage." Check. "You might even rent a movie just because you heard the titles were well done." Yep.

I'm accustomed to living with this inconvenience, and to not voicing it in polite company ("Sweet Jesus, nice typeface on this graduation announcement. Is this a funeral or a party? Oh, uh... right. Your cousin is graduating. That's great, sweetie. Really great.").

Well, it's happening again in a new, unexpected way. At my daughter's school, on the drive to work. Hell, anywhere there's some combination of grass, dirt, pavement, and hills within view. Everything is a cyclocross course.

I've got it figured out at Summit Elementary... asphalt, turf, off-camber turns. Geez, there's even a great runup on the back playground with old telephone poles half-embedded in the hillside for barriers. And an opportunity for "big air" heading down onto the basketball court. Yeah... people could definitely heckle from that spot.

Everything is a cyclocross course. I'm an amateur surveyor (minus the orange vest and tiny telescope), having fun pounding in stakes and running imaginary yellow tape all over the place. It's good to find new ways to look at the world.

Games...

From the newswire: Nerdy social misfits are dressing in tights and gathering in wooded parks for mock-battles of questionable "real world" consequence. Some wear the same crest and form "teams". Shockingly it seems that, regardless of the mockery, humiliation, or outcome... they will be back next week to do it again.

So, I've been feeling pretty sorry for myself because I've missed two weekends of bike racing in a row. But a funny thing happened to me about 3:30am (why does self-realization always strike when we really ought to be sleeping?).

Most of our parents probably told us the first time we took the field or hit the court in school athletics, "It's just a game. The important thing is to have fun." Well, at 3:30am, it hit me. Whoa. Cyclocross is just a game, too. The nerds will still be in the park next week.

Inner peace. Sleep.