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...
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.
was the phrase of the day at theWashington State 'Cross Championships. The Big Air Corral was clearly the best place to spectate, cheer, and heckle... so that's where Lisa and I planted ourselves. On approach, the Corral "gently encouraged" each racer to pop off the little kicker at the bottom of a tricky off-camber downhill. Just try... that's all we were asking. If you tried, you at least passed with muffled applause. And if you showed some style, even just a little, you rode off to the roar(?) that only comes from 15 dedicated, beer-swilling 'cross fans. But if you showed no cajones, my friend, you felt the wrath.
Things learned and/or confirmed on this day: 1) Never open a honey bucket which has been locked and subsequently broken into. There was a reason that thing was quarantined. 2) Dogs and cyclocross go together. Bring your dogs to the races. 3) Kids like bikes. Bring your kids to the races. 4) A bike glove makes a decent beer cozy. 5) Chuck Norris fears Dan Norton. 6) I have fun hanging out with my wife. She may not prefer honey buckets, but she sure as hell knows how to shake a cowbell.
I've known since I could put a word to it. My dad is tough. Where others back away from the unknown, he has nurtured a life of constant challenge.
I watched him work relentlessly for 15 years, ascending to become one of the top Masters runners in the country. Tough. I listened to his stories of trial and victory on big mountains and rock walls. He lost good friends up there, and still returned to face down the demons. Tough.
We found out earlier this year that my dad has cancer. Agressive, inoperable prostate cancer. The treatments are limited and focused on putting years in front of what doctors say is an inevitable end. The slow, sinking reality that he might not be tough enough to win this one... is a weight too heavy for words.
Sometimes I fall into self-pity for the fact that, after years of emotional distance, my dad has become my friend. We discovered common ground on our bikes, putting several thousand miles behind us the last couple summers. As the pavement disappeared, so too did the baggage and the anger and the insecurity. It's been enlightening.
I promise myself and him that we'll be out on the bike next summer, even if I have to pull his ass in the trailer. But will we?
I'm not even tough enough to consider the question.
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.
I keep reading that one of the keys to being a better cyclist is developing a strong core. "Core". Sounds so solid, doesn't it? Unfortunately, mine is kind of squishy. So how do I work on this core thing?
Yoga. Ok, I don't bend well, nobody wants to see me with my shirt off, and I don't prefer posing like an animal. Except at home, when the kids are in bed. You know what I'm talkin 'bout, Lisa... rawr. Weights. I'm a weenie, and LA Fitness sucks (trust me, been down that road). Beer. This is the program I'm currently on, and apparently its effectiveness has been debunked. Who knew?
Alright, how about pilates? I'll drag my good-sport wife down to the community center and we'll give that a try. We'll call it a date.
Last night was Session 1. Dispensing with formalities (and apparently with the need to make anyone feel comfortable), our instructor got right to it without a word. Wait! Don't we get to introduce ourselves and say why we're here? Aren't you going to tell us what pilates is? Guess not. Let's get straight to stretching this piece of thrift-store spandex while doing exaggerated LeMaze breathing.
Lisa and I struggled to hold back the laughter from the absurdity of it all. We both silent-laughed the first ten minutes, to the point of tears and red faces. I had to consciously avoid making eye contact with her so that I wouldn't pee my fancy athletic shorts. Eventually we settled in. But whenever we caught each other's eye, the same thoughts were running through our heads. Be like a cat? Breathe louder? What the hell do you mean "zip up the thighs"? This is weird. I want a cookie.
And that's why I'll be back next week. My real "core" isn't the squishy middle part of my body. It's the girl on my arm walking into the community center for another adventure in the unknown.
Lungs searing, I'm suffering just to hang onto the back of the pack. Where will my fans be this lap? They like to move around and surprise me with cheers and cowbell. What was that lavender blur in the tree? Yep, that was Payton. New energy, head up, smile. My girls give me life.
Seattle Cyclocross, Fort Steilacoom, October 26. After a mechanical problem put me a full minute off the back on the first corner, it was decision time: A) give up. B) chase some fuckers down. Mountain bike dude, you're mine. Who's next? I managed to pull in 20 guys in three laps, and I'll go ahead and call that a success.
But this day belonged to Payton. It was her first race, and a chance for Dad to ring the cowbell. It made me so proud to watch her line up fearlessly at the start, the "great unknown" directly ahead. Her little legs could barely keep up with her adrenaline (especially on a too-small bike), and the race was over in a flash.
Lisa and I beamed with admiration and wonder, perhaps recalling something of the adventures we undertook at age 8. Petey obviously loved the excitement, and next time she wants to "upgrade" to the two-lap race. Something tells me this is just the beginning... how small do they build 'cross bikes, anyway?
Remember learning to ride a bike? You weebled, you wobbled, you fell down. Somebody told you to get back on and try again, so you did. Before long, the asphalt was disappearing beneath your feet, and the streets belonged only to you.
My own introduction to the way of the bike went like this... a less-than-ceremonial briefing ("Put your feet here and pedal") was followed by a firm shove down Breckenridge Street. And even though I was brought down quickly by a parked car, somebody has to be the one to give that first push. Thanks, Dad... I'll be pushing you now.
And thanks, Lisa (my amazing wife) for giving me the same kind of prodding, some 30 years later. See, I thought I knew how to ride a bike. Turns out, I don't know 'cross and I've been hitting the figurative parked car for about a week now. Lisa bought me a 2-hour skills class, and I subsequently discovered that I don't have skills. I practiced dismounts and run-ups in the park tonight, and was reminded that old guys learn slower. Often painfully slower.
But the little successes have given me the same ecstatic feeling I had when I was six... when the pedals first felt natural, and I could just ride. I love cyclocross (and someday I might be able to do it without crashing).
Bacon, much like a smile or a cold beer, can be universally understood, and is therefore a suitable measure of awesomeness for the global juggernaut that is Mud, Sweat, & Beers.
Ok, stick with me here. Some bacon is better than no bacon. Two bacons is better than one, three is better than two, and four is better than three. Five bacons is sublime. Tread carefully above five. Plumbing systems, your internal and your home's, may be strained to the point of failure.
Bearing in mind the above truths, I have implemented a 5-bacon rating system to help you determine awesomeness at a glance.
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No Bacon = Not awesome. ----------------------------------------- 1 Bacon = A tease. Leaves you wanting more. -----------------------------------------
2 Bacons = You can just about see awesome from here. ----------------------------------------- 3 Bacons = Satisfying. You could almost stop eating. Naaaw. ----------------------------------------- 4 Bacons = Awesome enough to share. Slow down if you're working alone. ----------------------------------------- 5 Bacons = Put on your sweats and get comfy. So awesome you won't be moving for awhile. -----------------------------------------
You might be wondering how you can contribute to a post's bacon rating. You can't. I control the meat, including where and how much of it is laid. I pledge to vary the brand, quality, and quantity to avoid monotony. You, in turn, agree not to question the chef.
I'm Mike Hahn... dad, husband, pusher of pedals and pixels. I'm a back-of-the-pack bike racer, a clumsy runner, and my adventures are hardly Jack London material. I haven't cycled Europe or trekked the Himalaya. But I do love this stuff, and here's where I spread the gospel.
