uh-oh

Well guys, We made it to the middle of fekkin' nowhere, Middlegate Station, Nevada, which isn't actually a town, it was a rest stop on the old pony express route 100 years ago, and now it's a rest stop on the Lincoln Highway between Fallon and Austin. It's basically a clapboard saloon/restaurant/motel
deal, and there's one house across the road from it, where I bought sweet corn from the folks who lived there when I was driving through 10 years ago. We're staying the night in the motel; amazingly they have wifi! Fred rode 100 miles yesterday, me considerably less, so we deserve soft beds to sleep on.

Middlegate is also the "gateway" to Berlin-Icthyosaur State Park, 51 miles down a gravel road. I love the name of the park! The Berlin part refers to a mining ghost town, and the Icthyosaur part refers to a handsome specimen of a fossil icthyosaur that was discovered there back in the day. It's still embedded in the rock face it was found in, but is now protected from the elements inside a building. Pretty neat if you can stand the drive.

Last night around 2 am, Fred and I were awakened by a horrible racket outside the motel, followed by bright lights. We peeked out the window and there was a helicopter landing in the parking lot. There was also an ambulance, lights a-flashing. We figured someone was being airlifted out, god knows what happened to them. It gave me flashbacks to my own accident last year. Haven't been able to get back to sleep since.

Which brings me to my own tribulation, and why I haven't written so far. I've been pretty bummed out since last Wednesday, when we rode into Placerville. Besides Fred's bike self-destructing (we eventually got him a new one), My achille's tendon began to hurt me. It may have to do with the new bike shoes I had to buy in Davis, or maybe some sequelae to my injury, but it kept getting worse, and my ankle swelled up disturbingly. It also began to "squeak," which I guess was from the inflamed tendon rubbing against the surrounding tissue. I consulted a doctor and he said I had tendonitis, and needed to R.I.C.E my achille's tendon or it might rupture. So I've been a total drag on this trip ever since Placerville (Fred's bike was a total drag on it before Placerville). The tendon's a little better, but not much. We discussed ending the trip, or at least the riding, so I can heal my heel, heh heh. The alternate plan would be to get a car go visit friends &
relations in New Mexico for a few weeks, riding our bikes as the mood suited us. On June 23 I have to be in Iowa City, Iowa, for a week long Rural Health Scholars Program (some of you know I sorta want to work in rural health care when I graduate), which is this annual symposium thingie for med students, dental students, and NP students. I have no idea why they're letting me in, but what the heck-- It's Iowa, baby!!! Immediately after that ends, Fred needs to attend a Bat Mitzvah in one of the suburbs of Denver. And I forgot, I'm supposed to visit my folks in Ohio, also. So it would still be a full-ish itinerary. Maybe fun, too. Anything to get me outta this funk. Oh yeah, not rupturing my tendon would probably be a good thing, too.

So there it is. My body is a broken down mess. I'll probably never get a chance to do something like this again. I've been wanting to do this since I was 18 years old. Better stop now, I'm getting depressed again.

First post of the actual bike ride

Day Two (May 25):

Today was our first full day. We covered 70 miles
total from Benecia, the lovely oil refinery town, to Davis,
perhaps the North American and/or New World Capital of
Bicycles. I mean, they have a bike as their official town logo
(a penny-farthing, one of those old-timey bikes from a
hundred years ago with the giant front wheel and the tiny
rear wheel. You needed a step ladder to mount one of those
suckers. I hear they were quite unstable but went hella fast.
No chain involved, so the big differential in size between the
pedal crank and the front wheel provided the pedaling
advantage. Then someone invented the bicycle chain and
the pneumatic tire, and the penny-farthing was toast.
But I digress).

Lots of roads we have been on have been spectacular, but
The Putah Creek Road was paradise. Putah Creek. Hee hee.

Sorry.

Giant hills bordering the valley, covered with Blue, Valley, and
Coast Live oaks. How do we know this? Because Fred is a
freaking botanical encyclopedia.
The Buckeyes are in full flower and
the inflorescences of these trees are typically some
what longer than the coastal version (sez Fred).
The Putah Creek and Pleasant Valley Roads were
Flat, no traffic to speak of, and there were peletons of
cyclists going all directions. We were surrounded by
Enormous groves of English walnut, Cherry trees,
and Nectarine trees with fresh ripe
golden fruit. Fred even stopped to pilfer some (only ones
that were on the ground, of course!) Delish.
(Dana)

We had hardly been on the Putah Creek Road a couple of
miles when I was approached, as I was riding by a guy on
nice road bike who talked with me for several minutes.
He asked me where we were headed and who was with me.
He had guessed that Dana and I were together on the
trip as we were both the only cyclists on the road
with touring paniers on. He was very friendly and he
would race ahead ten miles or so and then circle back
to cycle and talk to other cyclists on the road,
biking all the time, getting his century in for the
day I'm supposing. He helped us out with information
on Davis.
(Fred)

Davis was fantastic!! Bikes everywhere and people so
friendly and helpful. I talked to guy in Rite
Aide about bike stores, and he gave us a tour around
town that lasted an hour!. Pretty good for a Monday.

So I was using these things called SPDs (affectionately
called "spuds"), made by Shimano,
which are a clipless pedal system with the cleats on the
bottom of the shoe recessed so that you can walk around
normally with them on instead of doing the "duck walk"
like you do with serious racer shoes. My shoes in this
case were actually SPD sandals, and were over 10 years
and had seen a couple thousand miles of use. Well, somewhere
between Vacaville and Davis, my right sandal disintegrated,
by which I mean fell apart into 2 pieces, all with little warning.
This was nearly intolerable, and luckily I was in the bike
nirvana, so I quickly acquired replacements. This was my
salvation but perhaps also my undoing. More on that later.
This was our second mechanical glitch that day (Fred had a flat
tire earlier, no biggie).

Anyhoo, two strangers
showing up in Davis at 4:30 pm on loaded touring bikes
get the right treatment in Davis, apparently. Our Rite-Aid
friend was calling his friends at various housing Co-ops
in an attempt to get us free housing that night. In the end
we decided to go with the motel, but it was a great friendly
effort on his part.

It turns he and his family live in Village Homes
which are some of the very first ecological/ solar/
earth-roofed homes ever built in America, built with
giant commons that everyone shares and lots and lots
of community gardens and athletic fields.
All sustainable-- no pesticides/herbicides.
A completely community-focused earth-freak subdivision.
As you can imagine, not many of the houses there are in
forclosure.

So, we did some bike shopping, which included spare tires
and and a space-age sweat-wicking cycling shirt for Fred.
It was blue. Then we rode to Nugget Market for the organic
fresh food, and a giant sammich for me. Foolishly we bought a
watermelon which I had to precariously bungee to the back
of my bike. We ate like porkers in the motel room and fell
asleep within an hour.

Freakin' cable TV but no A&E, so I couldn't watch the remake
of "The Andromeda Strain." This depressed me, and oddly,
I thought about Scottosaurus and how he probably loved
"The Andromeda Strain" (had we talked about it once? Mebbe).

Sac is only 15 miles away.. Tomorrow we hope to make
it to Placerville.

Birds & animals: western kingbird (Dana still hasn't
seen this one),
Acorn woodpecker (three perfect white spots, one on
each wing and white on the tail), Red tailed hawk,
turkey vultures, metalmark and sulphur butterflies.

Fred should be giving nature tours.

more nonsense

"timesuck (n.):" something that irresistably takes up more of one's time than one can spare.

"rosyjackterrier (adj.):" combination of "rosey jack world" (a peppy Blake Babies album) and "jack russell terrier" (a frisky dog breed); in a condition of being overly excited about nothing: "don't get all roseyjackterrier on me..."

"please tell mom this is not her fault." -- Blink 182

The Gerund Song

There were some good lines from my trip to your house
I sold my soul to you like some discount outlet Faust
I showed you the burst capillaries in my sclera and said i took the red eye
I had some dreams about you I'll never tell and I wanted to feel my cheek on your thigh
If the sky were any bluer I'd have to live a million years
If I could disappear into it I'd gladly give you all my years
But I'll be annoying people for another fifty years with luck
Here's hoping my last dying phrase contains the word "fuck."


DON'T MESS WITH THE SEXLESS!

more neologisms

"frotty (adj.):" from the phrase "fraught with danger...;" said of a venture that's unlikely to succeed; iffy.

"to zoom (v.):" to scam or deceive; typical phrase: "who's zoomin' who here?"

"to lurk (v.):" to stealthily attend a social gathering one is not necessarily invited to in order boost one's ego by getting members of the opposite sex all excited then disappearing without a trace.

I'm pretty sure the picnic books are so named because one of the early one's cover was decorated by red gingham print contact paper (like a picnic blanket).

"blow some life into me jesus." -- Robert Pollard

Who needs intimate anymore? I'm comfortable with exhibitionism. Squeeze the rotted pulp outta my catharsis-loving soul. I don't care anymore.

get by

Intelligent Designers and AIDS deniers,
Placebo artists and outright liars,
Homeopath tincturers and book of love bowdlerizers,
Just let go of your crazy-think and we'll get by just fine!

People who make those ads on the internet where the fresh faced young woman morphs into the wrinkled crone
before your eyes,
Folks who cause so much harm then throw up their hands and say "it's all just business!"
The sunk costs of 10000 years of every religion on earth,
Just let go of your crazy-think and we'll get by just fine!

bike-water axis

Water... the real fuel that drives a long distance
ride. You get a love-hate relationship with the watery
stuff. Love because... well, thirst! Hate because the
stuff is HEAVY, and as much as you need it, you begin
to resent carrying it after a while. I mean, water
weights almost as much as you do, pound for pound, yet
it doesn't really DO anything, not the way your
sleeping bag swaddles you, or your iPod keeps your
brain from frying. Water is the substance you always
wish you had more of on the bike yet you never seem to
drink it as often as you should. The gold standard of
hydration is urine-- if you're peeing a couple times a
day, you know you're hydratin' ok. That's why people
like Camelbacks, they make sipping effortless:
think-drink, I call it. But I'm a purist. I like the
gummy, clunky, gotta reach down fer it, old fashioned
bike water bottle. Plus they help you keep mental tabs
on your reserves. The more you carry, the more secure
you feel. The pace of the ride goes from water stop to
water stop. If you find yourself not filling up at a
water stop because you have plenty left over, you feel
annoyed. On the other hand, nothing spells panic like
having swigged your last ounce with miles and miles
ahead of you to the next town, and nothing but
shimmering heat mirages taunting you! You can
literally be driven to drinking putrid unfiltered
ditch water by thirst desperation. Which is why it's a
good idea to bring a water filter. Life on the road
turns you into an H2O connoisseur. You judge the
delightfulness of every small town park you rest at
primarily by the slakeworthiness of its drinking
fountain and the quality of its shade. Ahhh, small
town parks. And elementary schools. The oases of the FLT!

craptastic dollar store buys!!

Memorable purchases at dollar stores: box of safety pins that were so dull and weak that you would bend them out of shape just trying to get the sharp part through cloth. I think they even would start to bend, Uri Geller-style, just by thinking bent thoughts. Liquid crystal lipstick that after you applied it would turn from green to fuschia. Rubber sauropod dinosaur skeleton. Crappy bare wood napkin holder that i use to store hold and envelopes and stuff. A bag of small rubber toy eyeballs, irises in rainbow hues. Yellow "POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS" tape. Small red fake netsuke dragon.

scents

I don't get the whole scented thing. I've bought perfume twice in my life; once, because the Rite Aid across from gay safeway was going out of business, and they were practically giving it away, and I felt in a girly mood and it seemed like a girly thing to have. The other time it was for someone who collected perfumes. But when you put it on, it just evaporates and dissipates after a few hours, and honestly, I just prefer people to have no scent al all. If given the choice, I buy the unscented version of everything. We had a few scent-challenged patients back in T or C, and more than once I had to drop what I was doing and go draw them because our phlebotomist was too scented. They generally are fussy people in general, the perfume-sensitive folk. What I don't understand is how we allowed smokers to get away with fouling public air for so long. If my mom had just been more considerate about her smoking when I was growing up, I wouldn't have been so cloistered and socially stunted. Those were my constant battles with her-- the length of my hair and her smoking around me. It just amazes me out here that I can come home after going to a club and not have my clothes reek of cigarette smoke.

standing on the ave maria shrine

i love religious artifacts
but i hate religion
here i slip
around some universal corner
of varnished emblems and seals
the karmic, the cloistered
into an ave maria alcove
is there room in this
vagina?

crap out

everyone's a crapout
everyone's a fake
everyone takes the wiggle route
everyone uses boilerplate
everyone doles out short shrift
everyone pays up late
everyone says the check's in the mail
no one shows up for a date.

Which are less likeable, the Voortrekkers or the Sooners?

the camera may do justice to laughter
the child pornographer knows this as he poses his daughter
the yearbook photog assumes this, in fact it's practically his motto
puppies and kittens shall lead us to slaughter.

the camera may also degrade sorrow
the actress blubs on command, her emotions are borrowed
the photojournalist risks life and limb for pulitzer grist
while all photos are by nature sad, because we grow old.

nosocomial

Where it comes from
nobody knows
Broken knee caps
busted toes
Flowing IVs
TKO
Deadly dirt
I don't know
I sing the body septic
pus, your favorite quaff
Scraps of precision
lease one new
Lines of scarlet
veins of blue
I don't know
moaning from the hall
Stupid fucking medicine
nosocomial

your

YOUR SCHOOLNAME HERE: ELBOW DIRT
YOUR SHAMEFUL SCHOOL NICKNAME HERE: KURT COBAIN JR.
YOUR TATTOO PARLOR MISTEP, YOUR BABOON-ASSED BEACON
YOU'RE DEEDING ME AN ELLIPSIS, YOU'RE LETTING ME HANG.

ghosts of a trip 15 years ago

Wednesday night I was tooling around Manhattan and Brooklyn in a tour van with the rest of my laboratory instrument instruction class. Again, the Bay Area dominated, not just in numbers but also yakkiness; there were Doreen and I or course, and a guy who came independently who lives in SF but works in Burlingame, down the peninsula, at another Sutter hospital. So out of 12 attendees 3 were Bay Areans. But not Bay Aryans. Add to that The Primate Guy from Everett WA (runs the lab at an evil military-industrial-academial primate research facility) and we made up The West Coast Contingent. The tour guide basically let us direct the tour, and of course we all wanted to go to Ground Zero. He let us out and we all walked around for a while. Pretty spooky at night. A lot bigger that I thought it would be. We also made stops in a little park under the Brooklyn Bridge in Brooklyn, at the Jersey Shore State Park (to look at the Statue of Liberty from afar) and Little Italy, where I wandered into this bizarre little trattoria where I got a cheese slice, authentic NY pizza pie. I'm sorry, but my local North Beach Pizza beats it hands down. And of course we drove through Times Square, Central Park, and all the other typical places. We were all falling asleep on the ride back to Parsippany (including the driver-- I was sitting next to him and saw him nodding, and poised myself to grab the steering wheel if he crossed the center line). I was surprised how much I remembered of NYC from my trip there 15 years ago.

monkey trivia

I learned today from a tech who works with primates in a research lab that certain monkeys produce grey semen that dries into a solid mass minutes after it is ejaculated. He said that this is an adaptation that improves the odds of a male passing his seed along to a female, who may be mating with several different males on a given day, by blocking the path to the fallopian tubes for subsequent ejaculate ("closing the door," as it were). This tech said he knows this first hand because monkeys enjoy masturbating and he often finds little grey blobs on the floors of their cages.

I remember heading gleefully

down the slippery slope of labor intensive gardening. The second year at the farm I decided I was going to start seeds indoors in February so I could get my tomatoes, peppers, etc. producing early. So I set flats up in our attic on big sheets of plywood propped up by saw horses (god I miss those saw horses!), beneath fluorescent lights I strung from the ceiling so that they hung 18 inches above the "potting soil," which was actually loam from our compost pile that I had taken to work and sterilized by autoclaving (pretty extreme DIY, huh?) The highlight of my day for a while was coming home from work to check on the progress of my little seedlings and giving them a gentle misting. I even went so far as to brush them with my hand a couple times a day once they started reaching up toward the light because I had read somewhere that giving seedlings physical stimuli resulted in more robust growth. In the end we
had so many little tomato plants that we ran out of people to give them away to.

more giant punkins!

At a recent Pumpkin festival they were selling seeds to grow giant pumpkins. The seeds cost $2.00 a piece. They come in a tiny plastic bag, with a pedigree (my seed came from a 712 lb pumpkin belonging to one Aaron Wray.) I thought the price of one seed was bad, until I read the instructions that came with it, which include requirements for extensive soil additives, peat moss, plant fertilizers with non-standard N-P-K ratios, a warming tray, a mini greenhouse, and finally a 6' by 6' shelter with sloped roof for your pumpkin. Yes, you have to build a little house for your pumpkin. Once the pumpkins start to develop, you're supposed to pick the best looking one, and prune the rest, pinning all your hopes on that guy. However, giant pumpkins frequently explode, so all your hard work may be for naught. What are the physics behind exploding giant pumpkins? Internal fermentaion? I don't think it's a build up of gases. A potential champion pumpkin in log phase can put on 15 -30 lbs a day, and I guess if they grow unevenly, turgor forces build up in their guts and any thin or weak wall sections may be compromised. Good pumpkin quote from a giant pumpkin ace: "If you're not splitting them, you're not trying hard enough. You're not pushing them enough. If you're not blowing some up, you're not doing it right. They'll never be big."
Yes, but are exquisitely nurtured hothouse pumpkins are more likely to warrant a visit from the Great Pumpkin? Has anyone ever been injured in an exploding pumpkin mishap?

re: the multi-person blog

the blog question: is it better to demand give-and-take, withholding blog until someone else gives it up, not unlike a resentful lover? or should one blog unconditionally, not caring whether the act is returned in kind, simply as a declaration of one's truth? should one make it a a habit, diary-like, to blog once a day out of a sense of
discpline? or should one blog only when one has something significant to relate?

think of them as giant ovaries

Giant veggies are big everywhere that gardening is big. One often forgets that gardening ranks as the #1 hobby worldwide when such polls are taken-- I think because gardening enthusiasts are generally quiet and introspective and rarely go on shooting rampages. Growing monstrous vegetables is kinda the horticulturist's version of getting wild and crazy. Mainly, though, giant veggies are hideous symbols of the triumph of petrochemical fertilizers. One day our descendents will look back and think us mad for such arrogant waste. But for now, golly gee, aren't those gargantuan pumpkins freakish?

please just

'splain me this: my smoke detector started making that intermittent chirp that is supposed to let you know that your battery needs to be changed. So I get up on a chair and take it off it's mount (no, it's not one of those kind that are wired into the house circuit). I look into the little compartment where you hook in the 9-volt battery (is there anything other than smoke detectors these days that uses 9-volt batteries?) and I see that there is no battery! I mean, the black padded connector with the silver caps that snap on to the two poles of the battery is just dangling there. I mean, I don't care if it's illegal. There are smoke detectors in the building hallways that are wired in to the building power that are plenty loud (trust me, I set one off). To me, smoke detectors are like the body politic mandating that you keep radioisotopes in your home against your will. They are basically one more instance of society coddling smokers, because, let's face it, irresponsible smoking causes more fires than anything else (and those incompetent electricians that are responsible for the faulty wiring that sets off some building fires? Most of 'em are smokers, too, I'd wager). So fuck, I'll just put the damn thing in a drawer until I move. But just tell me where it's getting the power to make these noises? Does it mean radioactive dust is escaping into my home? Just curious.