remember.

the detail of memory is a terrible thing.

my memory cannot be trusted. i have no recollection of the time, on sunday afternoon, that we were so happy to have a whole and happy family, and a destroyed rack full of destroyed bikes. i cannot recall the last time i saw so much splintered glass around my children, and wanted nothing but to keep the calm in their eyes, the sweat on their foreheads. i don't remember license plate numbers.

i remember, in vivid detail, on a snowy night in november of my grade ten year, my first kiss with a beautiful girl named meghan, in a snowbank, on the side of a highway, under ten million stars. it wasn't yet my birthday. i remember pushing jada, her on her bike, me running in first edition shimano mountain bike shoes, down a gravel path, while we hoped for the bee sting to not swell any more, wondering if we should just use the epi pen now. i remember the first ride on my first road bike. i remember my mom teaching me, in sweltering virginia summer and tapered jeans and white reeboks, how to ride a bike on karen lee's pink huffy. i remember missing my daughter's first independent pedal strokes in the park, and getting choked up when she rode up to me, yelling that she was riding. i remember all those times i persuaded women to love me, because i couldn't love myself. i remember losing all of my friends, at one time or another, and gaining them back when we all grew up and forgot the stupid shit. i remember being romantic, or at least, feeling like a romantic and acting accordingly. i remember bent metal and streetcar tracks and hit and runs and kneeling in the rain on parliament street. i remember driving to temagami to get my heart broken once and for all. i remember when my heart could be broken.

the carpet has been pulled out from under us, again. i asked her why this seems to happen to us, all of the time, every now and again, and with devastating consequences. she said it's for the same reason that we'll never win the lottery: we can handle it. after this many days and no bikes, you should see us arguing...

impact.

watching auto glass shower the backs of my children's car seats, my first reaction was cynical rage. i call it cynical because i was ready for such a terrible thing to happen. this is the kind of thing that happens when you put ten thousand dollars' worth of bicycles on a two hundred dollar pink plastic bike rack on the trunk of a four thousand dollar sedan and drive it on the 401 on a sunday afternoon in the heat of summer. this is the kind of thing that happens when you've pieced together little dream machines and placed your dreams, precariously, into the ambivalent current of reality, and watched them with guarded hope as they carry along and flicker. she told me to take deep breaths as i yelled bad words into the dashboard. i took one. i unbuckled my seatbelt and took another. then i slammed the door upon exit, and hated every tinkling of falling glass as it hit the rear dash behind the perfect curls of my formerly-sleeping children.

nothing else is important.

i was in a rage, seething with absolute maniacal anger, because there was broken glass in my girls' car seats. i just itemized all of the immediate material costs of the event in order to illustrate their very lack of importance. it's like watching contador toss his ten thousand dollar bike into the ditch because he's got bigger things on his mind than a bit of carbon fiber and cabling. nothing else mattered. it was the glass in my children's car seats. it was the shock on their faces as one was woken from a nap and the other woken from something much more profound and even more innocent. it was the fact that they were closer to the danger than i was. it was the fact that i couldn't stop it or protect them. that's my fucking job, above all else, and i didn't do it. someone was going to suffer it, and damned if it was going to be my girls.

the man was small in stature, looking tired and spent and unshaven after a weekend away. his massive black pickup truck had the ironic 'RAM' decal on the side. i took pictures of his license plate in case he wanted to make a run for it. the front end of his vehicle dwarfed everything except for my smoldering rage. he said he was very sorry. he asked if everyone was alright. he came forth with all paperwork and documents and phone numbers and addresses. turns out he works for a bodyshop in the 905. ironic. i doubt his shop works in high modulus carbon fiber or triple butted titanium or italian drivetrains. we were both wearing sandals. i was glad i had shaved that morning. he looked scrappy, but past his fighting days, not because of age, but because of maturity, the kind one gets from sticking with a lady long enough, or making a career out of something, or owning up to big trouble.

maybe my anger knew that this wasn't going to be big trouble for him.

he wasn't going to have to fix anything on his truck. there wasn't a scratch. he would have to pay slightly higher insurance, if anything, but probably not even that with the no-fault policy promos going on these days. he didn't have to put on a strong and positive, yet meaningful, face for his little girls with glass in their hair, and tell them that they're fine and don't move and it's going to be alright and no, mama's bike is not okay. he didn't open a bag of chips and open a container of blueberries and open the windows and look into the sweaty red faces of his most important treasures and know that he didn't protect them enough. he didn't instantly wish for a bigger car and faster reflexes and earlier departure and a home not in the travel requirement of the 401 on sundays. he didn't wish that he was a better man.

it's not like i feel vindictive toward him. i'd hate to have to pay more insurance. i know that the collision was his fault, but he knew that too, and we were all in a shitty traffic situation, going fast and then slow and then fast and then BANG on the 401, just trying to get home like everyone else. i'm glad the hassle doesn't extend any further. but here, in my lap, there is a huge smoking pile of trouble.

the short story is: the girls are fine. the lady and i are fine. i feel more hungover from the late night and post-incident-stress than from any impact. two out of three bikes are totaled. the rack, snapped in half and still going strong enough to get us off the road (all hail the Saris Bones 3, in bubble gum pink). i keep going back to how much bike wreckage there is, but i think that's only because i understand that the important thing, the girls, are fine and good and i didn't do enough for them and i can't think about that anymore, so i think about something i know, the bikes, and what i can start doing there. it's not exactly shopping spree time around here. we're just trying to make it through the pay periods with enough groceries. time to make some appraisals of the damage. time to make some lists. time to breathe deep and run far and know that there is no more glass in the perfect sweaty curls of my little treasures.

Stupid.

i blame john yakabuski.

no, actually, i blame myself. next time, i will know better, and the best result of my life will be even better. thank you to joe, sean, and harold for not showing up.

this past weekend was the annual Barry's Bay Triathlon/Duathlon. it would be my third time completing the event, and probably the best pre-event fitness i'd ever had going into it. being a sinker and a half, i forgo the swim and run twice. my runs have been short but at an average easily-sustained 4:30/km pace, and my bike fitness reached an all-time high through WattsUp this spring, though i hadn't been there since the end of May. all things considered, this was to be a great race weekend.

then there was a ballet recital, scheduled for the day before.

i arranged a ride without the lady friend and children, to head up with my gear and some friends on friday. no recital. plenty of sleep. low stress.

then the friends bailed.

back on tap for the ballet recital, i bought tickets, scheduled things in, and resolved to drive 3.5h to Barry's Bay the night before the race. non-sleeping children. fitful sleep the night before. parenting the morning of. great race prep.

the morning of the race, i got up and ate the usual breakfast, wore sweatpants, made sure i had all my gear, packed the car, and headed, alone, to the race start. i got a fine spot on the rack, half-assedly set up my transition area, and set off for a warm-up run of the first 2.2k course. it was a great warm-up. i felt like rocky, overdressed and definitely sweating, headphones with good tunes in, and it was all i could do to not practice my jabs and hooks as i trotted along, dripping wet. my mom even honked as she drove by on her way to work. this was going to be a great race.

let it be noted that the circumstances of getting to this race, with all family and travel obligations/obstacles firmly in place, relegated the race to one without performance pressure. there was no way i could be expected to do well under such conditions, so i opted to just go out and thrash myself as hard as i could.

let it also be noted that my model of pacing is essentially that of a leaky bucket - i go as fast as possible to the finish, hoping that i make it before all the water runs out.

upon returning from my run, i got the pump out of the car and opted to not put my bike on the trainer. time was passing quickly, and there were only a few more minutes until the start. i walked over to my bike, started to ready the pump, and then

"WOULD EVERYONE PLEASE STAND FOR THE SINGING OF THE NATIONAL ANTHEM BY OUR MPP, JOHN YAKABUSKI."

great.

then:

LOOK! it's the girls and my dad! i should go say hi!

i hit the start line with a tool kit firmly strapped under the saddle and kanye in my head. my unilateral goal was to stay with the leader as long as possible. little did i know, it would be the whole way...

2.2k is not so far. it's not far enough to really get a pace on. it's not far enough to sound far. it's not far enough to have long strides or rhythmic breathing or a good conversation about nietzsche. it's just plenty far to drag out the agony of a slow build to excruciating lactic muscle burn. it is not far, but it is beautiful and painful.

we did it in 7.5 minutes.

after the first run, i fumbled through my transition, getting my first shoe on by the time the other leader had left, sprinting down the path to the start of the bike course, aero helmet on, carbon bike in tow. i was second, and i was screwed.

not wanting to lose too much of my advantage from the run, i got everything on, ran in my cleats down the path, up the embankment, and did my best cyclocross re-mount to the astonishment of the gasping onlookers. hefting my 165 lb. carcass onto the flexy titanium frame proved too much for the tool kit, which promptly fell apart and unravelled into the brake caliper and rear tire. i skidded to a halt, fell prostate-first onto the top tube, and clumsily jerked at the buckles to free the awful thing from my path of progress. no avail. as it turns out, i finally got the wretched object unwound, tossed it aside, and thanked the wife of the (eventual, and perpetual) champion for picking up the pieces as i scooted off.

the rest of the ride was blown.

it was a windy day, and i felt like all my power had gone into the run. i didn't feel like i had caught my breath until after the turnaround, and each hill seemed to be harder than last year. i definitely skipped the hill work i should have done long ago this spring. thankfully, the girls and my dad were all over the course, cheering and documenting and making me smile (i ride faster when i smile). top speed came to 72km/h. average speed was sadly 2km/h slower than last year, at the best of times.

on the way back through town, i railed the turns, thanked the corner marshals, and bombed in through the finishing straight. the second run was about to begin, but i had some extreme cramping in my calves that wouldn't go away.

much to my surprise, the cramps only needed a good run and they loosened up and it was time to get down to business. the girly-pink Garmin watch on my wrist told me i was going too slowly, so i ramped up my pace and hunkered down for the final 8k of pain. it was glorious. the road was beautiful. the runners on the course were unsympathetic. the volunteers at the water stations were wonderful and encouraging (i walked every station except the last one and had some nice chit chat as i went through). and i still managed to produce the finishing kick i've been practicing - upped from the usual 400m to 1k.

as luck would have it, i passed a bunch of people on the second run, and ended up just missing the podium. Barry's Bay doesn't have a podium for anyone other than the top finisher, but it would have been nice to be up there. i packed it in, headed home, and began a slow spiral of self-dissatisfaction based on my slow ride, and my slower second run. it was nice to almost podium, but almost is kind of worse than 'nowhere near', and if anything, my ride should have been faster this year than last. my lactic threshold had gone up 20 watts in three months. i could ride in the drops. it was windy, but it was also tail-windy... and worst of all, in answering queries from my lady-friend, i wondered if i had even gone hard enough. the runs were, without a doubt, all-out. the ride, i wasn't sure. and there's nothing worse than going to bed wondering if i had put in an authentic effort.

in preparing to ride to a meeting the next day, i took out the pump and straightened out the bent valve and stuck the pump head on and flicked the lock and stared at the gauge: 60 PSI. well there you go. for being a fucking idiot who doesn't check his own tire pressure before the one race of the year in front of a hometown crowd, you get 60 PSI. all that thursday morning training before the sun comes up, pushing soft, heavy tires up and down beautiful ontario hills. all those watts, straight into underinflated rubber.

even now, days after it all, i have to sigh in an effort to let it go. i hate being wrong. i hate being dumb. i hate having regrets.

i tell you one thing, though: i will never forget to pump up my tires again, and i will hang with the leader until i blow up completely. it's only 2.2 k.

hero

it has been a few weeks since that fateful thursday, and i've had time to mull it all over.

the usual thursday sufferfest at the hands of WattsUp computrainers had left me depleted, and thoroughly satisfied with my own exhaustion. i was getting stronger. things were getting harder. and the pain of it all only reaffirmed the goal: be willing. willing to make it hurt. willing to keep going when it does. willing to see it through to the finish. willing to exhaust.

i left the warehouse in a light drizzle, as so many days of april had smeared themselves across the forecast. it had been raining for over a month.

today's rain would be different.

as i turned the pedals and wished for the rain pants i had forgone in my sweaty haste to leave, the rain turned, and became something else. downpour would be an understatement. fat, pregnant drops of warm water cascaded in sheets from the sky. i pulled over to affix my lights, but neglected my rain jacket. it was just going to be wet.

accelerating out of the intersection, i met with lines of traffic, rough roads, and winds gusting to well over the freeway speed limit. the storm, sudden and lashing, was of biblical proportion. and i had not built an ark. the traffic and rough roads steered me to line between lanes, and i ground through the pedal strokes, working to maintain speed and direction in the whipping wind and slashing rain. i could mostly see. i could halfway pedal. and all of a sudden, the traffic accelerated.

now past the submerged creekbed of the right of the right lane, i would attempt to move back to my 'rightful' or 'proper' position on the road. i don't remember if i steered first and looked after, or if i looked as i steered, or if the wind was pushing me and my oxygen-deprived brain and spent legs were too slow in reacting, but all of a sudden that slow-moving city truck was right on me, and the horn sounded.

this is not the time to begin judgement of error or calculate one's reactions to the daily occurrences of traffic and urban cohabitation. sometimes we get along and sometimes we are too tightly packed and sometimes there is friction and the rain does nothing to lessen the rub.

i stuck out my finger and moved over anyway, furious with myself for going slowly and furious for reacting the way i had and furious with the wind for making me look stupid and furiously, furiously pedaling into a wall of rain.

the truck passed me then, around the bend, not with a wide berth but with one of consideration for all lanes of traffic, and i caught it and passed it one light later. two lights after that, "i had cooled my head and warmed my heart", and i waited. when the truck rolled up, i waved, the driver rolled down his window, and i told him i apologized for giving him the finger back there. my bad.

(no further explanation needed; i was just owning up to my own stupidity, and working to maintain positive relations between riders and drivers. he doesn't need to know about the wind or rain or that i'm just trying to get home and take my kids to daycare or that my legs are spent or that i stay up nights worrying about how my at-risk job working with at-risk kids is going to pay for said daycare. none of this is his fault. i shouldn't have ridden in front of his truck and then given him the finger about it.)

this part is what really gave me goosebumps.

after accepting my apology, the driver took it upon himself to speculate, and give me some advice. being proud, insecure, and embarrassed, i hate getting advice. regardless, he gave it to me, saying that i need to be more careful; that i don't want to die on my way to work; that i want to die being a hero, not riding my bike in the rain; that i should have a nice day.

it was the hero part that just about killed me.

sweep.

and just like that, the tears came in gasps.

i got a text from my dad while at work today. 'call me when you can. nothing urgent. just a little earth shaking...' more cryptic than the usual tweet about how he arrived safely home after a long drive, so i took time out from the youth and called him in the hallway.

while attempting to interpret the text, i came to the inevitable conclusion that someone had likely died. we have a huge family. some friends and family members are in conditions less than favorable. and in the twelve steps it took to reach the hall and dial all available numbers, i had steeled myself against some bad news. i was beyond the shock and working through the scheduling of getting time off work to go to a funeral, pricing out (exorbitant) gas costs, and trying to remember if my suit was still clean.

my dad picked up. he was driving. i said hey and what's up, braced for the worst.

he told me, in a few simple words, that he had set up an unbelievable dream for me, and i just had to make a couple phone calls and measurements to start the ball rolling. no reason. no occasion. just a casual granting of a huge selfish wish on a blustery day in april.

i'm getting a new frame.

the shock was huge. i was completely unprepared. and there was no time to absorb (i had to return to the wondering eyes of the youth). i stammered many thanks and some semblance of my awe, and hung up, almost trembling. four months from now, there will be a whole lot of steel underneath me, and i'll be flying along with tears in my eyes and a grin on my face.

the minutes of the afternoon scratched by with unholy tedium, and i finally got out to sprint my way home. i picked up the phone, and called my dad.

i have picked up the phone and called my dad countless times in my life. much of our relationship has happened on the phone, and there were years when i had it worked out that, because the guy hates talking on the phone, i had to prepare a set of questions, or at least one question, that could be used as the segue to any real conversation. the answer would be forthcoming, we would move on to other subjects, and we were back in touch. thank you, alexander bell.

some of the conversations i've had with my dad were less than pleasant. oftentimes, i needed help figuring out the hard questions in life. my heart was broken. my heart wasn't broken yet, but it was about to be and i couldn't stand the thought of the impending emotional upheaval. i didn't know what i wanted to do with my life. at what temperature is chicken roasted? et cetera. important questions and conversations, usually staging me as pupil, him as philosopher, and always much to learn. there was not so much scolding all of the time, but often the general feeling that there was much to learn and a long way to go, and i could do it, but i was not there yet. i don't like being reminded of this. actually, it's been easier as the years go by, and i'm without ego and with much hunger for learning. but i'm still not there yet.

it never feels like anyone is proud of me. it rarely feels like i've done anything above and beyond, like i'm inspiring or special or good, in that novel kind of way. no one ever tells me i'm amazing, that i'm brilliant. i'm not told about the good job i do, how much my work truly means to anyone, or that all that stuff that i do all day every day, is noticed and respected and admired. never.

being a typical north americanized filipino oldest son, i have confidence issues based in external measures, often reflected and driven by performance. straight A's. memorized shakespeare. pretty girlfriends. make good flan. one thing i've always lived up to and under is my father. the man is amazing, has made a legendary life for himself, and it was impossible not to revere him as we grew up. we were constantly reminded by the stream of admirers in his work life, family life, and everything in between: your father is an amazing man. that's a lot to live up to. especially when i can't dance, sing, or play the guitar. and i was kinda lying about making good flan... so when my dad told me today that he is truly proud of me, when he told me, in explanation of the gift that it was simply because he believes in me, the walls came down.

i told him to stop, before i started crying on the phone. typical me reaction: way overemotional and ridiculous. but i couldn't believe it. it was too much. it was too great. it was far beyond steel bike frames from montana. it was about a father believing in his son, unabashedly, and telling him so through actions that begot words that were true all this time. after i hung up the phone, i sank to the dirty kitchen floor, and sobbed. it was relief. it was surrendering all that defense that i had built up, all those reasons i had to go harder and bigger and make sure that i was being as great as possible, in spite of everyone and everything. i have a long way to go, and much to learn. and where i am right now, right here, it's pretty great. my dad believes in me.

go west, young man.

some times, things need to be blown to bits.

it's helpful when preconceived notions, prejudices, and other habits are obliterated by small instances of challenge or change or both, and the resulting mayhem calls to question the very purpose that allowed us to accumulate such routine. today, i'm going to look at a new job in a new place and put my best foot forward and stretch beyond my wildest dreams, and probably beyond my capabilities. the fuse was lit last week, and i'm putting another barrel of bang in the pile, to see how far we can go.

as i was washing dishes and serving up another bowl of chunky oatmeal to the beasts this morning, i was trying to figure out what i want, why i want, and why i never go and get what i want. in all honesty, i think i'm afraid of what i want. i'm also afraid that i might not be able to get what i want. i think i'm more afraid that i am able. imagine being able to do and be and have whatever you want. why, then you'd have to know what you want. thankfully, i don't. getting blown to bits should help. as i sift through the rubble and reorganize within the new perspective, i'll figure some things out, forget about other obsessions, and streamline (hopefully) the new focus.

adding barrels as we speak.

5 watts.

there is not enough time to wallow, and we're already out of epsom salts.

before i go and grab another creemore, i'll say it: it's been a tough week.

as we saw from the last post, hydro has been more than brutal in its billings lately. then, monday, i get surplus status at my place of employment. follow this with some good news about other possible employment. follow this, promptly, with another case of lice (the FOURTH in a year) in the big little girl's lovely locks. follow this with an utterly disappointing lack of improvement in the individual time trial wattage test this morning. let's all sigh together now.

as we all know, i am the luckiest guy in the world and my life is not remotely hard. however, this all feels like it's been harder than usual and though i have managed to get some breaks in there (thank you GST rebate), the cumulative effects are still rather draining. i'm probably only typing write now to avoid the ever-increasing pile of dishes in the kitchen (dishes that made dinner 4 nights ago are still there.."soaking"...).

so i guess i should write today about positive reinforcement. and if that can't happen, because the results are less than positive, maybe i could write about the process. but then that makes it sound like the obsession of the mediocre, and not a valid pursuit for anyone capable of good results. (why would we sit around glorifying 'trying' if we could actually 'do'?) my legs are sore. my body is a bit drained. my kids aren't asleep yet. and there's laundry to do. glorious process.

either way, i think process is still pretty great, because it's the reality that may yield the result. it's the everyday. the mundane. the real life. the space in between notes that makes the music that much more beautiful. cuts in the tread of my tires. brake residue on my fork and rims. the familiar taste of hydration and recovery powder. the smell of sweat in leather. i'll take it. i'll run with it.

get to the point.

about what we're investing in, and whether or not it has any fucking point.

riding and 'training', but for what, when i can't even pay the goddam electricity bill...

march was a month of three pay periods. i'm used to only two, so i thought i'd take full advantage of this wonderful calendar-enhanced income phenomenon and use it to really get ahead.

yesterday, the day of pay period number three's deposit into my bank account, marked the first pay day to which i'd made it with more than twenty dollars in my account. (the goal is to some day forget that pay day is even happening, as it will be something about which i think much less concretely and regularly.) it was amazing. the pay went in. the student loans came out. i could still breathe. i even splurged a little on some thrifty online source for printer ink cartridges and a jersey that won't match any of my bibs. i transferred my household expenses' share to my lady friend's account. i paid down one of two completely ridiculous credit card balances. i smiled.

at approximately 10 minutes past the time i should have already showered and gone to bed, i made the idiot mistake of opening some mail.

the electricity bill was four hundred, thirty-eight dollars, and ninety-four cents.

$438.94

i don't know where you come from, but that amount blew my mind and ruined my entire day. i should have just gone to bed. i should have opened it with a fresh mind on a sunny morning with a large cup of optimism in my hand and maybe a ride in my legs. that number is devastating.

hope is something that is often dormant, but constant, deep in my core. it resides quite comfortably next to happiness. it is not likely that i come across as blithely enjoying my minutes on the stage. my demeanor may even be closer to cynical and pessimistic. such is the way of it sometimes, but i am driven by things much bigger and heavier than superficial impressions. if i didn't hope or believe in the good of it all, i wouldn't do any of what i do.

the bill, that horrible blow to any optimism or sense of purpose i could muster, put many things into very different perspective. i thought a lot harder about my recent goal of becoming capable of even thinking about buying a house. i thought a lot less about anything i could upgrade on any of my bikes. i canceled photo shoots that i would have to pay for. i wondered about doing any races at all, with all the fees these days well beyond fifty bucks. and i despaired, maybe just a little, about ever having any financial freedom.

every thursday morning at 5:30am, i leave the house and pedal up to a spin class in east york. there, in a cool industrial warehouse room with 16 other weirdos, i subject myself to 90 minutes of physical output. i know exactly how much i output because the stationary trainers measure it all in watts. i watch my cadence. i sweat through my kit. i turn on the fan. i drink. i eat a clif bar. i pack it all in and ride home, trying not to shiver, trying not to be late for work, unshowered and thoroughly spent. it's 7:43.

after a late-night animated conversation with my dad about my financial attitude and the problem of having no house/other investment to speak of, i decided to work on buying a house. i am about a billion lightyears away from reaching this goal. my dad's justification was that if i shifted my drive, focus, obsession, and sheer determination from cycling into the realm of reaching financial goals, along with my lady friend, i'd be unstoppable. until last night when i opened the hydro bill, i just about believed him.

back to perspective. i have a tendency to zero in on things and get obsessed about them until i acquire them somehow, and then the magic moment is had and forgotten, and i have to obsess about something else. this is the personality trait that drives me to upgrade. i get it from my filipino grandfather. i also have a tendency to, depending on the thing, have absolutely no care about upgrading or using the best possible __________ that money can buy, and to just let things go and enjoy the process more than the equipment. i get this from my irish grandfather. now, i think, is the time to go irish, and focus efforts on process. i can't see a point in getting lighter wheels. i can't see a point in racing. i can't see a point in training to go faster, and paying so much money for it when i don't really need to go faster and it doesn't make me happier or faster yet anyway. i can't see a point in doing things that aren't going to feed my family or keep them warm, especially when it's so fucking expensive to do so these days.

tonight, we are warm. tomorrow we ride. i am thankful for all of it, all the time.

courage.

there's something horrible about

"now if it hurts a lot, just raise your hand, okay?..."

and not five seconds later, that perfect little hand, covered in calluses and half-outgrown nail polish, and washable marker, shoots right up in the air. and her boots twitch, two feet north of the plastic boot rest on the chair. and her other hand fumbles with the ribbing on the edge of the creased upholstery. and i feel like crying.

hurt me. hurt me. take this. hurt me. not her. not her. never her. stop.

i watched my little girl get three fillings today. to say nothing of the immediate shame of blowing most of my income on 'wholesome' food and a diet that promotes familial health while ultimately yielding little perfect smiles riddled with cavities, it was with a nauseating mixture of pride and sorrow that i watched her be brave.

women are strong.

save for childbirth, they shouldn't have to be.

it's like i was explaining to a kid the other day: women shouldn't have to learn self-defense. i shouldn't have to use a bike lock. no one should have to guard against the evil of others.

but we do.

and we have to.

and there she was, not literally strapped down, but clinically subject to the application of pain by an institution widely accepted to know best and work for the good of others. she took it like a girl, a calm, wonderful, courageous, wide-eyed, brown-eyed, wonder of a girl. and she didn't cry once.

i was proud.

i was proud because she could take it; because she acted maturely, followed instructions, and shone through discomfort; she responded constructively; she looked away when necessary; she focused when it was time; she held on.

and yet, as i watched my little girl, so full of possibility and wonder and curiosity and courage, i felt a nagging sadness. in that moment, i wanted her, so much, to never take it lying down, to never go down without a raging blistering tornado of a fight. i wanted her to never twitch in pain and let it happen. i wanted her never to hurt. i wanted her to never have to be courageous.

perhaps these are terrible wants. perhaps great things only come from great courage and great pain and seeing the suffering through to the other side. perhaps there is much to be learned in the fight. i understand. and i've already asked much of her. the day she was born we rushed her to the hospital from our warm, cozy home where she came into the world, and they poked her and put tubes in her and put her in a warm plastic box and the smell of plastic and sterile was everywhere and i sobbed on the phone to my mother.

she wasn't more than two hours old, and already, she was courageous.

as she was poked and examined, she screamed with gloriously clear lungs, and she moved her fuzzy dark limbs around and made sure everyone knew that she was boss of herself, and i smiled, and she was perfect. feisty, even.

now she's a big kid with three fillings and a balding dada and a dentist who adores her and her little heart full of courage. i hope she uses it for love.

strap your heart.

i've been searching for a strap to monitor the beating of my heart on a digital device that tells me just where on the planet i am, how fast my bike and i are moving, and how many times a minute my feet go round on the pedals, let alone the percent gradient up or down, and maybe even what street or turn is coming up.

numbers scare me.

i've been searching and researching matching rims and tubular tires and tubular tire gluing techniques and the weight specs and bearing recalls and tying and soldering methods for a wheel that will match the one i just spent a couple weeks' worth of grocery money on.

and all this, so that i can specifically go faster and know just how much faster i am going.

isn't it about the journey?

i recently made a commitment, to the people with whom i work, and to myself, to feel more. the corollary of this commitment is that i will allow myself to also show more, my feelings. i was famous for these things once. huge heart. no strap on it. no gauge. no holding back when leaving the optimal zone of feeling. pretty much zero to sixty in a second. made me a lot of enemies, bemused friends, and persuaded lovers. there must be something irresistible about someone who feels so much, so helplessly.

in hopes of survival to my next couple of decades, i gradually (by which i mean: in huge, painful drops over time and pitfalls) decreased how much i showed my feelings, and eventually, how much i felt. nearly impossible, i would assume, but all of a sudden i couldn't cry anymore. literally, but more importantly, figuratively. years would go by without a tear. and feelings took on designations - feel for that, let that slide, etc.

i've been numb for a little while.

there's a lot that gets done when numb. there is efficiency. there is productivity. there is the tightening of everything because those fragile, wet emotions aren't getting in the way with their messy crushability. things get tossed and recycled and given away. things are not bought. priorities bring about the achievement of goals. there is some laughter, but mostly, there is a stern resolve to press on. if only i had more to show for the numb years.

recently, i was reminded that i should feel more. i make good things when i feel. i take good pictures; write good words; am less stern and more convincing. i believe more, in everything, especially myself. slowly, slowly, i am coming back to this. it's pretty good. the color is returning. things are regaining vibrancy. the filters are off. and everything is a little more important.

so i'm waiting, impatiently, for everything now. i'm not holding too many things back, though it is winter in toronto and there's only so far one can go to 'live out loud'. tubular carbon wheels in the mail. earning them, gram for gram, in sweat on the trainer in a dark kitchen while the children sleep. poetry i wrote once and will find again. photographs to be made. valentine's day. looking people in the eye and having the time to be honest with them. not surrendering. not saving 'the real me' for another time more deserved of it. not holding back. not.

the rollers.

the rollers are blue and black and under the couch.

she got them in a moment of passionate loneliness, post-holiday, happy-to-be-home, dedicated to a new year of two-wheeled fury.

the fury has since become five-wheeled and non-stop.

rollers, like rivers, are perfect objects of metaphor. to that end, they are supremely cliche, yet caché aussi, due to their retro origins, and completely unforgiving nature. you fuck up, you fall.

this is like...everything.

i love rollers. i wish i could spin smoothly on them for hours on end, getting lost in a picture of eddy merckx or the pavé like michael barry, on a custom mariposa, after hockey practice, anticipating my dad coming home and putting the kettle on for tea. instead, i jerk along, next to the kitchen stove and unscrewed kitchen counter, vying constantly for rhythm that i achieve only sporadically. this is hubris. naturally, i take stock of the situation and begin to itemize the blame: the bike is a 'cross bike not made for such smooth pedaling on smooth, microscopic cylinders of death; i'm in the kitchen and its floor hasn't been level since the turn of the 19th century; the front cylinder keeps creeping back on the band-turning side; i'm distracted by my lack of chamois butt'r and the fact that i feel like i'm falling backwards.

in the words of my dad: "oh, wah..."

balance, in life and on rollers, is often only earned. we can be born with it, but usually, we have to find it, whether serendipitously, or by complete accident. either way, it is sublime. and probably like life, finding balance on the rollers, Balance, is beautiful, and like the only beauty we know: fleeting. the other night, after going through my litany of blame and sweating my way through about ten minutes of terror and bliss, i calmly put the rollers away and called it a day. no blame. no dissatisfaction. just yearning. yearning for more chances at more moments when i get to achieve something and realize that my achievement is great and wonderful, however fleeting, and that it is great and wonderful because at my side, opposite the counter that is slippery and unhinged and dangerous, is the lady that put those rollers in our house, is reading the poor installation instructions, and holds me up, catches me, each time i fall.

sure, she's the reason i'm kinda falling in the first place, but she has been since i fell all those years ago.

i love the rollers.

sorry.

we should really just stop apologizing.

sorry for this. sorry for that. sorry for the fact that our mayor's fat. fuck it.

i'm not sorry. i'm not sorry that we're living most of our dreams, and our dreams are hard-won, hard-fought, and tempered with the only thing hot and hard enough to shape stubbornness into something sharp and useful: love.

i've always had love on my side. i used to use it to dissolve resolve and melt my way past some beautiful defenses. blue eyes, a heart as big as a wide hand fist, and enough time to break it all down. and now here it is, holding everything together, threads popping like heart strings under strain, one more heart on this house of cards. at least we've got stubbornness in spades.

upgrade expectations, surrender prejudice. expect more. when i say jump, let's jump. it doesn't matter how high because we're just going to fall at the same 9.81 m/ss as everyone else, rich or poor, and get there at the same time, cannon ball or feather. i want to sink, you want to fly, and between the two of us, we'll stay grounded.

MCL

medial collateral ligament. or at least, that's what medical professionals would call it.

it might even be the medial meniscus.

whatever it is, it is the chink in my armor, the achilles heel of my knee, the frust in my ration. and i came to equate it yesterday with all things that could have been heralded as independence and the romance of the open road and the rapha-esque epic of doing something totally stupid in adverse weather conditions just for the sake of doing something totally stupid in adverse weather conditions. it became truly epic when my knee started to throb and my thoughts went almost as numb as my toes and i wished for more windproof material over my genitals and wondered if mississauga would ever end, though it was a mystery as to where it ever began.

this is the week and weekend of independence. there are few helpers, and due to their scarcity, they must be preserved for only the most dire of needs - the ones for which we don't get paid if we don't oblige. so i had one helper one night this week and it was perfect and amazing and i couldn't have asked for anything more. bathed, fed, happy children in bed and asleep by the time i get home? amazing. then there was the epic challenge of getting to streetsville for 09:30 when daycare doesn't open until 07:30 and there's snow on the forecast and no car in the driveway. streetsville, for anyone who doesn't know, which is probably most people considering its geography, is in the middle of nowhere. it is exactly 23.8 miles of headwind, bad road, rolling hills, industrial wasteland, and suburban sprawl away from the coziness of a drafty little home in toronto, and i found a version of myself there.

i had forgotten about this self. this self of no pain, no gain. this person willing to put everything on his own shoulders, blame no one outright but come to the fardel with equal parts disappointment in having so much to do and utter determination to do it no matter what. this self would go the distance, or die (or have his genitals and extremities lost to frostbite while) trying. this self was a bit dumb, and a lot driven, and this self got to streetsville long after the soft, efficient, well-thought-out-and-put-together self turned back.

it was a long ride.

as my feet burned and ached with thawing, my knee began to throb after the repetitive effort. and instead of feeling elated that i had accomplished something ridiculous, that i had beaten odds and the possibility of giving up, i was worried. in 6 days i enter a new decade of my age. my body is starting to fail. i have to see specialists to heal. and even the no-impact of riding extremely slowly for miles into the wind makes my knee throb like it did after 13.1 miles of rending a new self. i'm hoping for recovery. i'm looking forward to pain-free running at speed, the way it was in july. i'm eager to get on a bike and hammer it back to mississauga, back into the wind, with nothing throbbing but my veins.

thursday night melancholy.

it's really not a big deal.

people all over the world go to bed lonely every night. somewhere, some time, someone fills a mug with shiraz because there's no point in getting out the grandiose crystal stemware. she's not here; why make a show.

the skylight echoes my thought drip: rain here, rain there, scattered runs of wettened thoughts and shadows play across the bead left behind.

it's not that bad.

all the waterproof • fade proof words i can scribble under today's date will not bring you home, next to me, breathing through your mouth and twitching while you dream. there is no ink to save me tonight.

perhaps i may rely

on the dreams of others.

nightswimming.

last night was a perfect makeout night.

the wind, electric and unseasonably warm, breathed the possibility of rain but promised nothing. there was an eery glow to everything from blades of grass to gravel to light-stained night sky, and all of it was moving in the periphery. the wind gusted. there was the hum of cross tires on pavement, the crunch of gravel under wheels at an unknown speed, the thud of my heart from the work or the possibility of what i might meet at the lighthouse roundabout.

i love night rides.

night rides, particularly ones like last night, are all about pseudo-danger. i can't really see anything, like where i'm going or what's about to jump in front of me, or where the holes in the road might be. i won't be found by anyone if i go down hard. i have to ride according to all the other senses besides sight. and i'm riding faster than i should because i'm so damn excited. in all reality, nothing would happen. nothing did happen. but i felt like it was about to the entire time i was out there. and it was awesome.

i went for the ride because i needed to get out of the house. being cooped up on house arrest after so many lonely lame nights and without any motivation can really get to a guy, and i was that guy. i had no real focus. i was dissatisfied with the internet and all its shiny things that i can't afford. i was scared to read any further in the tragic beauty that is The Grapes of Wrath. i was tired from long days of parenting and cleaning and trying to be a good person in a city run by an asshole. i was warm and cozy and it was cold outside and it might even rain. i was whining. it was definitely time for a ride.

i rode down to the spit, taking full advantage of the warm tailwind and the luck with the lights. no one else was out on two wheels. i churned out the few miles to the gates, let myself through, and hammered into the eery glow. it looked like i was pedaling straight into The Road. amazing. i went out hard, gave it everything into the wind, and had phil liggett narrate the whole thing. i made it around the lighthouse without even slowing down, and headed back, straight into the wind.

as i spun easily down side streets back to the house, it occurred to me that i didn't need to buy anything. looking down in the darkness, i couldn't tell that i wasn't on my serotta. i couldn't tell that i needed a new chain or a tuned derailleur or those new fancy shifter hoods. i whipped around the lighthouse in the dark at full speed on gravel, the same gravel that dealt me my last flat, and i didn't need better tires. i braked lightly and pulled up in front of the house and chuckled, knowing i'd go right in and eat some ice cream and stretch and look on ebay for fancy things for bikes. but right then, for those beautiful minutes in the dark, i didn't need a damn thing.

thank you, gabi.

we don't quit.

sitting on the uncomfortable perch atop our kitchen cubbies, my feet freezing, my knee pulsing in pain under the bungee cord that secured the ice pack, and my cannibalized road frame in the basement, i thought hard about giving it all up.

i thought about many things, almost everything, except the important things.

i thought about how expensive it is to love bikes. i thought about how bad i am at it, in a racing/competition sense. i thought about how much money i could save in not upgrading parts or drivetrains or engaging in humorous saddle preference experiments. i thought about all the times i've raced, and lost hopelessly (every time). i thought about how i couldn't bend my knee without searing pain shooting out from underneath the mysteriously non-swollen patella. i thought about how cheap and easy it is to fly places with a pair of running shoes and some shorts. i thought about how much better i am at racing on two feet. (then i thought about my knee and tried to think of something else.) i thought about my toolbox. i thought about how little money i could get for the painstaking builds i have in the basement, in the shed, under the tarp on the porch. i thought about the bikes on the storage pole in the dining room, and how mine is heavy and in the way. i thought about all of the things i could be obsessing about and training for and doing and reading about and getting dirty over OTHER than bikes, and i didn't feel freed by that thought process at all. it felt dishonest. it felt queasy. it felt like giving up.

i am terrible at racing bikes.

never in my life have i gone faster than a collected group of people and outshone some other person in my category or out, in pursuit of a finish line. never. i've been last plenty of times. i've been end of pack many times. i've been slower than average in all top-finishers of every duathlon and triathlon. i've been lapped by the pro women who started 3 minutes after i did. i am terrible at racing bikes. and it's this terribleness that keeps me, sometimes, from wanting to progress. i can't get motivated to work harder or train more or smarter because it seems like i've been around the machines long enough that some kind of advantage must have seeped into my body from sheer exposure. i should be faster because i've loved bikes longer than anyone else! but no. and sitting there in the cold kitchen, site of so many late-night forays into the mysteries of italian componentry and quiet hacksawing of steerer tubes, i thought it might all be pointless. why love something so expensive, consuming, and ultimately devoid of concrete yield?

perusing the serotta forum today, i got an answer.

after watching this video, i realized i was thinking about the wrong things when i thought about giving it all up. i should have been thinking about my own daughter (gabi in the video is someone else's daughter). i should have been remembering my own first time on two wheels, and how i still get excited after 20 years of getting on two wheels. i should have remembered imparting that same excitement to my daughter, my dream come true. i should have remembered all those stolen hours in the park, her leading me, both of us with ridiculous grins, enjoying the simple action of spinning wheels and self-propelled, perfect motion. i should have remembered that my knee hurt because i ran a half marathon on sunday and my family cheered me on when i needed it the most. i should have remembered that active parents usually yield active kids. i should have remembered so many fall leaves, crunching under 16-inch tires as the wide-eyed five-year-old got her first taste of riding on dirt. i should have remembered laps in the alleyway before dinner. i should have remembered my own joy as i took off the girl's training wheels.

i should have remembered that my daughter will remember this, and the future will be better for it.

evolutionary trait: cuteness.

children break my heart.

all day long, someone else's children are the receptacles of my efforts. they plot devious schemes to avoid getting caught doing something they're not supposed to just because they want to do something they're not supposed to. did anyone ever tell them they're not supposed to be stupid? did anyone ever tell them that they're supposed to follow the little rules and break the big ones? exercise choice not in whether or not to stick one's used gum on the underside of the table or whether or not to wear clothing against dress code, but in whether or not to believe commercials, get lost in video games, and otherwise tune out to any sense of reality.

once the day is over, it's time for practice. and practice is a glorious thing. here, consequence is introduced, suffered, and enjoyed at every turn. follow instruction or get hurt. follow along or get lost. take initiative or take punishment. pursue excellence or achieve shame. novel concepts to today's children.

after finally dealing with everyone else's children, the best part of the day looms. now one's own children get to break one's own heart. thanks are mandatory and reminded rather than elective. dinner and bath and bed are sequences of action rather than a romantic evening of glowing promise. and after all is said and done, the little brat is still awake and singing songs at the top of her lungs just because she knows the words.

children break my heart.

details.

details


orwell wrote with profundity regarding the characters he could suppose based on the details of those he encountered. he sounds unafraid in his encounters, seeming to approach it all with an intellectual questioning, and a willingness to figure it all out. i have the questioning; it’s the willingness that often escapes me. i could be a detail-oriented person, writing essential lists of necessities for trips, or recounting in vivid splendor the sensory delights of my first kiss in a snowbank, or outlining the ideal attributes of the perfect cup of espresso. in reality, however, the one so eloquently and blatantly recounted by a down and out orwell, i am fastidious and neurotic, oriented only towards the mundane details like the end times of ebay auctions, the thread counts of some tire casing, the days since i last made love. this is ridiculous. in attempting to outline the details, the tiniest things that would put a reader into my soaking wet italian synthetic-leather road shoes on the side of a muddy, grassy bluff that juts out of one of the great lakes facing ontario’s wine region, i tend to forget the exact details that are important, and end up getting lost on the things i remember best. i used to photograph beautiful women without their clothes, preferably in industrial surroundings of decay and grainy spite, but the conceptual contrast was lost as soon as i got to frame. i spent the grainy real estate on the figure before me, and the background came in out of focus, unrecognizable, and ultimately benign. skin versus concrete doesn’t really present when skin is all one can see. i never did mind though...

to write within the details and come to some kind of inkling as to the identity of someone, maybe even the Self, one has to remember. unfortunately, a combination of sleep deprivation, obsession over the right place to deposit a two-year-old’s excrement at the right time, and the loose planning of the next meal has taken over my detail-detecting cognitive capacities. much of what i remember is out of focus and the texture of bisque.

through a glass darkly, however, is one of the best ways to remember, and recount, a story.

thankfully, i have only the attention spans for short stories, and tonight, only the attention span for snippets of character sketches, scene postulations, and what ifs. what if, after riding one’s bike for 70 miles in the vague direction of st. catharines, ontario, the bridge is out on the only road that allows bicycles and is going in a southerly direction? the sky opened, the protagonist laughed while donning a yellowing, clear PVC rain jacket, more duct tape than jacket, and the waves made the beach less than rideable. knowing he had been in trouble since he refused to turn around at a manageable halfway point, speculating that he would be home in many more hours and after much more self-imposed suffering, and at once aware and critical of the wetness of his carefully-planned matching blue and white kit, the protagonist furrowed his brow and made for the beach, hoping against hope that it would lead past the broken bridge.

next time, there will be grandiose descriptions of the grease patterns in my fingerprints, the 90’s-era pearl izumi teal (yes, teal) fingerless riding gloves i wore through everything, the rending crunch of gravel in my fancy italian riding shoes, the hopelessness of traction while carrying a road bike up a mud-grass bluff in said italian road shoes, the triumph of a snickers bar and gatorade for the exact amount of cash in my seatpack, the quirky disappointment of not pedaling all the way to a friend’s front door, the endlessness of the QEW monotony, the awkward return, long after dinner, in another man’s clothes, commando, and with a serious case of burning ass. next time.

love it.

mr. miyagi always knew what to do with daniel when the kid had a problem: work.

it's amazing what a little sweat and focused effort can do to improve one's outlook. i was talking with a cousin of mine a few weeks ago, and going over our mutual dependence on two-wheeled exercise for sanity reasons, and he takes the cake on dedication. the guy doesn't race. he does a couple charity rides a year, mostly to hang out with the family members he goes with. but he is pretty quick-tempered, albeit highly self-controlled. knowing all of this, he brings his bike with him to work and then, upon finishing his work day at the office, goes for a ride.

he doesn't ride home.

he goes for a ride, and spins out the day, enjoying the wind or the sweat or the activity while skipping the inevitable torture and rage of a rush-hour commute. as he could be sitting in traffic, he instead sits into his cadence. he could be yelling at other motorists, but he's exhaling after a hard cardio effort.

this guy knows where it's at.

the only problem, then, is when the problem that needs to be fixed is the work itself. i know, i know, you're worried that i broke my frame again. no. it's fine. it's silent and quick and beautiful and works wonderfully. the problem is that i don't always love riding. and riding is what i do to fix all of my other problems. how can i fix something if i don't even want to ride?

it's a difficult thing, loving to ride long and far and up big hills, when located in downtown toronto. there are no hills here, and any road anywhere is full of traffic lights, streetcar tracks, absolutely crap pavement, and traffic lights. it's a great place to run, but it's a terrible place to be a cyclist. how do you ride out your frustrations when riding is frustrating?

like my sister would say: you signed up for it. why are you complaining? (lots of sympathy there.)

it's true. i love to ride. and if i really love to ride, i will love to ride, anywhere, any time, every time.

on the road again.

much can be learned by breaking things.

take, for example, that time back in the early years of high school when i took apart the only shimano rapidfire shifter in the county, just to replace a frayed cable, and found out the hard way that shimano is not built to be re-built. there is nothing a geeky freshman won't do to get all eight speeds of his heavy cromoly beast back in working order, even if it does take him all night and every single one of his dad's micro screwdrivers. i learned that there is a nifty little hole on the side of a shimano shifter where that new cable just slides right in, no complex disassembly required.

what about that time i broke the rim on that same damn cromoly beast? i learned how to mail order spokes of the right length for the rim and hub i would buy from the same vendor, back before there was internet and conversations were necessary to commerce. i learned how to build a wheel. i learned how to true a wheel. i learned how to properly inflate my tires and hop higher next time.

a few weeks ago i discovered that i broke my frame. 

long story short: this put me off my bike for a couple of weeks.

i learned a lot in this time.

i learned that there is a lot of other stuff to do while i'm not riding my bike. i learned that my to-do list is capable of independent, exponential reproduction, and will lengthen when unwatched and unattended. i learned that there are jobs to do and chores to finish and projects to start and when i'm not on two wheels, i'm bad at all of those other things i do while i'm not riding my bike. 

when things break, and i mean really break, like thresholds, and new places or levels are found, inevitably there is some kind of epiphany, as soon as the breaker has a moment to catch his or her breath and reflect upon what s/he just did. sometimes it's shock: shit, i just landed that unscathed and my bike is totally in half! sometimes, it's relief: finally babe, we made it through [child's] potty training, and we never have to do it again! sometimes, it's just death: . when i found that my frame broke, and i wouldn't be riding on my dream machine for a few weeks, there were a few immediate epiphanies. i realized that i was kinda excited about the excuse to buy a new bike. i realized how emotionally attached i was to the serotta as i stripped it down and drank a beer and got really depressed about it. i realized that the serotta forum is full of a bunch of really nice guys who genuinely like bikes and are sad to hear when someone can't ride his, and it's also full of a bunch of classist assholes who believe that those who didn't pay an arm and a leg for a new serotta shouldn't enjoy it let alone get any kind of warranty or repair favor when the craftsmanship fails. i realized that i become an asshole when i can't ride my bike. and i realized, most importantly, that the bike is really just a bike, a vehicle to greater things, regardless of what the vehicle is made out of. the greater things will still be great.

and they were.

my brother took me out for a ride and i felt like a million bucks afterward, even if i was pedaling a steel singlespeed with fenders and a bell. i rode my mountain bike for a couple errands and laughed at the sheer fun of such fat tires and inefficient pedaling.  i ran more. i played with my kids and looked at BMC's while waiting for them to fall asleep. 

the serotta is now fixed. i'm saving for a new bike anyway, but in the midst of the 'crisis' of being without it, i had the extreme fortune to meet matt chester. the guy is amazing. one of my coworkers was explaining matt to another coworker and said, 'it's like having god fix your frame.' or it's like a really nice guy, who's the best at what he does, do a really good job of getting you back on your bike, for no pretense or exorbitant fee or unnecessary machining. that's matt chester. and i highly recommend him and his work to anyone. took a breakthrough to meet him, and i'm glad i did.

i will also mention that throughout all of this, my ladyfriend was also a breakthrough. my cracked frame may as well have been her cracked frame, and she was online and networking and scouting deals to get me back on the road. she treated it like a mission. i ride bikes. i love riding bikes. but if i don't ride bikes, my life will go on. it just won't be the same, and my ladyfriend knew it. she looks out for me, and quests for the same things i do, and keeps me on the road to being better. 

i guess it's okay to break things, as long as i don't end up fixed.

sour grapes.

today was a gorgeous day to ride.

it was pretty hot, and a little windy, but it's the kind of day that we in toronto have waited for for the past 8 months, and it was the kind of day that one could get a sunburn, a windburn, and a hangover, all at once, and love it.

my frame is cracked.

i spent the day walking around with the girls, sweating, buying juice and laundry detergent, doing chores, and cheering on the riders at the toronto criterium. it would be a fine way to pout.

i learned last weekend that one of the unfortunate sides to cleaning one's things is that one may discover the last thing one wants to discover underneath all of the grime: an imperfection. the imperfection i discovered last weekend went far beyond a mere scratch or ugly weld bead. it was a crack. a long crack, starting in the weld and finishing on the other side of the seat tube. i guess that explains all the clicking noise while i climb.

at first, i didn't believe it.

then i yelled an expletive, tossed the rag, and went inside to tell someone, anyone, that something really bad had just happened. and all the while, i couldn't really believe it, but i kind of wanted to, because i knew something was up with that clicking sound while i climbed, and i always wondered about an excuse to buy a real racing bike and...

shit.

the frame's cracked. the foundation of my entire venture into bikes and road bikes and racing and training and everything else has been compromised. building that bike brought me to bike shops across the city, baby in chest carrier, in search of rare and specific parts or tools. it made me learn all about campagnolo and 8 speed and then 10 speed. i had to re-learn how to build wheels. i built relationships with quirky mechanics down the street, living the dream and charging way too little to solve my hardest problems with ease. that bike brought me closer to my dad. he found the frame on ebay when i asked him to help me snipe another, much cheaper, much less fancy frame. he paid for half of it. he rode more when i brought it up to his house and we rode together. that frame got me through two centuries. that frame got me back into climbing, and road bikes altogether. riding that bike made me eat better and train harder and shave my legs again. i had a lot to live up to, riding a bike like that. that frame weighs about as much as the brooks b17 i put on it when i first built it. that frame has class, is a conversation starter, got me onto the serotta forum, made me learn about generosity and the finer points usually reserved for true bike snobs. that bike got me into and through my first bike race.

and now it's cracked.

it's okay. i called serotta and they can fix it for about twice as much as i paid for the frame. and it'll take a couple months. and i'll have to pay for shipping. and it won't be the same. and that pissed me off. i knew i wasn't getting serotta guarantee or warranty when i bought a used frame off of ebay, but it never occurred to me that serotta could mean breakable, certainly not in titanium! it wouldn't really be that big of a deal if i had the cash lying around to just get the thing fixed, or just ride another bike, or just buy another bike, or just buy another frame. but i don't. ITTET, i'm dirt poor, living paycheck to paycheck and hoping for a summer job. groceries aren't getting any cheaper, and the girls aren't eating any less. 

thankfully, i came to my senses and asked around and got some advice and now the frame looks like it'll be repaired within 10 days. i'll build it up again next weekend. it will be glorious. i will learn more. i will ride it harder. it will be truly custom. i will know it so much better. i can't wait. thank goodness for tragedy; here comes fortune!

misfit.

i read something once about a man asked of his recent result in a bike race. his reply (something like): 'i think i did pretty well. i came in first in my category. my category being: the successful [insert job here], wood-working, happily-married father-of-two 49-year-old category.'

this is wonderfully encompassing, and correct.

even desiderata mentions it - do not compare yourself with others, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

yeah. 

and i will take it one step further, and mention that these comparisons can and will often happen at inopportune times, and sometimes it will feel like most of the persons you are with are 'greater than yourself', but then we'd have to move on to that all-important stanza: 'whether or not it is clear to you..no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.'

thank goodness for that manifesto. like bicycles, i don't believe i would have survived adolescence without it.

take, for example, my small hill ride yesterday. 

i like to hit up bayview because it's longer than most of the hills i get to ride, and although full of traffic, it offers a two-section gradient and plenty of shoulder room, and is conveniently at the end of my requisite 13-minute warm-up routine. i huffed and puffed my way up bayview, fancying catching the brightly-colored jersey ahead of me, but settled for a rhythmic ('he's got to ride at his own pace now, digging deep into the suitcase of courage...') spin that took full advantage of spring weather and a 3/4 zip on my shirt. following bayview, i spun easily and quickly over the top and along the ridge to the other loblaws, the one with the hill, and i prepared to bomb down the descent and begin climbing/clawing back up.

then those guys were in the way.

i know, with spring, there are a million times more riders on the road. it was friday. it was absolutely gorgeous. it was normal spring weather after a week of absolute shite. the road is open to all. the universe is unfolding as it should.

but that guy's wearing a backpack. 

and i'm not talking a camelbak or other riding-based design of hydration-enhancing intent; i'm talking a chemistry text book, homework-porting pack sack that probably has his lunch baggies at the bottom.

and that guy doesn't even have a helmet on.

you can say what you like and steer yourself over to bikesnob's recent post about the helmet argument and all of that, but wearing helmets is the right thing to do, and i have instant prejudice/disdain for those who elect not to while riding bikes that make obvious one's intent to be fast and awesome on paved surfaces. not so fast or awesome when you're dead, dumb-ass.

so, where was i?

oh right. stuck behind pack-sack and his compadre dumb-ass, slowly, sssssssllllloooooooooowlyyyyyyyyyyy making their ways down the hill. 

the last time i subjected myself to this hill, i flew down it every time. 42mph without a hilltop push, and i could finally carve the turns because all the construction debris and gravel and sand had been cleaned off the road surface. it was glorious. it was probably the reason i did as many repetitions as i did - i couldn't get enough of the descent, and climbing back out is the only way to get home.

yesterday, there was no flying down the hill. there was gentle swooning, meandering even, and so much meandering that there was certainly no safe way to pass. so i gritted my teeth, squeezed the brakes, and let the universe unfold.

nearing the bottom, dumb-ass made the move i predicted and began a full-road swerve toward my (straight and acceptable right-hand side of the road) direction to start his own climb back out. his buddy, pack-sack, saw this and promptly told him, 'heads up'. 

disaster was averted.

i thought: maybe you should get a helmet if you're going to ride like that.

do not compare yourself with others...

i rode to the far end of the run-out, checked my blind spot, turned around, and looked up the hill. they had already begun climbing, and it looked feasible that i might catch them. i wondered if i should wait. i coasted to the base of the climb, debating all the while, whether i would catch them, if i should run that risk, what would be so bad if i did, and what makes one an asshole anyway, what they look like or their intent?

i shifted and started pedaling.

as the hill goes up, it doesn't seem so bad. there's a breeze in the trees and the pavement is smooth. the gradient isn't horrible yet, and victory seems to be within reach. 

then you look up.

nothing wrong with looking up, except that you can't see the top. and if any part of your brain is still working, you realize that it's crazy if you can't see the top because the hill isn't really all that long. so, it must be that steep. that's STEEP. thankfully, before you can calculate any implications to this realization, the steepness has slapped some good ol' survival-based instincts into your legs and you are forced to run on fight or flight, no calculating or implicating allowed. unfortunately, flight requires one to fight in this instance, so choice is further reduced to basic obligation: breathe, push, breathe, push, breathe, try not to die right now, breathe, is that god at the next curve?, breathe, it hurts to breathe, ...

i passed them somewhere after the first maintenance hole cover. i wasn't dying like i usually do, but i wasn't feeling schlecktastic either, so i tried a little 'we're all in this together' greeting: 'almost there...'.

pack-sack returned, 'yep...'

dumb-ass remained dumb.

i pushed on and summited, quickly spinning out of the parking lot, and headed home.

and then i thought about categorization and stereotyping and bad high school poetry (i wrote LOTS) and shaving my legs and upgrading my bike and it dawned on me: i'm the best rider i know, in my category.

i cannot compare myself with others, entirely, because, in a scientific method sense, my whole existence happens in the 'Discussion' section, in the margin of error, in the 'yeah, but'. this girl rides faster than i. and i change diapers faster than she. and that guy's waaaay slower than i, and he does real work that changes the world for the better. i can race cat 4 elite, the old man's category for guys who've never raced but want to give it a go, and i will be in the same start as punk asses from st. catharine's and the editor of canadian bike magazines, but none of them will get in the smallest car of the parking lot after having buckled in the world's most beautiful 5- and 2-year-olds, to drive home while sitting next to the world's most wonderful and beautiful and perfect-for-me partner, and have a beer while stretching on the most rickety back deck on the street. i win. 

i am still, without contest, the luckiest guy on the planet.

so tired.

i am tired.

i have stress-zits all over my face, and i'm only getting uglier. probably more hair fell out. if only i could transfer the growth on my legs to that (dwindling) on my scalp. it's one of those stressed/worn-out tirednesses that sounds like the inevitable lead-out of 'my ass is getting bigger' to the christmas list diatribe of all the things wrong and fat and no longer new or fantastic. i'm the old wheels with the stripped nipple. i'm the dirt on the inner chainring, right by the crank arm bumper. i'm that nagging thread on the rear tire, indicating wear much deeper than hoped for.

it's been a long weekend.

no, we did not get friday off. friday was spent riding all the bad roads of toronto, heading to and from volleyball tournaments with and against rush hour traffic, in and out of the pissing rain. saturday was hammering and pulling and hammering and pulling and then..gloriously sailing in the 80 km/h winds of this undecided spring. tailwinds are beautiful; headwinds require some religion. today was more pulling and hammering, though not on two wheels. there were toddler head injuries to tend to, invalids to nurse, and mothers day to top it all off. wtf. no rest for the old ugly guys. it's been long.

and the serotta is dirty. and it's staying that way till i take it out again and hammer myself good and hard for good measure. i don't know that i'm meant to ride with people. i always find myself outmatched or underwhelmed and there's rarely a satisfying co-existence of given'r. whatever. solo it shall be. as long as the post-ride beer doesn't have to be.

i had a revelation, by the way, and thought i'd share it:

yesterday, back from the epic ride that rapha would have enjoyed, if only it had been in more picturesque and mullet-inducing scenery, i climbed out of the shower and looked down at the bath mat on the floor. there, side by side, were his and her piles of identical contents. a pair of well-loved riding bibs, riding socks still inside indoor birkenstock slippers, and a jersey on top, all hastily peeled off in anticipation of the steam-filled wonder of the post-ride shower. you know you've made the right choice, somehow, somewhere, when your piles look like that, side by side, without even trying. either that, or i'm excessively boring and making mountains out of molehill lycra...

time for bed. here's to optimism in spite of absolutely every damn thing. here's to going to sleep knowing that none of it was easy, and all of it was worth it, or will be some day.

more than meets the eye.

bicycles are magical.

take, for instance, my current inability to feel most of my extremities. the once mundane/routine/underdistanced task of tapping out thoughts in coherent words and sentences has become a work of effort, requiring extreme concentration and a new consideration of my fine motor skills. consider, also, the wonderful warming of my facial dermis, and the rekindling of sensation in each and every square millimeter just under my chin. i never think about these parts of myself. and now, after some time on the bicycle, here they are, apparent and wonderful and decidedly me. i like bikes.

i also like how bikes make people better.

i leave the door open at my workplace, dump a bunch of donated bikes and parts all over the room, pop open my personal toolbox, and start getting my hands dirty. inevitably, within ten minutes or fewer (i'm usually still downing my lunch when it happens), someone will come wandering in with a question, a broken bike, or some hands just itching to touch something greasy. it's fantastic. oftentimes, these persons are 'the youth', and they are refreshingly curious, even if reluctantly so, and it makes them better people. they ask questions. they tease each other. they admit that they know little of bikes, or they admit how much they know of bikes and it's enough to make me excited. the same people i would just as soon have left for jail or hard service are now transformed and being worthwhile and all about a pile of rusted bike junk. and the guy they would just as soon have thrown out the window or laughed at while he gets crushed by a fly-by SUV is now someone who might know something and might even be a little bit cool because he likes bikes too, and can fix them at no charge. hm. bikes make me better. every damn time.

i like how bicycles make loblaws a destination that has nothing to do with food. (see redway road, toronto.) i like how bicycles make me go faster than 42mph without even trying, and then make me go 3mph giving it everything i've got. i like how bicycles can be metaphors for the hardest and best parts of life. i like how i know a lot about bicycles, and still so very little. i like how bicycles bring the world to me. i like how bicycles are something in common with many different people, everywhere.

i was walking back from my sister's house the other night, heading down pape street, and carrying a couple of campagnolo wheelbags. (more on the ridiculously awesome scirocco's later.) two gentlemen were standing outside the barber shop, and as i passed by, one called out. i had no idea what he was saying, but he was definitely talking to me, and talking about the wheels, it seemed. he apologized after the third time i said, 'what?', and said that he would slow himself down. turns out he is from jamaica. he saw my wheelbags and wanted to see the wheels, wondered if they were really campagnolo wheels inside. we opened one and he took it out (my daughters and partner waiting patiently throughout this inter-walk-home-meeting), marveling and asking if it was for sale. i told him no, that i had just gotten them myself. he asked for how much, and said it was a great deal. that they were really nice wheels. he told me he used to race in jamaica. i told him that meant he must be crazy fast. he just smiled and looked wistful and spry and fast. i smiled and told him to have a great night. it was the highlight of my weekend. a guy from jamaica talks to a guy from nowhere about italian bike parts on a street in toronto and they both get excited about one thing: bikes.

bicycles are magical.