Halloweenies

For the second year in a row, Lisa and I had a Halloween party to go to, which made me very happy. For several years prior to last year, we had no H-Parties to attend, and that always makes me feel like a loser. Halloween is by far the most fun holiday and I hate to miss out by sitting at home, watching reruns of "Star Trek: The Next Generation" and waiting for trick-or-treaters who never show up.

This year we went to a soiree chucked by one of A's linguistic professors. He and his partner put out quite a spread and it was a very fun and interesting crew to hang out with. I guess I just like nerdy, academic types.

Argotnaut decided to go as "a dude." The result was half biker, half "Derek Smalls."



I had several ideas, including shaving my head again, wearing my Bears jersey, putting some electrical tape beneath my eyes and VOILA! Brian Urlacher:

But in the end I went for the tried-and-true invisible man theme, which was easy because I still had a bunch of gauze left over from my hip operation:

...although the young son of one of the partygoers assumed I was a victim of bad plastic surgery. I could go with that, too. But as I was making myself up, A noted that the bandages brought back vague and unwelcome memories of The Calamity. Truth be told, I hadn't even thought of that, which I take as a good sign.

Next year, I think Argotnaut and Pepe should go as the Madonna and Child:


In other news, Buddy had a follow-up with our vet today, who bent and twisted him and did all sorts of other wince-inducing tests on the poor boy, and he's doing much better. He's even been cleared for five-minute walks rather than being banished to the back yard to do his doggy business. As you might expect, that has made Buddy extremely happy, and I think there's therapeutic value in happiness. With luck we can VERY slowly increase his walks back to something approaching normal.

No further word on the house yet, but we expect to hear more later this week. But now, I must hand out candy to little sharks, fairies, supermen, princesses, and just recently two little kids dressed in black cloaks, "Scream" masks and carrying nunchuks. Kids are kinda creepy.

Vicarious money pit

Progress in moving into our new house has screeched to a halt, or perhaps more accurately, skidded to a halt, as the problem is a suspect sewer line.

As a standard practice when selling older homes, our heroic Realtor suggests all potential buyers have a "sewer-scope" done, which involves the insertion of a camera into the sewer line to inspect the pipes. (I'd like to have that footage for a goth music video! "This is the pathway to my soul, dark, cold, encrusted with filth...") According to the findings on our prospective home, "concrete pipe broken with holes and missing pipe at 14' on the counter. Unable to proceed past this point."

Now if we already owned the home, this would be very bad news. But now it could actually work in our favor. We have already put an offer in on the house and that offer cannot be modified. So the trust that is selling the house has two choices: spend the $10-15 thousand it will take to fix the problem and still sell it to us at the agreed upon price, or back out of the deal. This second option is not very likely because now that the trust knows about it, the problem would have to be disclosed to any other potential buyers. And it's unlikely that other potential buyers would be as attractive as us due to our sparkling credit and available assets.

For US, the possible outcomes are backing out of the deal, thus avoiding a white elephant (or is it a brown elephant in this case?), or simply wait the two weeks or so it will take to resolve the problem. I'm hoping the latter, because I'd really like to have this backyard and Lisa would really like to have the "tea house" in which to do yoga:


We haven't gotten out completely unscathed, however, because we've started sprucing up the current homestead in advance of putting it on the market. Some landscapers came over yesterday and did a bang-up job on our hillbilly yard. Here are some before and after pics:
BACK


FRONT



So for now, Lisa will have to keep doing yoga in the "Buddy Studio" here at home. But that has its rewards as well:

"You call that 'downward facing dog?' THIS is how you do 'downward facing dog!'"

A whiter shade of pale

Several months ago, I requested information about the Queen Mary 2.
This was in response to a request by Argotnaut to find out how, if we were going to move to Europe in 2008, we could get there without flying, so that we wouldn't have to put Buddy in a cargo hold. A's belief is that, if you wouldn't stuff your infant in a breadbox and stow him/her down in the cargo hold where temperatures can fluctuate between freezing and halfway to boiling and Jesus-God-only-knows if there's any light down there, then you shouldn't have to stow your doggy down there, either. Tough to argue with that logic.

As is my custom, I decided to make a game of this excersise...how could we not only NOT fly, but make the trip really cool. Enter the QM2. It makes the trip from New York to Southampton in six days, and NY to Hamburg, Germany, in eight. The ship has a kennel on board, which is kind of akin to the poshest doggy prison one can imagine, but still better than a 10-hour Auschwitz-like boxcar ride in the hold of a jet aircraft bookended by one's pet carrier being long-tossed by baggage handlers who may or may not be aware that there's a live (and scared poop-less) animal in there!

"There is no reason to be alarmed little dog! It is merely a de-lousing chamber!"

So now I occasionally receive in the mail brochures about the QM2. And they are a riot. Being a recovering marketing puke myself, I can see what Cunard's market analysis has revealed: that everybody traveling aboard the QM2 either ARE Thurston Howell and Lovey from Gilligan's Island, or fancies themselves as much.

You've never seen so many photos of picture-perfect, natty, wealthy Caucasian retirees in your life. Not a person of color to be seen. Even the waitstaff is a bunch of honkies! (Well, there might be a wog in there, but it's hard to tell in the lighting of the photos.)

Now I'm sure that there are wealthy (or, like us, just unwisely profligate fun-seeking) minority types on the boat. But it wouldn't do to indicate such in the brochure.

I'm not making a judgment against Cunard on this score. I just think it's kind of funny. Just wait til the Howells get a load of the Heckmans in their Homestar Runner t-shirts accompanied by their hillbilly dog.
Just one more reason (besides the jettisoning of the despised W. Bush) to look forward to 2008!

It's Been 2 Years, Time to Move!

I pity all of you who have tried to keep track of our address over the years. Argotnaut and I seem to pick up and move about every 20 months or so for various reasons. And now we're doing it again!

For much of our time in Portland, we lived in the Southeast part of the city, near the Hawthorne Street district which apparently was originally named "Asylum Street." That remains appropriate because its denizens are a largely unconventional lot of artists, hippies, slackers and non-conformists.

When Argotnaut and I bought the place we live in now, I was working in Vancouver, WA, and so we looked on the northeast part of the city in order to reduce my commute time. But during our time here, we've both had the distinct feeling that the neighbors regarded us as unwelcome intruders, what with our non-very-manicured lawn, our lack of window treatments, our sidewalk which remains stubbornly festooned with pine needles and our dogs who occasionally dare to bark three or four times when we let them out in the back yard.

Now, the Beaumont-Wilshire 'hood where we are now is a very nice, quiet place, but it's just not "us." When A and I almost accidentally discovered that we both felt the same way, we discussed it for all of five minutes and decided, "let's move back south."

So I called the wonderful Realtor that we used when we found our current place and BAM! we found the perfect house the first day. It's in the Southeast (naturally), a two-bedroom ranch with a basement and French doors on the tuck-under garage so we can ride in and out on our bikes in style! Best of all, it has a very low maintenance yard of raised beds and bamboo, complete with a little "tea house" in which A can do her yoga and I might do some writing, a koi pond and hot tub (!). Here's some pics:







Wow! I feel now as if I must dress like Kwai Chang Caine!

Things have gone quickly and it looks like we'll close as soon as next week and be in the new place in time to celebrate Thanksgiving there. But first, we must install a new cat coop for Buster because he's not getting his claws on those koi!

Da Bears

That last post was pretty depressing, so I'm going to do a quick post about something that I'm really enjoying right now -- my mighty Chicago Bears! (That clanking sound you just heard is the metal "sports baffles" slamming down over my wife's ears. Argotnaut and I have a shared vision, which is a 1930s black-and-white cartoon of a cow and a pig dancing and playing fiddles to "Turkey In the Straw" -- this cartoon plays in her mind whenever I talk to her about sports and in my mind whenever she talks to me about technical linguistic jargon.)

Anyway, I've been a Bears fan since about 1979. Before that, I was a Pittsburgh Steelers fan purely due to their wild success in the 1970s. Being a free safety myself, I idolized Mel Blount, the Steelers defensive back who is now in the Hall of Fame. During that time, the Bears pretty much sucked dryer lint, despite having a running back you might have heard of: Walter Payton.

When I went to college at Northern Illinois University in 1980, I began to follow the Bears exclusively because all my dorm mates were from Chicago and were rabid Bears fans (and also because the Steelers, as was inevitable, finally dried up and blew away like the hair on Terry Bradshaw's head).

Much has transpired since those fateful days in 1980 when I embraced the Bears. Mostly the Bears have sucked. And when they haven't sucked, they've lost in the first round of the playoffs, thus breaking your heart while sucking. But they did enjoy one unforgettable season in 1985, culminating in winning the Super Bowl in January 1986. This begat much chest-thumping and, of course, a cultural phenomenon that I personally despise: "Da Bears" made popular by the "Superfans" sketches on Saturday Night Live.


The whole "Da Bears" thing to me seems disrespectful, like boiling down the uplifting story of the movie "Rocky" to the catchphrases "Yo, Adrian" and "Hey, I ain't no bum!" If you see someone walking down the street wearing Bears paraphernalia (which might become more common as the Bears are good this year and the fair-weather fans are crawling out of their slimy holes), do not shout "Da Bears!" We true long-suffering Bears fans will smile and wave but inside we will want to slap you upside the head. Acceptable forms of cliched solidarity include "How 'bout those Bears!" or "Bears, baby!" And if you're not in solidarity, just ignore the Bears gear, which is hard I know because it's navy blue and orange and invariably ugly, unless the Bears fan him/her self is cute.


Currently the Bears are undefeated (5-0) and look to remain that way through at least the first eight games of the season. Thus, they have been bringing much joy into my currently annoying life, and for that, I thank them. Bear down, Chicago Bears!

Craptober

I haven't been posting lately because there hasn't been much to post about. At least not much positive. My back continues to be a bit problematic. Due to my stays in the hospital, I became quite familiar with this handy chart:

My back has moved from "3-4" to "1-2." Better, but still enough for me to stay off the bike, because recumbent bikes tend to place a bit more stress on the back than upright bikes do. It's been really tough because, as usual, we've had an absolutely spectacular October in Portland, with sunny skies, light winds and highs in the low 70s -- the best bike riding weather imaginable. Had my back behaved, I probably could have managed the Larch Mountain ride by now, but I don't want to make things worse -- "3-4" was bad enough and I don't want to try for "5-6" or higher.

Unfortunately, "5-6" is probably close to the pain Buddy's been feeling in HIS back for the last 10 days or so. He's had his worst back episode yet and I finally took him to a specialist to whom our vet referred us. Buddy's scheduled for an MRI this Monday to see exactly where the problem resides. Preliminary findings suggest a compressed disk between his shoulder blades that's pinching a nerve, causing a lot of discomfort and a tendency to favor his left front leg. Poor boy! It's heartbreaking to see him want to do his usual things but struggle and hobble. I feel your pain, my friend.

So I've been staying close to home and making sure the boy is well drugged up and resting, and we both have been looking wistfully out the window at the glorious sunshine and sniffing the autumnal, crackly-leafed breeze and feeling sorry for ourselves.

At least I had the nice break of my birthday earlier this month. My wife and some friends had a nice dinner and few hundred pints at Horse Brass Pub, where I enjoyed some welcome company and some fantastic Walking Man Black Cherry Stout. Awesome! And also, my lovely wife got for me the Toshiro Mifune Ultimate Collection.

What a good wife!

So Buddy and I will watch some classic samurai flicks and probably be healed up just in time for the monsoon to hit. Such is life. But we both like the rain and if all goes well we'll be in good enough shape to take some nice walks in it.

Thoughts in the mind of my back

I've been spending a lot of time prone lately as my back slowly gets better, which has given me time to think. Never a good thing.

What struck me today is that the crappy design of the human back dictates many of the castes in our society. Think about it. Bending over a lot sucks because the physiology of our backs makes it tiring and painful. Therefore, any job that requires a lot of crouching and stooping is delegated to the lower rungs of our workforce. Picking crops for example. Much of the agriculture in the country is borne on the backs of immigrants -- literally -- because they're willing to assume the postures that Americans won't. When a job involves wretchedly difficult labor, one doesn't say "foot-breaking" or "nostril-breaking" or "earlobe-breaking" -- it's "back-breaking" and for good reason. Back pain is easy to come by and it totally, totally sucks. If our backs were such that bending over constantly made one feel really great, only the rich would be allowed to bow all day, I guarantee it.

I've also realized that humans have designed their indoor spaces stupidly. Taking something out of the oven, loading and unloading a dishwasher/washer/dryer, fetching or putting away one's cleaning supplies, sweeping the floor -- all involve contorting into uncomfortable positions, and, not coincidentally in my opinion, are jobs done by low wage earners. We should design our spaces so that everything is above knee height. Granted, we'd have to give up some window space, but it'd be worth it! Only chiropractors could be against such a sensible plan! Well, them and conservative Republicans, who WANT to see their laborers suffer.

The only good thing about the universality of back pain is that Argotnaut has frequently dealt with it herself, so she's been a sweetie as the house has gotten progressively more disgusting. She knows the only way to get better is to rest. But if my back doesn't get better soon, there will be only one solution: call some illegal immigrants to come clean our house! But I'd be sure to tip them well.

But I want to be a lion tamer!

I had my third and final meeting with my...sing it with me now, Monty Python fans...Vocational Guidance Counsellorrrrrrrrrrr on Thursday, and the results were no surprise. God has called me to be a chartered accountant.

Actually, I had the right idea all along. In college, my plan was to be a science writer for a newspaper or magazine, or, perhaps more realistically, a marketing or technical writer for a scientific products company. Thus, I majored in Journalism and got minors in English and Physics. (Actually, the PLAN was to double-major in Journalism AND physics, but I was too busy working and too lazy partying to study enough to get through the necessary math courses.)

After all the fancy surveys and worksheets, it turns out I test very highly in "Investigative" (that's fancy-talk for sciency/researchy stuff), "Creative" (creating and enjoying art); middling in "Social" (helping, instructing) and "Realistic" (building, repairing) and low on "Conventional" (accounting, processing data) and "Enterprising" (selling, managing).

So I was initially on the right track, but was derailed a bit when I got into the financial marketing thing. My writing and research skills enabled me to do well, but it was still "just a job" at which I never really excelled and I went part time as soon as I was able so I could take piano lessons. (It's all so clear to me now!)

The challenge now, of course, is to find something more up my alley. My counsellor seemed keen on my becoming a teacher and Argotnaut seems to feel I'd be good at that, but I'm not so sure. "Learn that algebra or I'll give you something to cry about!"

But at least now I've got validation for what I thought all along. Now I just need to find something that will involve a lot of my "high interests" and few of my "low interests." I'm thinking something along the line of audio or video production, which would be technical but also creative. Or maybe I'll do marketing and educational materials for an artificial hip manufacturer. "Not only do I write about them, I'm also a client!"

Back D'oh! Man

Last week was rainy and cold around here, so I took my bike in for its 500-mile free tune up in anticipation of continuing training for my Larch Mountain ride. Just as the weather man predicted, the weather cleared yesterday and it's scheduled to be beautiful for the next week. Just enough time to get in a few more warm up rides and then go for the big one. And then, of course, my back went out. D'oh!

Now, I rarely have problems with my back. And this twinge was triggered not by doing anything spectacular, but by reaching down to the coffee table for the salt and pepper shakers. So now I'm walking around like Mr. Tudball on the old Carol Burnett Show..."Mrs. Ha-Wiggins!"

My wife has been chastising me like a little kid: "Keep still!" but it's hard for me to do. But if I'm going to make it to the top of Larch Mountain before the snows come, I'd better do what she says. Now where's my icy-hot? Missus Ha-Wiggins!"

The Ride of Sisyphus

Those who know me know that I don't do anything without a plan. (The plan may not always WORK, and I often don't stick to it, but there IS a plan). Anyway, my cycling plan this summer is to ride to the top of Larch Mountain, a trek of about 60 miles and 4000 feet of elevation gain. From the top, one can see Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Rainier, Mt. Adams, Mt. Hood, and the top of Mt. Jefferson. Worth the trip, I'd say.

I tried to do the ride in late May of 2002, but the summit was still closed by snow. I still remember loading some of the snow in a water bottle, and then hitting Argotnaut with a snowball when I got back home. Keep in mind, this was May.

As you might expect, one doesn't just jump on one's bike and ride to the top of Larch Mountain. Well, you could, but if you survived, you'd feel like the wife of a friend of mine who gave birth after less than 90 minutes of labor; she likened it to "running a marathon without training and finishing."

Because that doesn't sound like much fun to me, I've been slowly working up to my goal. Today's ride was truly epic: The Sandy River Gorge. Details: 40 miles, 2700 ft. of elevation gain, 4 hours, 1500 calories. The topography of the ride, as related in the awesome book "Bicycling the Backroads of Northwest Oregon," looks like this:

As you can see, the ride is downright Sisyphian: 45 seconds of harrowing descent, followed by 45 minutes of grinding uphill. Then you roll to the bottom again. You do this about five times, the killer being a 1000 ft+ haul from the Sandy River.

The positives: Awesome scenery. Here are two shots, the first from the shore of the Sandy River, the second looking down on the river from the town of Sandy (noted on the above chart):


At the highest point of the ride, I stopped to recover a bit. These guys came to see what all the gasping and coughing was about. Apparently, I smelled bah-ah-ah-ah-ad.


After the biggest descent, I stopped to gather my wits (I hit my fastest speed I've ever ridden on a bike: 46 mph) and admire the Bull Run River, which is formed by runoff from nearby Mt. Hood and supplies much of Portland's drinking water.


The negatives: Lots of farmer traffic, the favored vehicle being those Ford 350 monster extended cab pickups with dual wheels on each side of the rear axle. Some of these also have bumper stickers like "This Vet Supports President Bush." I'm glad I didn't have some snippy placard on the back of my seat, especially because the roads were often twisty and there was never much room. (For this reason, I don't think it would be wise to do the ride again. Usually on my rides in area, I see a few other cyclists even in the more remote parts. Today, none, and I think the relative unsafeness of the route is the reason.)

Oh and the other negative? Pain. Lots and lots of pain. On a couple of the ascents, I had to actually get off the bike and push for a 100 feet or so. I've NEVER had to do that before. But that's why I'm doing this. To get stronger.

Actually, I'm feeling better after this ride than the 50 mile marathon of a few days ago. I don't know if I'm up to Larch Mountain yet, but I'm getting closer. I had just better get there by the end of September, or the snow will thwart me once again!

Barking up the wrong tree of knowledge

Came two Jehovah's Witnesses to the door this morning. My yelling at the barking dogs to shut up alerted them that, yes, someone was home. I know I could have ignored the doorbell, but I'm old-fashioned that way and think it's rude. So I opened the door and chatted briefly with the two elderly black women. I couldn't pass up the offer of a "Special Issue" of "Awake!" entitled "Is There a Creator?" and told them that, yes, I would look it over even though there could not possibly be a more wrong tree up which they could be barking. They even asked if they could come back and discuss it. I said, "We'll see."

This special issue has articles like "Is Evolution a Fact?" and "How Can I Defend My Belief in Creation?" and features scientists talking about their belief in God. That's all fine and good. Personally, I think it's a fun thing to debate (the scientific basis for the existance of God, that is), but that the question is, in fact, irrelevant.

First, you're talking about two polar opposite principles -- faith and science. Faith, by definition, involves believing things even though there's no proof. Science, by definition, involves believing things only if there is verifiable and testable proof. Trying to get the two to co-exist is like trying to merge matter and anti-matter, and you know what happens when you do that. Well, scientists do, anyway.

Second is that even if there is a God, he/she/it/they don't get involved with humanity. All the bad stuff that happens in the world that goes unpunished seems to me pretty clear proof of that. We're on our own and it's up to us to solve our own problems ourselves whether there's a God or not. Furthermore, I've always thought it a little juvenile to behave well on Earth so you'll be rewarded later in heaven. What are we, dogs? "Jump through the hoop, Trixie, and you'll get a biscuit!" God can keep his biscuit. One should do good works on Earth because it makes Earth a better place for you and everyone else.

For example, I COULD have gone off on the Jehovah's Witnesses about an item in the paper that made me a tad irate. September 11 is, of course, the five-year anniversary of you-know-what. That involved one religious zealot killing nearly 3000 people, and another religious zealot responding with policies that have killed even more American service men and women, not to mention, by his own admission "30,000 Iraqi civillians, more or less."

"Yeah. Devout religious beliefs have made the world a better place all right, ladies. I've borne witness to that."

But I DIDN'T say that because I believe religion is a neutral force. Why? Well, here's an example: September 11, 2006, is also the 100 year anniversary of Mahatma Ghandi's manifesto of change through non-violence, an approach rooted in Hindu philosophy that actually did generate positive change in the world for millions of Indians and inspired others, like Martin Luther King, Jr., to pursue positive change in ways that don't involve killing people by the thousands.

I think it's possible that humans will attain a state of peaceful co-existance...it won't be easy and it won't happen soon. And if we allow violent extremists to bring out the worst in our natures, we many not get there at all. But if we practice tolerance, heck, perhaps we can get along as well as these former "enemies":

So that's okay, ladies. Knock on my door and perhaps we can exchange ideas. I probably won't change your minds, and you probably aren't gonna change mine. But as long as we're willing to listen to each other, maybe can do our small parts to get the world out of the handbasket it's in.

Another boring cycling post

You cycle 51 miles and whaddya get? Another day older and really, really tired. Today's ride back to the Vista House represents the longest ride of the year by 15 miles. I cheated on my previous rides by taking Portland's truly awesome MAX light rail line as far east as possible and setting out on my ride from there. Today, I said, to heck with that! I'm riding the whole way! And so I did. The MAX route cuts the distance in half but adds 300 ft. of elevation. It might take a little less time, too, but I always felt a bit of a pud taking my bike on the train. "Whatsa matter, little boy? Too far to ride by yourself? Want your mommy to carry you?" "Why yes, yes I do." But now that I've been able to adjust to the climbing a bit, I felt I could ride the whole way. Which I did, but the trip is pretty much at the limits of my abilities right now. Final tally was 1100 feet of elevation gain, 51 miles, 3.75 hours, 1,400 calories.

On the upside, I did get some new vacuum cleaner bags (sorely needed) at the Home Depot along the route, AND took some pictures of the interior of the Vista House. I hope the cool art deco details are apparent:




And of course, here's the ubiquitous photo of the boringly transcendent Columbia River Gorge. The Vista House is on the outcropping at center right.

All these gorge-ous shots remind me of a story a friend of mine told me about traveling in Ireland: "After a while you get up in the morning and look out the window and say, 'Not another Goddamned rainbow!'"

Anyway, now my quads are being obstreperous (does that mean they're turning into Quadsimodos?...sorry). I'm actually looking forward to a simple day of vacuuming tomorrow. But only after a night of looking like this:

Vista House Reclaimed!

As threatened in an earlier post, today I did make it to the Vista House. Woo, I'm tuckered this evening. So I include here only a brief travelogue: 1400 feet of elevation gain, 30 miles. As proof of my conquest, here's the new, refurbished Vista House:

They've done a lovely job with the recently completed restoration. Unfortunately, their web site doesn't yet include any photos of the new interior. I guess I'll have to head back and take some of my own. I will say that the stairways reflect an America just prior to World War 1, when Americans were a lot skinnier!

Anyway, here's a shot from the newly opened second story balcony:

The big river is the Columbia, obviously. The highway just to the right is I-84, the construction of which nearly doomed the splendid old historic Columbia River Highway and was built over part of the old road. (That's progress for ya.) The little river to the right of the highway is...uh...some river.

One of the reasons I like this ride so much is that it climbs through some nice pastureland, where one can commune with guys like this:


Another reason is the multiple climbs and descents that offer so many different fantastic views, here of the Sandy River Gorge, the last major climb of the trip. Note house at far right center that provides some idea of the height:


Now, however, it's time for night night and one last beautiful view: that of my snuggly wife!

Mother Load*

"182 pounds!" I gasped as I looked at the scale yesterday morning.

Yes, a week without cycling or walking, combined with my mother's "you better believe it's not vegan" meals and, I must admit, a bit of drinking, had bumped me up five pounds. I had been vacillating about taking a bike ride this morning, but my gut feeling (har har) prompted me to flee the house as if Argotnaut was chasing me with a taser.

I was considering a trip out to Crown Point (40 miles, 1100 feet of elevation gain) but 85 degree heat (forecast to top out near 100) and a 20 mph headwind convinced me to opt for Blue Lake Park (25 miles, 300 feet of elevation gain). It was near 90 degrees at 11:30 am when I got there, but the Labor Day bathers didn't seem to mind:


On the way home, I had just enough energy to drag my baked ass into Green Dog pet supply to get Buddy a stuffed squirrel toy. He's been an extra tolerate boy with the arrival of the new puppy and I wanted to get him something that was his and his alone. I think he appreciated it.


Fortunately for Buddy, his stuffed squirrels don't have any calories!

* I know it's mother "lode." I'm making a pun, y'all, albeit a crappy one.

Mission of Mercy

Last Friday, I set out for a four-day excursion into the darkest wilds of Northern Illinois. I planned to watch a Bears pre-season game at a Chicago bar with some old friends on Friday night, stay in a hotel in Chicago that evening, and then head out to my small but scenic hometown of Dixon to visit family and then come back on Tuesday.

I managed all that, but the trip was overshadowed by a mission of mercy. Argotnaut can provide details on her site when she's damn good and ready. But the short version is that her dad was badly injured in a car accident last week. A's parents have a small dog that her dad took care of. With him down for the count, they were faced with either boarding the little guy for perhaps a couple of months, or putting him down altogether.

Those of you who know Argotnaut know that she'd rather eat broken glass, or worse yet, a veal steak, rather than let a poor little innocent creature come under the ax. And since I felt the same way and the trip was already scheduled, I volunteered to bring the dog back on the plane to Portland and let him stay with us until the situation was resolved.

As usual, my family answered the bell to help me manage a potentially difficult task. I showed up in Dixon on Saturday afternoon as scheduled and we had a nice get together. Then on Sunday morning, my little sister Tavia and my brother Steve and I drove the 80 miles to Morris to pick up Buddy.

Good God what a cute little dog! He's had a hard life, which is why he has no lower teeth between his canines so his tongue sticks out most of the time. Or he adopts an Elvis/Billy Idol sneer of disdain, when what he's really doing is smiling. He was a little nervous at first, understandably, but after a few minutes in the car, he settled in:

He seemed to enjoy his three days in Dixon despite the fact that it was an entirely new world filled with strange creatures -- owls, crickets, Heckman siblings, my Dad. Then it was time to mount the expedition that would get him back to Portland, first by car to the bus depot in Rockford, then by bus to O'Hare, and then (mercifully) by cab rather than public trans to home in Portland.

I'd gotten a soft-sided carrier before I'd left PDX, and he settled into that with minimal fuss on the bus:


O'Hare, as usual, was its own cross to bear. The flight was delayed two hours and we had to change gates during the wait. But to be fair to United, I did request an aisle seat with an empty seat next to it, and they came through with flying colors. So when Buddy got fidgety, I could put him on the seat next to me and let him poke his head out of the carrier for a stretch:


Fortunatly, our other pets seemed to adapt quickly to our guest, and he adapted quickly to the futon, worn out no doubt:


As for me, well, I had a very nice trip but I'm still a bit weary. My lovely wife has been quick to take up the household burdens so I can be a lazy sod for a day and recover. And no, we don't now have two dogs named Buddy. Buddy II has been christened "Pepe," because he's a speedly little guy who likes to run in small circles like he's doing the Mexican Hat Dance.

Sorry to burden you all with photos of a cute critter, but get used to it. We have the most photogenic bunch of animals under one roof (including Argotnaut, of course!)

River deep, mountain high

One of the true laws of cycling is: "There is no way to train for climbing but to climb." So I've started to incorporate more up into my rides. But I probably overdid it a little bit yesterday by riding to Portland Woman's Forum Scenic Viewpoint overlooking the Columbia River Gorge. It's a little over 1000 feet of elevation gain from the Sandy River (see previous post) to the park. For some sense of perspective, 1000 feet would be equivalent to riding from the ground floor of the Sears Tower to about the 75th floor.

Now that I have a fancy new picture phone, Argotnaut has suggested I send her a photo when I reach my turnaround point on a ride. Here's the one I sent from the park yesterday. The Vista House (see previous post again) is the itsy bitsy little bump on the flat outcropping just to the right of center:


According to the spiffy new bike logging software I downloaded yesterday, this ride consumed 1100 calories. Today it feels like it was even more than that. I had entertained taking this route tomorrow and pushing the extra couple of miles to the Vista House in keeping with the cycling law stated above. But my aching legs are telling me that tomorrow, perhaps I should send Argotnaut a halfway photo from someplace a little closer to home!

Road to recovery

Just a quick post because it's been a busy day and I'm beat. Rode 30 miles this morning, then went to see a vocational guidance counselor (is there any way NOT to sing that if you're a Monty Python fan?) in the afternoon, and then watched the Bears game at my favorite sports bar this evening.

But I wanted to do a post to mark an important occasion for me: the ride was significant because it was my return to the Sandy River Bridge. The bridge is the gateway to the Historic Columbia River Highway, a glorious ride I'd enjoyed many, many times in the past, before The Calamity, and one I thought I'd never be able to do again. This morning was the first time back to the bridge in four years, so I couldn't resist a recreation of a photo I took the FIRST time I biked there back in the summer of 2002:
With the mighty P-38 Lightning in 2002:

And with the mighty Bacchetta Giro, 2006:


I'm getting stronger every day, and I'm looking forward to soon reclaiming another long-thought-lost goal: The Vista House by Crown Point. I've got some training to do to manage that climb yet, but it's within my grasp. Or since it's about 1100 ft. of elevation gain topping out about 30 miles from my house, perhaps I should say it's within my gasp!