I HAVE THE INFO

This year marks the third year in a row I’ve done the Nockamixon Century.  I wrote about 2006 and I have Garmin data from 2007.  I’ve said of those two days that they were the single most difficult days of riding in those years.  This year I didn’t feel that bad, the whole way through.

Probably for a few different reasons:

#1)I paid alot of attention to hydration and food.  I kept eating the whole way thru.

#2)I had someone in my group that I promised, no matter what, that I would not leave behind.  More then once, I pulled off of the groups pace to slow down, grab this guy and pace him back to the group. 

Until the end, when he was completely cooked.  There was nothing to be done but block the wind for him and bring him home.  

In reality, this was probably not completely altruistic. If I had stayed with the front group,  I’d have worked too hard for too long and been a real mess today. Not ideal. 

But I did get alot of practice in *slowly* bringing someone up to speed.  I’d never done that before.

I should point out that both of my previous experiences with this ride were the same as his first.  In the last 20-25 miles, like clockwork, I’ve blown up.  Its an extremely hilly course.  It grinds you down.

The worst part about this phenomenon of course is how endless it can make those last miles feel.  You’ve kept a good pace.  You are tired.  You loose that pace.  It takes you longer and longer to cover distances that were nothing earlier in the day.  Time stretches out.

Anyway.

2 dumb stories:

#1)Old Easton road.  Mile 12.  There was a pig on someone’s lawn.  Wearing a dog leash harness.

#2)Farm country.  mile 78.  2 of the biggest donkeys I have ever seen.  I ride up next to one of my companions.  

“Look at all that ASS” I say.

No reaction.  What is it about 78 hilly miles that makes folks into such a tough crowd?

XXX by Helium

I could probably do a blog exclusively about nothing but homes that the boy, the wife and I go to look at. There is just not enough time to wade thru all the material.  And believe me there is alot of it.

That said, looking at homes, staged to buy, is alot like working for a moving company.  You see inside peoples lives, you get a sense of who they are, or in some cases were, based on what they show you or how they’ve left their former homes behind.

Ever read The Crying of Lot 49 by Pynchon?  There is a description in there of what its like to look at the trade ins folks bring in on the used car lot.  Sometimes house shopping can be like that. (it starts on page 13. Bottom Paragraph.)

Various incidents from today’s travels, in no particular order to the above mentioned effect:

Converted Cape Cod house: Bad windows. Strange layout on the second floor. Cramped.

As Steph and I went down the stairs into the finished basement , out of the corner of my eye, I see someone sitting in a chair at a desk.  There is an eternal millisecond where I am convinced that that there is a Dead body.

Its a huge stuffed animal.

On our way back up the steps a few minutes later, the wife and I confirm that we had the same thought at the same time walking down those steps: dead body in the basement. 

Creepy.

Squat Brick house with great floors but no back yard:

This was the last place we checked out.  An apple tree is right by the drive way.  Its fruits are unpicked, all over the ground, crushed or half chewed by squirrels, insects, etc.

The realtor tells us that the place is currently occupied by a renter.  Whenever you hear this, you know you are in for it.  

The building looks nice from the street.  

Things go down hill from there.  The porch, enclosed, smells like someone went into the crawl space underneath, vomited there and left it to cook in the summer heat.

The living room is a very nice size. Fire place.  Beautiful exposed hard wood floors.

However,  Partially unpacked bags are all over the furniture. All the windows are closed.  The shades are all pulled down. This is standard throughout the house. 

Bedroom: Rows upon rows of sci-fi and fantasy,  all terrifically well organized on book shelves.  Physics texts. Army officer manuals.  

Checking out the closets,  Army dress uniform, fresh from dry cleaner.

Dining room:  Desert camo jacket hanging on a door, 40 bottles of wine sitting in a corner, piles of day of the week cases filled with pills and vitamins.

Kitchen: the boy grabs and knocks over a basket containing packs and packs of Nicorette.

The back porch: empty 2 liter bottle of soda with countless cigarette butts.

Conclusion:  I couldn’t help but think I stumbled into some vet’s PTSD nightmare.  

Then again, I thought that stuffed animal was a dead body.

I’ve been a little obsessed on and off, for years, with a detail from the story Branwen Daughter of Llyr, of the Mabinogion.  In this story, there is a description of a caldron that, when dead warriors were thrown in, they’d come back to life the next day, ready to fight, but unable to speak.

So, today I was sitting around waiting to not get selected for a jury, I reread this one and Gereint and Enid

But that wasn’t the one I had stuck in my head on the drives tonight.  No, a detail from Gereint and Enid was stuck in my head.  There is this part, early in where, Gereint gets in a duel with a knight who insults him and worse still, Queen Gwenevere. 

After Gereint smashed the knights helmet and cuts his face,  the knight begs for mercy.  Gereint tells him:

I will show mercy on condition that you go to Arthur’s wife Gwenhwyvar and make good the insult…but you are not to dismount from the time of your departure until you are before Gwenhwyvar, to make such amends as Arthur’s court decrees…

Don’t get off your horse.  Don’t pass go.  Don’t collect 200.

It kept popping into my head each time we got stopped at lights and had to unclip.