And the gods wept with joy

...when the mortals finally figured out what to do with gravity. That's somebody's tagline off MTBR that I commandeered because it was so perfect. For the gods did indeed weep then. As did I this afternoon, after the pain of falling over the bars face first into the dirt and bruising my left ribcage, knee and calf. Ouch. That was about one and a half hours into one of dGangi's death marches. But I kept riding. For the full 3 and a half hours, and, as Adam Sandler puts it, it was not "at a medium pace".

Yet I didn't hurt that bad. It was cold and wet, and my left lung, knee and calf were at 75% at best...yet I just wanted to just keep hammering. So I did, and as always, it wasn't that bad after I started riding again. And, the pizza and beer sure tasted that much better back at dGangi's house as we watched the Ravens finish off the Dolphins.

Then evening came. And with it, the throbbing pain of a bruised rib and a deeply bruised calf. And some mysterious scrapes and scratches that appeared under my leg warmers, even though there were no holes ripped in the fall. Interesting how that works. A few Advils later, I was almost whole, except for the whole breathing and laughing thing. Oh well, I was off to my parents for some good South American cooking.



I don't know what it is about my mother and cooking. My mother was born in Santiago, Chile, with Spanish roots and emigrated to the US when she was 20. As long as I can remember, she has never been able to cook. Growing up I remember thinking, when will this delicious Hispanic feast appear? Isn't that what my people do? Eat well? Well apparantly not. And at first, I thought it was just her. But my trip to visit my folks for dinner that night was actually to meet and visit with Perla, my mother's childhood friend that was up from Santiago for a few weeks. And she couldn't cook either. (Well to be fair, the chicken and empanadas weren't bad...)

Come to find out that until 4 years ago when my mom finally went back to Santiago after 34 years, they hadn't seen seen each other since my mom left in 1970. I wouldn't have known. They looked at each other as they told me their shared childhood memories as if they had never missed a beat. The only difference they said, was that now they looked like their mothers. Come to find out, they met when they were 13. Perla the rich kid, my mom the poor kid, that happened to go to church together. They hit it off immediately, and were apparently inseparable until mom left for the states one day. I wonder what it must have been like for my mother, growing up in the slums of Santiago in the 50's and 60's. She worked from the time she was 8 years old and has never known anything different. By the time she was 20, she was in charge of payroll and what would now be called human resources for the MacGregor plant in Santiago. They produced baseball equipment; bats, gloves, etc for all the summer-obsessed kids back in the states. My dad, who was a baseball player in those years, may have owned a glove manufactured there. I remember it was a lefty MacGregor first baseman's glove. Maybe?

38 years. That's a long time, in terms of a human lifetime. Before Perla and my mom re-connected, we hosted her parents at our house when they came to the US for a few weeks. This was about 28 years ago, when it was just me and my younger brother. The others hadn't been born yet. Perla's parents, the Garcia's, came to Arizona so they could be sealed in marriage in the Mormon temple in Mesa, Arizona. At the time, there was no temple in South America. So they traveled up here and stayed with the only person they knew in the US and her family.

I don't remember much about the Garcia's visit, just that they spoke only Spanish and my mom had to translate everything. But I do remember a few things. The husband, Ricardo Garcia, always had a big smile and just seemed happy to be alive. I don't remember his wife as well, but she seemed to just as happy herself. I don't remember exactly how long they stayed, but I do remember the moment they got back from the temple with my parents. I remember the somber, contemplative silence. I remember the muted looks, like they had just experienced something supernatural. But most vividly, I remember the tears as Ricardo and my father embraced as the recollection of what just happened eventually overwhelmed him. I remember his wife and my mom looking on, holding hands. And I remember the gift Ricardo gave my father that evening. It was a solid gold ring, a family heirloom. It was large and solid and was of Incan origin, with an intricate design on the face. That ring never left my dad's right hand. He loved that ring, and what it meant. Eventually, we all decided later, I was to inherit that ring. But that will not happen. A few years ago, it noticed my dad stopped wearing it.

Ricardo Garcia died in 1994. He had several daughters, Perla being one of them, but the oldest was a son, also named Ricardo. Ricardo Jr. is a successful and respected doctor in Santiago, having done well for himself just like his father. 4 years ago, when my parents first went down to Santiago, they visited the Garcia family. They caught up and traveled together. That trip was the first time Perla and my mom had seen each other in 34 years. But as they said the other night at dinner, (over bad South American food) it was as if they never missed a beat. It was then that I found out what happened to the ring.

Ricardo Jr. had a birthday party while my parents were down there. Being the aforementioned successful and respected doctor, he had a large circle of friends and collegues. As expected, my parents showed up for the rather large gathering. According to my mother, it was a festive occasion, the type my dad usually shys away from, being the introverted man he is. But something happened that night that just floored my mom and guests who heard what happened next. As Ricardo was opening gifts and reveling in the time with friends and family, my father stepped up and asked if he could tell a story. With my mom translating, he recanted the story of the ring and of the man who gave it to him, the circumstances, and what it meant to him all those years. How powerful a symbol it was for him, as a young father at the time. And then, on Ricardo's 60th birthday, he returned the ring to the son of the man it had come from.

The ring had come full circle. There was not a dry eye in the house. My father was fulfilled.

And the gods wept with joy.

Christmas Lights

I took Natalie and Ethan to see the lights at the Mormon Temple in Mesa tonight. Kids like bright shiny things, and there were plenty of those. I called ahead and had Anna (the nanny) get them ready and bundled up to handle the 40-degree temperatures. I swung by the house, picked them up and started Anna cleaning the place up. She's good like that.

I am lucky to have a good nanny. As a single parent, it's way important. Natalie and Ethan will grow up with divorced parents, and while that's best in the long run, in the short term they need their basic needs taken care of. Anna does that well, and more. She will never be able to provide for them the type of attention and love that Mommy and Daddy do, but Mommy and Daddy time will be just a little more special now and not taken for granted. At least I hope.

So I pick up Natalie and Ethan, and we head over to my parents place down the road to pick them up. But as always, they had "something for me to do" before we could go. This time, it was renewing the registration on my dad's car online. Why he can't do it himself is beyond me. So I did. It took 5 minutes. I'm from their gene pool.

Inconceivable.

After about 40 minutes of getting strollers loaded, kids loaded, cars registered, the New World conquered, trans-continental railroads built, and men landed on the moon, we were on our way. And the kids both promptly fell asleep. Great. So Mom, Dad and I had a conversation. That's always interesting. Both of them in a car, at least 30 minutes of driving, 40 if you count the drive-thru, and their oldest son fresh out of the fog of war of his divorce . Somewhere in there, we got out of the car, bundled the kids, saw the lights, got back in the car, and headed home. Hilarity ensued.

Me: "So, what or who do you see me with. In the future."

Dad: Quizzical look.

Mom, without even finishing her breath: "You should marry a returned missionary."

Oh for the love of all that is good and holy! Even Pavlov's dog hesitated a second after the bell rang.

I turn to her and say "Are you serious? Serious like a heart-attack serious? Would you like a do-over?"

Mom: "No, I think you should. Really."

At this point, Dad is chuckling like he does when he grasps the absurdity of the moment. So I go with it.

Me: "Okay mom, here's how it will go then. Hi, Miss Returned Missionary with your own set of baggage because you're a returned missionary. I'm divorced with 2 kids, so I've got baggage too. I had a few women in college, followed by a 10-year stint with my ex-wife, would you like to be next? I also like a little nip from the flask every now and then. Are you feeling the connection?"

My Dad laughs. My Mom gets somber. The kids continue to snooze. And then it gets real. Mainly because my Dad starts talking.

He says it is what it is. You are what you are. If you're not happy, and you've given it your best, you need to move on. The Bible says nothing about prohibiting divorce. Catholics and others will disagree, but that's because they don't read the whole thing and mis-understand what He said. Don't get hung up on the social constructs and mis-interpretations that get propigated. They all serve a purpose, and it's not in your best interest. He then goes on to quote Old and New Testament scripture that I've never heard before. Then he goes on to connect verses and characters (Naman?) that I don't recognize off hand. Okay, then I get lost. My Dad gets it. I know, because he has read and felt scripture, not just read scripture, his whole life. Fair enough, I feel what he is saying, and it hits me in that place that only the gods can touch. And I really did give it my best, for 10 years.

Then I ask him about the 3-generation San Francisco connection. And he recants the stories. I cry as I listen. And that deserves it's own entry.

We get back to my castle in the suburbs, and the kids are both awake now. Ethan is happy, Natalie is not. Nightmares, or whatever. So I take her in the castle, tell Anna to make a bottle for Ethan and get him ready for bed, and I take Natalie up to her room. She is crying and frantic. Just like I was from time to time when I was her age. Her legs hurt, and I remembered the growing pains I had at her age. Part of the price you pay for being tall. I laid her down on her "big girl" bed in her room, changed her into her PJ's and rubbed her legs until the pain went away. My little girl. My precious, sweet, perfect little girl. She lays there, under her covers, and I sit next to her on the floor, our pinkys locked in that pinky swear connection that we've done since she was old enough to understand. And I said the words I tell her every night.

Me: "Daddy loves you always and forever. Always and forever."

Natalie: "Always and forever."

Me: "You know that, right?"

Natalie: "I know Daddy. I know that, Daddy".

I felt like Daddy. Not just a parent. Not just the sperm donor. Not just the provider of the cash to make her life comfortable.

Daddy.

And after a few minutes, Natalie is calm and secure. But Ethan is not.

This whole time, my parents and Anna couldn't figure out the "get Ethan ready for bed and make him a bottle" concept. Whatever. So I ask Natalie, now that she is secure and okay, if I can go take care of Ethan. We could both hear him crying.

Natalie: "Take care of Ethan, Daddy."

And my heart goes to a place I never conceived was possible. Natalie was strong now. And she always will be.

I go into Ethan's room, and there is my mom trying to get Ethan to sleep. Anna had made the bottle too hot, so my dad was trying to cool it off in the bathroom with cool water. Hey, Anna's not perfect. (ONE frickin minute in the microwave, is that so HARD to remember???????) Anyhoo, I grab the bottle, test the temperature (perfect) and go in to Ethan's room to give him and my Mom the bottle. He takes the bottle, but he can't take his eyes off me. Nana is there, but it's all about Daddy now.

Ethan is different. He stopped breast feeding at 2 months so his mom could go back to work. He was the second child, so I suppose, and I could be wrong, that she already experienced the whole breast-feeding thing and was done. Its painful, right? I've seen those raw nipples, the uncomfortable engorgement...I don't blame her. So for most of his life, I've been the primary one feeding him his formula/milk before he goes to bed. Daddy and a bottle at night before going to bed is his nightly ritual.

So as Ethan is sucking on his bottle in Nana's arms, following me with his eyes, he notices I'm heading out of his room. I was heading back to Natalie's room. He starts crying.

So I go back into Natalie's room and tell her:

Me: "Natalie, are you okay?"

Natalie: "I'm okay Daddy"

Me: "Can I go back and take care of Ethan? He needs me now."

Natalie: "Yes, Daddy."

Me: "Thank you Natalie, I love you."

Natalie: "I love you too, Daddy."

That girl is strong, and mine. No doubt.

So I go back into Ethan's room and signal to Nana that I need to hold him. I get in the La-z-boy, give him his bottle, and he's out within 5 minutes. Ah, Fatherhood. I felt like more than just a Dad last night. I felt like I was the only one that knew these children and their needs.

I felt like more than just a Dad.

On the trail of the Mountain King

Goat Camp is a gem of a trail. Long, semi-technical climb, short wicked decent. Complete with named technical problems like "Spiral Staircase" and The Jackhammer". And by short, I mean 4 miles of wicked decent preceeded by 9 or so miles of long steady climb. IMBA quality climbs, by the way, with the new section of Mesquite now open. Nice.

We started the day with 7 riders. No one was weak, including myself, surprisingly. This included Mikesee, the famous one. Kathleen alerted me to his presence on the way over. He is apparantly some sort of fixture on the mountain bike scene. He organized -and won- the original mountian bike iditarod. 1200 some odd miles, just like the sled-dog race, and on the same course up in Alaska. He was on a multi-day trip visiting his MTBR and other friends, and that included a stop at Goat Camp and a ride with Kathleen. Cool. He also happens to be a great photographer:

Of course, I'll limit the photo art to the ones where I happened to be the subject. What can I say, I'm just that vain.

Okay, maybe not. Here's more:

Goat Camp reminded me again of something I'd already known, but as always, the trail always has her own unique way of communicating.

Live in the now.

Yes Garth Algar, broadcasting from Aurora Illinois, I hear you.

I hear you.

The thing about the Goat Camp climb, especially in the beginning, is that it can be intimidating. It's not steep, but technical. If you sit there and try to take in not only the upcoming problem, but that you've got at least a couple dozen similar problems before you reach the top, you forget about the upcoming one. Unclip, push, start over. But if you focus on the next few feet, ignore the rest, and don't get intimidated...whoa, all of a sudden, you cleared it all the way to the top. After the first couple miles, it mellows out into the IMBA-rated perfect grade, so it's easy. But that first 2 miles are where I was reminded. And I need to be periodically reminded of this.

On the beach

Wet. Tired. Exhausted. Starting to breathe normally again. But I still can’t see.

What just happened?

One minute I was at sea, aboard a mighty warship. The next, I’m struggling in the water. The remains of the ship and its crew, or at least those who had remained, far away in the distance, sinking, drifting, dying. But wait, wasn’t I the Captain?

What just happened?

Now I remember. I had a great plan. I was going to build a warship, set sail on the sea of life, and conquer. I had spent my youth reading all the great books of love and war. I had educated myself. I had picked the best materials, trusted the wisest counsel. I had charted a course, made ready the crew, and 10 years ago, I set sail. At first, the magnificent ship I had built handled beautifully. So beautifully in fact, that I gave the wheel to the first mate…and went down into my cabin to enjoy what I’d built. Occasionally, I felt a swell, or even a storm. There were a few times when I actually and inexplicably heard cannon fire. From my own ship even! Yet there I was, tucked away in the cabin, secure in the notion that I’d built the perfect ship, had the perfect crew, and all was well. Eventually, 2 other ships left the same shipyard, built from the same blueprints, and joined me on my journey. I was happy. Or so I thought.

But all was not well. And as Captain, I should have known that.

I should have seen the first mate, lacking the experience, trying to command the crew. I saw the disdain in their eyes. I saw the resentment. I saw the crew slowly start to just go about the motions, day in and day out, as the first mate barked her orders. Before long, she started barking her orders to me.

I should have thought, this is a mighty warship. 56 guns on three decks on each side. The pride of the fleet. Who did this insubordinate first mate think she was? But that thought was tempered in my mind by her pedigree. The best naval training, hard disciplined worker, and smart…She will figure it out. Why didn’t the Captain step in?

Because the Captain himself was not as prepared as he thought he was. He did not understand the nature of planning followed by careful execution. Planning, it turns out, is the easy part. Almost anyone can do that. And sailing is not that hard either. But to understand how to do both, and do them well…well that is the stuff legends are made of. I wasn’t ready, and the gods had different plans. Once the big storm hit, and I saw the other ships in the fleet go down, I didn’t even try to understand why. I just kept on sailing. Kept on sailing, blinders on, still confident in my formula. Eventually, my time came. I looked out the window and saw the enemy armada riding an evil, dark wave straight for us. I dashed out of my cabin. I tried to wrest control from the First Mate. I got thrown overboard. Within seconds, she scuttled the ship, and in one magnificent and devastating flash, blew the magazine.

And my eyes burned from that magnificent flash.

And away I floated.

But the gods were not done with me yet.

On the beach. Trying to see. Something got me here and kept me from drowning, but I couldn’t quite tell what it was yet. An angel maybe? A piece of driftwood? An old leaky schooner that happened to be heading my way? I had no idea. So I reached out to it. Touched it. Felt it. Smelled it. Brought it close and thanked it profusely, so happy just to be alive. But what was it?

As my eyes heal, only time will tell.

The next time the Admiral -yes, Admiral- sets sail, it will be from a position of someone who has actually been to sea and suffered. And lost. And I guarantee, the Admiral will not set sail on a leaky schooner or a piece of driftwood. But he will have angels with him.

One of the Classics

CactusJoe took off like a rocket this morning. As usual, Dave started out with his A-game, and I stayed right on his wheel until he acquiesced and gave me the reins. It felt good to fly. The trail was still tacky after the rains this week, and it wasn't too crowded. It was cold though. Before we started, as we were staging at the ramada, Chongoman called and said he was already at the tanks, had some time, and to look for him coming the other way so he could join us. A little ways up the trail, we stopped to regroup, and I saw a lone rider out in the distance heading toward us. The trail where he was ran parallel to where we were, so I could see him zigzagging towards us, disappearing into the desert washes and reappearing further over on the horizon, like a prairie dog poking his head up out of different holes in his network. I realized it was Chongoman.

I can tell when someone gets it. I've been riding enough years that I can tell by watching what someone is feeling as they ride. Similar to skiing, there are those who force it, and those who feel it. Most riders on Classic force it. It’s considered a beginner trail and is accused by some as being too easy or lacking flow. Hence, most experienced riders tune it out and rely on automatic response to get through and focus on the “good aerobic workout” part. But not all. Chongoman gets it. He wasn’t riding the trail today, he was dancing with it.

I think what I saw today was in some way a measure of who he is. I’ll bet, and I could be wrong, but he was the guy who would ask the shy wallflower to dance, and not just because he felt sorry for her, but because he is one of the few fortunate souls that are able to feel joy in all things and for the right reasons. People change, life moves on, helicopters crash into houses, but dude…regardless of what the future holds, hold on to that part of you.

Oh, and don’t get any ideas, Chongoman, I’m not just buttering you up so I can get into your pants. I may be freshly single but I ain’t going there. And not to rub it in, but there would still be about 3 billion females and Sting I'd have to go through before I went there with you. Just being honest, dude.

Okay, back to the ride. I lead the pack out to the tanks with Chongoman closely on my wheel. We stop there to decide our route when we get into this lively discussion on the “real” name of Secret. Secret is one of the side options to Desert Classic. Secret, Lost Wash, Rocket Fuel, and about half a dozen others were thrown out as names our group had heard it called, most of them from Paul. Then Paul suggests a charity auction to benefit trail maintenance at SoMo by selling the rights to name the trail “officially”. Right. So it can end up the Insight.com trail. Or maybe the Procter and Gamble trail.

We head out from the tanks, do the full Secret option, and hammer until we get to the western trailhead. And that is where our group vanity took over and the photos started. What is it about this group that compels us to document everything? Is it just vanity? Do we have some irresitable need to tell the world how cool our adventures are? I hardly ever bring a camera and though I post up a lot of rides, I hardly ever do the ride reports. Maybe once in a blue moon. And I mean that in the traditional sense, not every time I have a Blue Moon. (Actually, come to think of it, I drink Blue Moon about as often as…well a blue moon. Hmmm) Anyhow, my point was going here: Someone else always posts up the story of my adventure. Is it because I don’t have the time, or because I just don’t care to share every time I get on the bike with the world? Time will tell, and maybe there will be new voids to fill.

The helipad is still there. That’s where we went next. After the climb up out of the west end of DC, we took the Goat Trail (our name for it anyways) to get to it. I say it’s still there because the helipad is not new to me. When I was in high school we used to drive up to it all the time on the now closed dirt road before all the houses went in and blocked it off. We spent many a night up there, partying, reconciling, experimenting...and growing. I also spent many a night up there solo, contemplating. This day, I was with 8 others who shared at least one passion with me, and hence the MTBR flask of honor had to come out. Much joy. More photo ops. I share with Paul and Kathleen that I’d gotten laid up there before. TMI.

The decent down from the helipad is interesting. I say interesting because it is, well, stark. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it. It’s fun as hell, but hard to feel any flow on, at least for me. The earth there is a different color and consistency than the rest of the mountain, and it makes me wonder if there is something buried there. I get that feeling sometimes at T100, and come to think of it, the earth there is similar. I know there was lots of mining in and around T100 and the SoMo area. I wonder if what I’m feeling is the wounded earth, and when I get too near her wounds, I feel her sorrow and can’t feel my flow. If so, I respect that. She is my medium, and the least I can do is feel with her when she hurts.

The bottom of the helipad trail is where the shit-faced grins usually appear. This case was no different. 9 happy bikers, high on the speed and thrill of letting gravity have its way with you. Unfortunately, the Helipad trail overdraws its account a bit, so you can’t get back to DC proper without a good steep climb out of a big wash. I nailed it, and kept going. In fact, I didn’t stop until the Flintstone benches to regroup,then again at the tanks to announce I was going to turn on the jets and head back to my new place. I felt good. 20+ fast miles, and I still had lots of gas left in the tank. In fact, I had enough to move a bunch of furniture and still go out with Stu that night. Which is where my next entry will pick up.

Feelin the Flow

There's something to be said for feeling the flow when you're just feeling your way down an unknown or unfamiliar trail. If you can just let it go that first time, it says, "I have supremely large kahones". Sure, relax and let it flow on the familiar trails. You know where the brake points are and when and where to put your weight. But ya better button it up on those new trails, you could get hurt. So what does it say to let it all out the first time you meet new singletrack and have it feel perfect? Soul mates or just feeling good that day? It sure makes you want to go back for more.

I've been out on trails for the first time and felt nervous and skiddish. National is a good example. The first time was many years ago, and it was more an exercise in hiking that riding. Over the years I'd revisit and just think, this will never be rideable for me. Every few years, as my passion with fat tires would wax and wane, she would still be there. I would go see her, but we weren't ready for each other. She would ebb and flow, sometimes for the better, sometimes because some stupid trail user decided "their way" was the "right way". Always so beautiful on so many levels, so much to give to so many, but never happy.

So what is it that makes you work through that initial fear and trepidation and get to the point where that once intimidating vixen becomes your lover, or at least, your best friend? The right bike? More fitness? Better technical skills? All helpful maybe. But ultimately you take her on, piece by piece, until the safe lines become ingrained and mundane but her other lines are what you just know will keep you coming back until the end of time.

And then, there's 24th street. So much more complicated than National, beautiful in her own way, but supremely unrideable. Not even in the realm of possibility for most people, myself included, if I hadn't taken the time to get to know National. Yet there I was, first time, dancing with her insane, beautiful lines and making it down with nary a dab. No flow yet, but I'll get there after a few more rides. My tastes are refined, I need more! Or.....do I?

So what of that new trail, the one you felt the flow on almost immediately? In reality, and as "cosmic" as it may seem, she will likely bore you after awhile. There will be many trails like this.

And what of 24th street? New found love? Nah, she's fun, a good ride from time to time, but harsh and unforgiving. No time to breathe. No time to let down your guard. A-game only please, or you can get off at the next drop.

Not like National. National has it all. Adrenaline tempered with time to breathe. A-game intensity mixed with lazy days on the couch. Endless variety. And guaranteed safe lines, for those days you're just not feelin the flow. Yeah, I found my home.