The Sauce

Oh Fudge.

Clear the streets.

Secure all livestock and heavy machinery.

Hide the cutlery and left-handed scissors.

Dave is off the sauce.

I shall not fear. Fear is the mind killer.

Given a childhood of being indoctrinated in the Catholic faith, it is difficult for my secular and rational adult self to shake the notion that there is a supernatural embodiment of evil known as Satan. Late at night lying in my bed in the dark, the unsettling side of imagination occasionally creeps into my thoughts and hinders my ability to peacefully fall asleep.

To neutralize such irrational thoughts, I introduce an element of absurdity to disarm the imagined danger. My reigning champion of imaginary demon-slaying and scourge to fictitious minions of the devil?

Kittens. Swarms upon swarms of kittens. When summoned, they latch onto and engulf the unspeakable horror until it disappears in a malevolent storm of squeaky meows and fluff. All the +3 blades of Morgul or enchanted Goblin helms of Intimidation in the world cannot stop this steamroller of cuteness.

A recent image posted on a defense industry blog has further bolstered my faith in salvation by kitten:

Violence only begets more violence, thus the rifle only shoots tightly packed kittens that inflate to full size after exiting the barrel. Kittens. With sniper rifles. Adorably genius.

Two-Wheeled Vomit Comet to Nubile Hill

I almost vomited while riding my bike. Almost.

The day's conditions were a perfect storm for the explosive chundering of energy drink and Clif bars. Failing to start at the 'optimistic' time of 10am, I ventured out at the sizzling hour of 1pm. Seeing how the big ride in July is expected to be considerably warmer, I decided that it would be a good time to start conditioning my body to handle the scorching heat of 80 degrees. The days plan was to ride the 64-mile metric century route of the Seven Hills of Kirkland. Seeing how this is an extended route, there are actually 11 hills, totaling 4700 feet of climbing. I didn't want to drive my car to the official 7HK starting point at the Kirkland Marina Park, so I decided to ride approximately 9 miles north on the Burke-Gilman trail until I linked up to the ride route near Bothell.

Things went a little wacky 10 miles into the ride. As some people know, I have the navigation skills of a blind, deaf and mute amputee with a balance-impairing ear infection. Misreading one of the road markers, I drifted off by a mile or so. After sheepishly coasting down hills while thinking “will I be climbing back up this way if I'm actually off course?” and indeed backtracking up those roads again, I rode back to where I was led astray and found my bearings.

At mile 20, the metric century route branches off further east, tacking on two extra hills and 20 miles to the traditional 7HK. At this point, the heat was starting to get to me. I thought I was staying well hydrated and fed, but the heat makes me very susceptible to headaches. I would be fine with the discomfort were I stationary, but the bumps and imperfections in the road compounded the headache considerably. Due to this slightly-altered mind state, I began to think silly thoughts.

Trudging along at a steady pace up Novelty Hill, I decided to rename the landmark to Nubile Hill; imagining it to be the exclusive neighborhood for all the attractive young women of the surrounding area. Other than some shapely trees and the occasional buxom mailbox (all with great personalities, I'm sure), there is no evidence to qualify this renaming, but that is what exhaustion can do to an impressionable mind. Ultimately, my paranoia of the opposite sex began to set, leading me to believe that the denizens of Nubile Hill would detect my presence, deem me a blight upon their Valhalla of Hotness, and would run me off the premises with a posse mounted on gleaming-white unicorns. Of course, this unjustified fear made me pedal faster, thus making it a win-win situation for myself and my imagined oppressors.

Reaching the Kirkland Marina at mile 50, I felt like I was in the homestretch. Continuing the remaining 10 miles back to the Burke-Gilman, I cleared Market Hill and Juanita Hill without any drama. But it would be Seminary Hill that would be my vomit temptress of the day. For the most part, it is not the most extraordinary hill. What makes it interesting is its length and curviness. At the approach, I decided to just sit and spin my way to the top. For the first couple of blind upward curves I was fine, but with no leveling of the road to allow some recovery time, the lactic acid started to build up. Just when I thought the summit was around the next blind right-hand bend, the road continued to curve upwards. Sadly, with a name like ‘Seminary Hill’, the thought of child molester priests did not incite the same motivation as that of the lovely ladies of Nubile Hill. At some point, I started to wobble and considered stopping for a breather. But the stubborn portion of my brain by the name of 'Pride' decided to interject:

"Are you serious? If we stop now, you might as well put the bike down and catch the next bus to Losertown. Population: You. Plus, I think I see a child molester hiding behind the bushes up ahead. Peddle faster, dammit.”

My body, in all its infinite wisdom in self-preservation, suggested "Get bent. Seriously. Get bent. I want to puke and I don’t want to get any on our clothes."

Pride retorted "Want to puke or need to puke? Unless you've been injected by a poisonous dart from one of those pissed off hot chicks from Nubile Hill and NEED to expel the toxins, I suggest you shut your cake hole. The child molester is gaining on us- hurry up”.

“You're an asshole” Said Body.

“Duh. Didn't you get the memo? Oh, by the way, you're fat.” Pride contemptuously replied.

And so forth. To be honest, the urge to vomit could have been more serious; I had yet to sense the acrid taste in mouth and my stomach was not at full boil, but the big lump in my throat had turned on its 'outgoing traffic only' sign, suggesting that a hearty chundering was about to occur.

Alas, with a stoplight ahead and the course marker indicating a left hand decline, salvation was at hand. Summiting the hill, I dropped my bike and took a seat in the dirt. After a 5 minute breather, I ventured on without any further drama. My body was no longer on 'imminent launch' mode, so I took an energy gel and finished off the last of my fig newtons.

Rolling into my driveway, the day’s mileage totaled 85 miles (64 mile route + 18 mile transit from the trail + 3 miles worth of straying off course). I've been more exhausted from other rides, but I collapsing like a rag doll onto my lawn, which felt really, really good. As I was laying in the fetal position, I ran through the day’s lessons for the next training session: eat and drink even more, start riding earlier in the day, bring ibuprofen for headaches, and most importantly, talk to the imagined hot girls on Nubile Hill.

Hey, man, is that freedom rock?

Through a 'friend of a friend that knows someone', I obtained the Time-Life Collection 10-disc set of 'Ultimate' 70s music. Starting from 1970, I've noticed that each proceeding year gets embarrassingly more schmaltzy and butt-rocky.

Currently, I’m knee-deep in the constipated bowels of 1976 music. I just finished listening to the disco anthem 'You Should Be Dancing', the Bee Gees’ breakthrough single that debuted Barry Gibb’s ‘castration set to melody’ signature sound. The combination of infectious rhythms, brassy horns, and high falsettos make me want to snort some blow, do burnouts in a 1970 Firebird, and contemplate the stagflative malaise of Detroit’s industrial sector.

If 1984 was ‘Morning in America’, 1976 can fairly be titled ‘Afternoon Butt Scratch’.

Adorable newborns, unite!

My new niece, Mae, throwing up an oh-so-cute fist of solidarity.

Although her knowledge of guerrilla warfare may not be up to snuff, I think many a revolutionary insurgent could learn a lot from her. For example- the cuddly light-yellow knit sweater that she is wearing. You're not going to win any friends wearing a red-starred beret with an AK-47 slung over your shoulder. And what about those rosey cheeks?!? If you want freedom for your people, you're going to have to lose the ski mask and the weeks-worth of scratchy stubble beneath it.

We shall... We shall... We shall overcome drool...

My, what a curious odor you've discovered

Out of the blue, I just sensed the faint aroma of cilantro. The stink of desperation, fear and potatoes normally clouds my sense of smell, so the scent of far away spices is a pleasant respite from the usual olfactory grind. I'm sitting at my desk right now with my office door and window closed, so this fleeting scent is particularly curious.

It's just about my lunch time; therefore the thought of cilantro has my stomach all a flutter with happy memories of Pho and Vietnamese sandwiches.

Seeing how my current lunch regiment consists of a bowl of cereal and yogurt, I might as well swallow a handful of thumbtacks, because anything short of a French baguette stuffed with a bounty of fresh goodness will simply not do. Maybe I should check out the 7-Eleven convenience store across the street to see if they have any pate I can stir into my bowl of Special K.

Self-amputation: the future of sports medicine

In an uncharacteristic move of forethought for the big ride in July, I went on a Saturday 'morning' solo training ride. Unlike my usual weekend routine of getting out of bed at the 'late' break of dawn (i.e. 1:00pm), I rolled out at the ungodly hour of 10am. Seeing how traffic was light and few people were out and about, I think there is some law I am unaware of that prohibits people from roaming the streets before noon (I think it has to do with sunlight-sensitive zombies roaming the streets before the sun reaches its peak).




After riding downtown and a short ferry cruise to Bainbridge Island, I attempted the Chilly Hilly bike route but got lost and cut the 40 mile route by 5 miles. Still feeling frisky, I decided to ride to the Vashon ferry dock in West Seattle. I was staying hydrated (I'm still digging the Nuun tablets) and fed (Vanilla Gu and a couple of bugs that flew into my mouth) the whole time, so I was able to maintain a good pace (of which, much to my later chagrin, accidentally caused me to blow through a Pioneer Square construction zone, irking some city road workers).




Almost reaching the beachfront Lincoln park near the ferry dock, my lower left side of my back and leg started to get whiny about some sort of discomfort and pain. This is nothing new, seeing how my left leg is longer than my right, resulting in a compromised bike fit that accommodates both legs. The conflicting thought processes of each leg humored me along the way. My left leg was bitching along the lines of 'Dear God, please stop so that we can stretch. Otherwise, just chew me off and leave me behind' (I attempted to find a picture of an elderly person stretching by googling 'elderly stretch', resulting in this picture of two dudes with what looks like a twin-spout flamethrower).




The rest of my body was all 'Fuck you, left leg. We got a good rhythm going, so suck it'. This arguing kept on going for a good 15 minutes, until a decided to compromise by letting my left leg unclip and dangle while the right leg continued to pump away. Once I reached the Vashon docks, I did some lengthy stretching, preventing any further discomfort on the way home. The day's mileage totaled 67.5 miles (I rode up and down the driveway a couple of times to round up the number to that magical 0.5). The Chilly Hilly elevation gain is 2675 feet, but I think exceeded that by tacking on West Seattle and riding to and from Northgate. This sort of mileage and saddle time is in line with what the RAMROD training guide suggests, but I have yet to see any documentation detailing how to gnaw off whiny appendages like a squirrel with a leg caught in a trap.