I just signed up to ride 100 miles. In a row. In August. In Philadelphia. With thousands of other people. This strikes me, as someone who’s never done a ride of this scale or distance, as a strange turn of events. Perhaps you think so too. But once I explain, I think you’ll agree that I never had a choice.

You see, I wasn’t able to get the Fat Cyclist jersey I was hoping to score. I hemmed and hawed over which one would be the most awesomest, and then they all sold out. Like, in a week.

So I was kind of down about not being able to have participated in the big Twin Six Fat Cyclist sale, and was thinking about writing about it, and then thinking “no one wants to read about that, and I don’t want to write about it.”

Which led to thinking about what I do want to write about. I mean, I can tell you about the finer points of my goat trails, the ride to Ruby’s school, the commute. I can tell you about the even yet finer points as well, there are truly splendid driveways over by Trinity University that I could fill pages describing. I could do a daily post, in all-caps, yelling at the motorists who taunt and torment me. But you don’t want to read that. And I don’t want to write it.

And then I caught a glimpse of a slide from a presentation by BikeHugger’s own D.H. Byron, a presentation that included a couple points about making your blog better. The seed of advice that took root in the fertile soil of my imagination was: “make yourself more awesome”. Which led to the next slide, the practical implementation of that advice: “Do Epic Shit”.

About the same time, Fatty announced that he was going to put together a team for each of the Livestrong Challenge events that would be bigger than any before, raise more money for cancer research than any Livestrong Challenge team ever before, and would involve a bike ride longer than… well, any ride I’ve ever done before, by probably 75 miles. And I thought, “Hey, that sounds suspiciously… epic.”

It is a big event thought out and managed by people who are good at those kinds of things. It’s not a race, the ride’s well supported, and I’ll be undertaking this quest with my teammates, who will (hopefully) be about a thousand strong. So it’s kind of beginner level, as far as an Epic Adventure! goes. In other words, a perfect fit. And, it’s for the best of causes, under an auspicious banner, and I may get a FatCyclist jersey out of it after all, hopefully something smaller than an XXXL.

So, between now and next August, I’ll be training for a big long ride, writing about the process, and perhaps bothering folks about sponsoring me just a little bit. If you’re interested, this here’s my personal fundraising page, and I’ll leave a link over on the right in case you’d be interested in stopping by it later. If they make a thermometer widget or a bat or something, I’ll put that up too.

If you’re interested in joining Fatty’s Livestrong Team for one of the events in Austin, Seattle, San Jose, or Philadelphia, visit this post for quick links and info, as well as the rundown on all the nifty rafflings he’s personally doing for folks joining his team. You’re worth a million in prizes. You don’t have to walk, run, or bike to join, there’s plenty of ways to help. And you don’t have to ride 10, 20, 50, or 100 miles, but you sure could.

I’m excited and nervous and ready to get on this, like I’m at the beginning of something… epic. Feels good.

[UPDATE]: Kent Peterson also asks that you join the team. I imagine that when you’ve done the Great Divide Race on a single speed, you’ve probably got a hundred-mile ride laying around under your couch cushions.

[ANOTHER UPDATE]: I found a thermometer on the Livestrong Challenge site, but it appears to suck. I put it on my sidebar, it was bright yellow with heavily aliased white text and an obviously white background. Not gonna do it. If I find out they have something like an RSS feed, perhaps I’ll whip something up that doesn’t suck.

You know I’m just a bike rider. You know I don’t race. You know I like my bikes heavy, with big cushy tires. You know that if there’s a Girl Scout behind me when I’m on my way to work, it means one thing, namely that I’m about to get dropped by a Girl Scout.

Nevertheless, I think it’s time I bought a jersey, perhaps in XL for “eXtra Luxury”. And I think it’s about time you bought one too. Sure, you could do it because it’ll support some really wonderful folks that could use the help right now, or because the company that’s making them is the kind of company that restores your faith in the goodness of humanity. You could get one because you’re a serious racer, and when the competition sees “WIN” in all-caps on your sleeve, the competition will whither and crumble. You could get one of these jerseys because you will look even haw-haw-hawter in one than you already look when you’re firing yourself down the road like a sexy two-wheeled missile carrying a warhead filled with 50 megatons of Sassy. You could do it for any or all of those reasons, and that’d be swell.

I’m doing it for one reason, and one reason only. I’m doing it because these jerseys will make me faster, and I’m tired of getting dropped by a Girl Scout with a messenger bag full of Thin Mints.

You’ve got a big decision to make tomorrow, citizen.

There’s a lot to think about as we approach this historic election. There’s more than one dire problem to solve, more than a few turds hurtling towards the blades of a big, angry fan, more to be resolved with higher stakes than ever before.

We’re mired in geopolitical conflict, and the way home is difficult to find, harder to navigate. We’re hooked on an energy source that’s dirty, expensive, and often comes at the cost of supporting some nefarious organizations. Our economy is shaky, fragile, and everyone’s looking over their shoulder for the axe to fall. Health care is skyrocketing, and getting sick often means bankruptcy. Bridges are falling into rivers, cities are falling apart, our manufacturing base is much diminished, and the guy you’re trying to order that Bacon Cheeseburger from doesn’t seem to speak much English.

What will be in store for America as we enter the next chapter in our history? Which candidate is better equipped to handle these challenges? What’re we gonna do?!

I know that when I ponder issues of these magnitudes, I try to imagine how the best of our presidents would tackle them. I contemplate Washington’s moral rectitude, Jefferson’s master statesmanship, Teddy’s cunning diplomacy, FDR’s inspiring leadership. Ultimately, the path of my meditation will lead to Lincoln, whose counsel is always the same.

You’ve got a big decision to make tomorrow, Superstar.

Ran across this interview with Berkeley Breathed on Salon, discussing the end of Opus and his children’s books. I’ve been a fan of his work for years, and Mars Needs Moms! is one of Ruby’s favorites (she even has a pair of red and orange striped Milo jammies).

He said something in that interview that’s been rolling around my braincase like a roller derby.

We aren’t returning someday to any sort of golden era of political civility. The line heads heavenward and has been since the Republic started. And with the intersection of two rather dramatic dynamics — the cable and Web technology allowing All Snark All the Time … and the political realities of No More Free Lunch in America, it will spike in the coming years like Don Draper’s sex life, and I hereby pledge that that’s the last pop reference I use.

Aren’t dark times exactly when satire is most needed?

It’s not so much dark times now, as profane and loud. Satire you’ll have, oh dear me, indeedy yes. “Vomitous” and “awash” are two words that come to mind. It used to be that everyone would be famous for 15 minutes. How antediluvian. Rather, everyone will now want a satirical YouTube film with 15 megabytes.

Satire we’ll have. Rather, the real dearth in our world will be sweetness, comfort, thoughtfulness and civility. If I could do “Peanuts,” that’s what I’d be doing. Alas, I’ve tried.

(Italics mine)

Sweetness, comfort, thoughtfulness, and civility.

The four horsemen of the Antipocalypse. It’s these qualities that I feel have been sacrificed to the gods of Cable and Freeways and the Internet, I sense their absence by the way the world feels like it’s colder and full of sharp corners. It’s why I believe Garrison Keillor is a national treasure, why the News From Lake Wobegon always seems to grab me deeper in the chest than it ought to. It’s the reason my memories of eating pot roast and potatoes while watching Andy Griffith and Hee Haw with my Gramma and Grampa and aunts and uncles are priceless treasures to me. It’s why I jump at the chance to watch Sound of Music and Mary Poppins with my daughter.

And I wonder, after a lifetime of consuming media that eschewed these qualities in the name of realism, edginess, satire, and impact, music and books and movies and TV shows that I still consider essential for having provided the materials that comprise the rich inner life I enjoy, whether or not I can connect with my better angels and become a source of sweetness, comfort, thoughtfulness, and civility for my children and community as times get tougher.

I hope so, it’s important, and I’m workin’ on it. I hope there’s more of us that think it’s worth doing.

The last few days since Hanna came and went have been cool, overcast, and beautiful. I’ve been dropping Ruby off at school in the mornings and then shooting downtown via my regular southwest slash through the hospitals, Howard University, down to R and through Dupont Circle. It’s a nice ride really, with some lovely neighborhoods, but I get to work feeling like a great part of my day has come to an end sooner than it had to.

Wednesday after work I drove Nigel down to Georgetown after work to hook up with a buddy, and to ride longtails north into Rock Creek Park, then east to hook up with the wife for Hefeweizens in Columbia Heights. The trail going through the park was narrow, frequently creased by roots coming up through the asphalt, and strewn with joggers. It was outstanding, I loved it. So this morning after I dropped Ruby off at school, rather than shooting southeast across the city, I rode the long way.

With the creamy Fat Franks rollin’ steady and chewin’ up pavement, I rumbled west across town on Columbia, turned onto Adams Mill and got pulled into the funnel of streets that empty into Rock Creek Park at the National Zoo. The trail runs through the woods all the way around the zoo, follows Beach Drive until it merges with Rock Creek Parkway, meanders along the parkway past the entrance to the C&O Canal Towpath in Georgetown, and finally follows the Potomac all the way down to the Arlington Memorial Bridge. From there, I turned back towards the Washington Monument, then headed north to Downtown. It was still over much too quickly.

Rebbie and I were talking about New York the other day, and it occurred to me that, given a choice, I wouldn’t be so hasty to jump at Brooklyn today as I would’ve been a year ago. I mean sure, culturally speaking, New York still has the edge over… well anywhere in the U.S. for us. But I have to admit, the more of D.C. I get to know, the more I like it.

What a beautiful morning! What a great ride! My sweet dick, it’s magic! Click on through if you’d like to see just a couple pics I snapped along the way…

(more…)

Today marks the third anniversary of The Big, Big Wedding. It’s an odd anniversary for us, since we have so many. We met 16 years ago in Seattle, broke up a year and half later, and wouldn’t be together again (except for a brief visit at a friend’s wedding) for another 10 years.

We made contact again in 2002, threw sparks over the Internet, fell in love again over long late night telephone calls, kissed again on Memorial Day. I took an Amtrak from Baltimore to New York, watching the Mid-Atlantic speed by as my stomach flipped over again and again. We spent a few beautiful days swimming blissfully in our togetherness, and then I returned to San Francisco to consider what had just happened.

You came out to visit, and we spent another week tangled up in each other, happy and anxious, eager yet apprehensive. For 6 months we crossed the continent to be with each other for short, intense bursts. We filled the time apart with phone calls that spanned hours, and we talked about what should happen next.

In the Fall, on my 33rd birthday, I left San Francisco with 3 bags of luggage and moved into your studio apartment on Eldridge St. in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. We fumbled and struggled and got to know each other’s boundaries, occasionally by crossing them, and learned how to live together again in the smallest, densest, most intimate space possible. We had magnificent brunches on the rooftop and dined in bistros all over town. We had the joy and privilege of getting to know some truly remarkable people, the good fortune to host friends from everywhere else. We held hands, and walked all over New York City.

We already knew we would be together, and I’d already secured Gramma’s engagement ring, when we found out we would soon be parents. On Mother’s Day of 2004, with your Mom and mine brunching on the roof, I snuck up on you, ninja-like, and asked you if you loved me. And then I got on my knee, pulled the ring from my pocket, and asked you to marry me. You replied, eyes wide, grinning, and with a slight crack in your voice, “Of course I will, stupid!”

Ruby joined us in the world of the breathing on November 22, 2004, and spent much of the winter wrapped and bundled inside our coats. Spring came, and then summer, the offer of work in Los Angeles, the promise of family on the West Coast and year-round sunshine took us west. And all the while, the planning continued. I still can’t believe that, in the middle of that maelstrom, you created your wedding dress by hand.

On August 20, 2005, in Santa Cruz, California we stood in front of more than 300 of our friends and family, I whispered my vow to you, close to your ear, and you leaned in to mine and whispered yours. The words of our vows stayed between us, carried the weight of our years together, of our love for each other, of our commitment to spend our lives together. We left the altar, together, to the wild cries and cheers of so many of the folks we love.

And then, behind the stunning effort of so many friends and relatives, we threw one of the best parties I’ve ever been to. Barbeque! Square dancing! Horsehoes! Cotton candy! All those flowers and smiling faces and promenades, the tent city and the music, the wine and the guests decked out in suits and kilts and country dresses… it was so lovely and so much fun. I never wanted it to end, but when it was over we were exhausted and knew it had gone off better than anyone had imagined.

My life has never been more vivid, meaningful, and filled with well-being than it has since I said, “I do.” And every year we’ve been together is better than the last. I still can’t believe how blessed I am to be with you, or how lucky we are to have these amazing children together. It feels strange to say “Happy 3rd Anniversary” after so much time and so many miles.

Happy Anniversary, Rebbie. I love you, so much.

Every so often I run into something on the Internet that makes me believe that all the spam and bullshit social networking garbage and cultural flotsam is worth it, just so that the writer or filmmaker or musician I stumbled across could have somewhere to hang their shingle.

I just tripped over a post by Chris Floyd, someone I’m not yet familiar with, so I stopped and took a closer look was transfixed. I’m late to the party, but I’m glad I made it, and I’m looking forward to spending time there.

You ask why the old American Establishment would acquiesce in policies that “weaken the United States.” But I think the underlying assumption of this question is unsound. It implies that the common good – the welfare and well-being of individual, non-elite American citizens – is somehow synonymous with the strength or success of the United States in the eyes of our elites. But this is not true, and never has been. They identify “American interests” solely with what benefits their own kind. They equate American “strength” with the ability to kill large numbers of people at short notice whenever they desire, and to bully and humiliate those they don’t kill into submission, in some form or other.

The American state still retains these capabilities, and our elites are quite willing to see tens of millions of their fellow citizens go down the tubes in order to keep this gargantuan war-and-extortion machine going. To our elites, this ruination is not a “financial collapse,” because their wealth and privilege remains intact, the markets remain intact, and if a bit of bother shaves a few decimal points from their fortunes, they will make it up later.

Wow. Now that’s some straight talk you can believe in, my friends. I mean strip-the-bark-off-ya, straight-up-yer-sweet-patootie talk. What else ya got in that there blog, Mr. Floyd?

Is it not time to be done with lies at last? Especially the chief lie now running through the world like a plague, putrescent and vile: that we kill each other and hate each other and drive each other into desperation and fear for any other reason but that we are animals, forms of apes, driven by blind impulses to project our dominance, to strut and bellow and hoard the best goods for ourselves. Or else to lash back at the dominant beast in convulsions of humiliated rage. Or else cravenly to serve the dominant ones, to scurry about them like slaves, picking fleas from their fur, in hopes of procuring a few crumbs for ourselves.
…
Beyond the thunder and spectacle of this ape-roaring world is another state of reality, emerging from the murk of our baser functions. There is power here, too, but not the heavy, blood-sodden bulk of dominance. Instead, it’s a power of radiance, of awareness, connection, breaking through in snaps of heightened perception, moments of encounter and illumination that lift us from the slime.
…
The moments, and their momentary power – a power without the power of resistance, defenseless, provisional, unarmed, imperfect, bold. The ape-world’s cycle of war and retribution stands as the image of the world of power; what can serve as the emblem of this other reality? A kiss, perhaps: given to a lover, offered to a friend, bestowed on an enemy – or pressed to the brow of a murdered child.

Anyway, it got my attention, I thought I’d bring it to yours. I’ll put a link over on the right.

This is pretty cool.

I love the pedal-powered farm equipment. Story in the WaPo here, website here.

(h/t TheWashCycle)