I like movies that have at least one good guy in them, one character minimum with whom you can identify, maybe even like. Here's a news item from the Deseret News in Ogden UT. No one in it to like.
Gun to my head, I sympathize with the woman motorist. Who'd have thought that a buncha cyclists would act so badly that I felt sorry for a driver...?
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Where have you gone, Alexi Grewal....?
This two-part piece from the Orange County (CA) Register gives us a peek at Alexi today. Click on the link at the beginning of part one to see part two.
It troubles me that Alexi's not better known here in CO where he lives. He won the Olympic road race in southern Cal; hence the media attention, I suppose.
I've seen Alexi behave badly and heard stories about his stubborn weirdness, but I've always liked him. I don't believe he does any of the outrageous things he does for effect. He's totally himself and nothing like anyone else. If he says he feels called to minister to his flock...I believe him.
It troubles me that Alexi's not better known here in CO where he lives. He won the Olympic road race in southern Cal; hence the media attention, I suppose.
I've seen Alexi behave badly and heard stories about his stubborn weirdness, but I've always liked him. I don't believe he does any of the outrageous things he does for effect. He's totally himself and nothing like anyone else. If he says he feels called to minister to his flock...I believe him.
Cycling in Boston? No way! No longer, maybe....
My old friend Addison alerted me to this NY Times piece. I've known Nicole Freedman for years but not seen her since she retired from racing and became Boston's Bike Czar. I've been seeing her name in the news in connection with positive developments for cycling in that great city. Here's what the Times has to say: Click right here.
The Monotones, Mickey & Sylvia...and W.H. Auden re: love
In 1958, the mono-hit Monotones (Thanks, Phil!) asked us, "Who Wrote the Book of Love?"
"Chapter One says you love her.
You love her with all your heart.
In Chapter Two you tell her,
You never never never never ever gonna part.
In Chapter Three remember
The meaning of romance.
In Chapter Four you break up
But you give her just one more chance."
About the same time Mickey and Sylvia sang:
"Love, love is strange
Lot of people take it for a game
Once you get it
You'll never wanna quit (no, no)
After you've had it (yeah, yeah)
You're in an awful fix."
In 1938, W.H. Auden published "O Tell Me the Truth About Love"
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes.
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
"Chapter One says you love her.
You love her with all your heart.
In Chapter Two you tell her,
You never never never never ever gonna part.
In Chapter Three remember
The meaning of romance.
In Chapter Four you break up
But you give her just one more chance."
About the same time Mickey and Sylvia sang:
"Love, love is strange
Lot of people take it for a game
Once you get it
You'll never wanna quit (no, no)
After you've had it (yeah, yeah)
You're in an awful fix."
In 1938, W.H. Auden published "O Tell Me the Truth About Love"
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes.
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
One year tomorrow....
Tomorrow marks a year elapsed since my crash and broken femur. I'm walking well now, thank you, and riding my bike as well as ever, meaning well enough but not super well. Everyone passes me these days, even when passing seems reckless or suicidal - approaching blind corners on busy bike paths, say.
My left middle and ring fingers have never shrunk back to pre-crash slimness. Tamar and I exchanged comittment rings; I wear mine on my right hand. Won't slide over my knuckle on the left.
I have good mobility in those fingers but not nearly what I had before. When I curl my fingers back into my palms, my middle finger cracks audibly, reminding me more than my leg does of that day.
My left leg, the one that was broken, looks like the right one now. I can't see the scars from the surgery and I never sense the presence of the titanium rod or screws in my femur. Weather changes do not announce themselves in my leg. Good as new, I'd say, or good as old-but-sound.
I'm spooked now by sand on the bike path, even sand of insufficient depth to cause a bike going straight to crash. Our paths here in Denver run alongside the South Platte River and along several creeks, so after a rain the water covers low-lying sections of the paths. When the water recedes it leaves gravel or sand or silt, making passage difficult for the fearful - like me.
We've had an extraordinarily rainy summer. It rains in the evenings typically, and the paths are dry by morning. But the sand remains. Most riders intrepidly blast through it. I can't do that yet.
I still owe a few hundred dollars on my medical bill - for the ambulance ride. I got help from the government and from the hospital with almost all of it, I'm delighted to say. Ruinous otherwise.
I'm enjoying my motorcycling despite a love/hate relationship with my Kawasaki, in many ways the worst executed bike I've ever owned. I enjoy my bicycling but I don't enjoy every ride. I feel sure I'll have to stop using bike paths on weekends until the weather turns cold, when many fair weather path-users return to their caskets in the darkened cellars of boarded-up Victorians.
What do I remember about my crash and the months of recovery? I remember an orderly, a black guy, offering to clean me up after one of my first forays out of bed and onto a toilet, an offer I hope never to have to accept. I remember my first shower on my own - able to climb into and back out of the tub.
I remember Tamar's visits and the good coffee she'd bring with her. I remember when she pushed me in my wheelchair to DazBog for coffee - how scared I was at the speed, how rough the ride up and down the access ramps and over the sidewalk joints. I remember how every person with a crutch or wheelchair or cane would say, hi, howya doin'?
I remember learning how to get around on crutches - first two, then one, and how mobile I was on them - eventually. I remember lying on my back and trying to lift my leg off my bed (even an inch) for my wonderful physical therapist.
I remember favors from friends, lifts here and there, taking me to coffee or picking up my bike at the firehouse where the EMTs took it after the crash. I remember the humankindness and efficiency of the Veteran's Administration Hospital here in Denver and at Denver Health Hospital where I spent eight unreal days beginning a year ago tomorrow.
Maybe I will, as Peace Nique suggests in his/her comment, ride out there to where I crashed and look the devil right in the goddamned eye - see if that sumbitch blinks....
My left middle and ring fingers have never shrunk back to pre-crash slimness. Tamar and I exchanged comittment rings; I wear mine on my right hand. Won't slide over my knuckle on the left.
I have good mobility in those fingers but not nearly what I had before. When I curl my fingers back into my palms, my middle finger cracks audibly, reminding me more than my leg does of that day.
My left leg, the one that was broken, looks like the right one now. I can't see the scars from the surgery and I never sense the presence of the titanium rod or screws in my femur. Weather changes do not announce themselves in my leg. Good as new, I'd say, or good as old-but-sound.
I'm spooked now by sand on the bike path, even sand of insufficient depth to cause a bike going straight to crash. Our paths here in Denver run alongside the South Platte River and along several creeks, so after a rain the water covers low-lying sections of the paths. When the water recedes it leaves gravel or sand or silt, making passage difficult for the fearful - like me.
We've had an extraordinarily rainy summer. It rains in the evenings typically, and the paths are dry by morning. But the sand remains. Most riders intrepidly blast through it. I can't do that yet.
I still owe a few hundred dollars on my medical bill - for the ambulance ride. I got help from the government and from the hospital with almost all of it, I'm delighted to say. Ruinous otherwise.
I'm enjoying my motorcycling despite a love/hate relationship with my Kawasaki, in many ways the worst executed bike I've ever owned. I enjoy my bicycling but I don't enjoy every ride. I feel sure I'll have to stop using bike paths on weekends until the weather turns cold, when many fair weather path-users return to their caskets in the darkened cellars of boarded-up Victorians.
What do I remember about my crash and the months of recovery? I remember an orderly, a black guy, offering to clean me up after one of my first forays out of bed and onto a toilet, an offer I hope never to have to accept. I remember my first shower on my own - able to climb into and back out of the tub.
I remember Tamar's visits and the good coffee she'd bring with her. I remember when she pushed me in my wheelchair to DazBog for coffee - how scared I was at the speed, how rough the ride up and down the access ramps and over the sidewalk joints. I remember how every person with a crutch or wheelchair or cane would say, hi, howya doin'?
I remember learning how to get around on crutches - first two, then one, and how mobile I was on them - eventually. I remember lying on my back and trying to lift my leg off my bed (even an inch) for my wonderful physical therapist.
I remember favors from friends, lifts here and there, taking me to coffee or picking up my bike at the firehouse where the EMTs took it after the crash. I remember the humankindness and efficiency of the Veteran's Administration Hospital here in Denver and at Denver Health Hospital where I spent eight unreal days beginning a year ago tomorrow.
Maybe I will, as Peace Nique suggests in his/her comment, ride out there to where I crashed and look the devil right in the goddamned eye - see if that sumbitch blinks....
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
On Craigslist: It's what you always wanted....and it's comfrotable
My buddy Jim, newly relocated from Saint Louis to Colorado Springs, never misses a super buy on Craigslist. Here's his latest pick.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Top ten facts about the annual Sturgis motorsickle rally
Here's the link. I just rode through Sturgis, a cute, prosperous Black Hills town nothing like its scruffy, drunk-biker-hangout reputation. It's a biker destination all through the nice weather months, not only at rally time.
Seldom (in Sturgis) is heard a discouraging word, 'cause you can't hear sh-t over the exhaust noise.
Seldom (in Sturgis) is heard a discouraging word, 'cause you can't hear sh-t over the exhaust noise.
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