Joe-Made Fender = Fail

In anticipation of a wet Sub9 Death March this Saturday, I made a fender from this 100 count CD tower.  I work at a radio station and empty compact disc towers are as abundant as men and women who can give you the time and temperature four different ways.  Its 44 degrees at 4:44.  That’s 16 minutes before the hour and we’re expecting a shower.  44 minutes past four and the thermometer reads 44.  Quarter to five and just shy of 45.  See.  I’m not making that up.

Tube snippet btwn frame & fender keeps it from slipping

In the respect that my Joe-made fender may keep some water from hitting the front of my body during the Death March in Hoosier National Forest, I have succeeded.  In the respect that it looks like a pot smoking 10^th grade shop class dropout crafted it from a CD tower of Metallica bootlegs with a pair of dull tin-snips and ugly green zip ties, it’s also…a glaring success!  In your eyes, you are making a note never to ask a certain blogger to come over and help with your home construction project.

Anything I cut ends up looking as straight as Steve Buscemi’s smile.  I know.  Measure twice and cut once.  The problem is my one cut is always more crooked than a Wall St. hedge fund manager.  I threw my first three drafts away.  I will blame the first two attempts more on the plastic being too brittle or the possibility that I am left handed and the tin snips were not.  The third attempt got burned.  A friend suggested that I heat up a screw driver to poke holes in for the zip ties rather than drilling and risking cracking the plastic.  That really didn’t work.  So I tried heating up the plastic.  While I enjoyed a 3 second high from the fumes, I turned my fender into a burnt Frito Lay potato chip reject.  It should be noted that I cannot operate a cigarette lighter and should never be put in the position of using anything with fire aside from the stove and only under direct supervision of an adult.

My fourth attempt wasn’t that bad.  Well it wasn’t awful.  It didn’t totally suck.  Well maybe it did.  Yeah.  As the two old men critics on the Muppet Show would say from their balcony, “That was horrible.  Get him off the stage.  Boooooo!”

The only redeeming qualities of my ho-made fender are that it is clear, which looks kind of sporty.  It probably will keep some water from hitting my legs and working its way into my socks, which is also nifty.  The glaring FAIL is that while the edges are straight, they are not 90 degree from the factory cut edges.  It’s also slightly off center.  Okay, the Mississippi River runs straighter between Dubuque and New Orleans.  And, after reading a recent article in Bicycling Magazine about Aero bikes versus light bikes…my fender is as aerodynamic as a city bus.

The final death blow is that you can buy a nifty perfect fender, that's much better than mine for one tenth of the time commitment for $9 at your local bike shop or REI if you click here.  That’s sort of disconcerting when I figure I put at least 2 hours into this project.  How much do you make an hour?  I'm guessing enough to buy a freaking $9 fender.

Dropped & Lost at Podunk Place and Boondock Blvd

I’m square dancing on a bike.  I swear I crossed route 125 and 132…twice.  Allemande left and dosado.  I remember the Marathon gas station a few miles from East Fork State Park on 125 having more trees around it and it being sort of a Pony Keg.  I’m officially lost and according to the GPS in my head, at least an hour and a half from home.  That’s an hour and half if I rode straight back on the shoulder-less 45mph posted speed limit Route 125 without getting hit by a speeding Amelia pickup truck driven by a texting hillbilly.  The only thing that really saved me was my internal compass telling me if I kept riding basically southwest, I’d eventually hit route 52 along the Ohio River.  Whether I’d be 18 miles from home at that point, or 10, was the question.  The other question was, "How do I get from this unmarked intersection to something recognizable?"

I didn’t bonk.  I lost contact, (which what bike racers say instead of I was too weak or not in shape enough to hang with the faster guys on the climb.)  At the point of detachment, as Andrew from Zephyr Wheel Sports rode past me, I could’ve just turned around.  I was only 3-4 miles from Batavia, the sprint point for Cincinnati’s traditional Sunday morning Hyde Park Ride.  From Batavia, home was less than an hour away.  Had I hung on the climb, home still would’ve been 2 hours away riding with the big boys.  Eh.  I can figure it out.  I wanted to get at least 3 hours in anyway.  Who cares if I’m riding solo?  I have an IPod, a granola bar, tube/air, a full water bottle and a clue.  I put my head down and pressed on, hoping that I’d make contact at a busy intersection or they’d wait for me.

There is no waiting on the Hyde Park Ride.  That’s what makes it a great ride.  You hang, or you don’t.  Even though I’ve known every butt that was riding away from me for at least 10 years, and the racey part of the ride was over, I didn’t expect them to wait.  Friends or not, the minute you roll out off Awakening’s coffee shop in Hyde Park Square at 10am you better be prepared to hang with the bunch and find your own way back if you don’t.  I’ve been here before.  At least this time there was no terrible headwind, it was warmer than 34 degrees, I recognized a few street signs and I could still feel my fingers and toes.

7-8 years ago, on a similar Wednesday night ride, I got dropped.  A buddy noticed and fell back to help me get back on.  It was Dave Stewart, not long ago he had won the 2002 24 Hours of Snowshoe Solo, just two years after Stamsted was our local hero.  I had only known Dave maybe 2 years; our friendship at the time was mostly on the bike.  Dave told me to dial back the heart rate, keep it steady and hopefully if there was a lull in the bunch, we’d latch back on.  A few miles down the road, contact. 

Dave is also the same guy that once said, "You only get faster by riding with faster people."  In a way he meant to seek out getting dropped.  Seek out getting dropped and lost.  Seek out getting dropped, lost and wondering if you might bonk before you find a convenience store.  Seek out riding so far over your head that you contemplate calling your spouse to come out and pick you up at the intersection of Podunk Place and Boondock Blvd.  One day you will hang and every bout of self depreciation will disappear.

Sub-9 Death March: Don’t Drink From The Cemetery Well

It finally struck me.  We’re visiting cemeteries on the Sub-9 Death March Race, March 12^th in Indiana’s Hoosier National Forest, cemeteries with real dead people, headstones, crosses, and family history, former farmers and loggers, fathers, mothers, daughters and sons.  It reminded me of my grandmother's funeral last week.

At first we got wrapped up in the fastest way to get from one cemetery to another, researching GPS, Google Maps and every area map we could get our hands on.  We talked tires and bikes and water and tools.  Then, while looking for an online trail map, I saw a link for a genealogy website listing one of the cemeteries on the Death March.   I clicked.

Maybe I shouldn’t have.  One week ago, I was at a cemetery in a suit and tie carrying a casket, my first time as a pallbearer.  It was heavier than I thought and while using a lot of strength, I tried to be as quiet and gentle as possible pulling it out of the funeral coach.  It made me think twice about the race.  The website listed all the names and dates of the readable markers in the cemetery, some dating back to 1833.  Just think, 180 years ago, someone just like me laid their loved ones to rest at Mitchell Cemetery, one of the handful of historic Indiana cemeteries of the Sub-9 Death March.

As I thought about it more, it’s probably not wise to come flying into a cemetery at 20 miles an hour, lock up the brakes, dump the bikes on the ground, scream to your teammate “there’s the sign” and go running full bore to snap a photo. 

So here are some rules I came across to keep the spirits on your side during the Death March: 

1) Running is not appropriate at the cemetery, neither is laying on the ground to stretch, jumping up and down to get the feeling back in your toes, or eeking out that fart that’s been pent up for the last hour in your chamois.

2) Soft voices should be used.  Also, it’s probably not cool to use expletives or the word “holy” in conjunction with any other word at a cemetery, such as, “holy (blank) I’m (expletive) tired.”

3) Gravestones, markers, plants, crosses are special sacred symbols that represent respect for the dead.  Walk around them, otherwise a boney hand may come out of the soil and pull you under.

4) While I have found no proof of it, as childhood memory serves, you should hold your breath while passing a cemetery so the spirits don’t take over your soul.

5) To take some of the creepiness away from the situation of being surrounded by 180 year old corpses, take a second to contemplate the lives of the people at the cemetery.  They were just like you once, only with a much heavier wooden wheeled bike.

6) As an added bonus, while I can't confirm any of the cemeteries of the Death March have one, I found out that some cemeteries have a well so that visitors can water the plants and flowers that mark the graves.  However, I will not be drinking any well water from underneath a cemetery.

(These 5 Pounds Brought To You By) The Pot Roast at Gram’s Funeral

I don’t blame Gram for the number on the scale this morning.  It wasn’t entirely her fault.  I don’t mean to sound like a bad seed either.  I loved her very much.  My mother made the arrangements and they couldn’t have been more of a testament to her life.  Pot Roast is the epitome of comfort food and this tasted like Gram made it herself.  However this is the first time I've experienced funeral weight, most likely due to stress, two days spent driving, and, give or take, a week of comfort food.  

I loved her cooking, especially the chicken noodle soup and BLT sandwiches I got as a reward for taking down and washing her storm windows each spring.  It brings back vivid memories of her circa 1950's tiled countertop and the view of laundry hanging outside through the kitchen window of her apartment. 

After the service, we chatted about her 93 years of life over gravy and mashed potatoes.  It was like love on a plate, almost like one last Christmas together.  I had seconds and dessert.  When we got back to my mother’s house, I had thirds and more dessert.  Later that night we treated my mom to dinner at Zafirro's Pizza.  That was a lot of eating.  Gram would’ve liked that.

"Oh Joseph, you're so skinny!"

When I visited in summertime or at the height of cyclocross racing season, she would say in her slightly cracking voice, “Oh, Joseph you’re soo skinny.”  That was more a gauge of my fitness than any scale, wattage number or record hill-climb time.  The last time I saw her, over Christmas, she didn’t say anything about my race face, or lack there of. 

For better or worse, she always told it like it was.  Because of that, the entire family very much respected her opinion.  A non mention of being skinny was her way of saying I was just right.  Believe me; she would’ve said straight out if she thought I looked fat.  She wouldn’t even bother beating around the bush saying that maybe I hit the cheese and Kettle chips hard in the month between the last CX race and Christmas.  Still, I always want Gram to say, “Oh Joseph you’re skin and bones.”

I look in the mirror.  I can see some ribs, skin and bones.  My jeans are a bit saggy.  My winter paunch is there, but not as big as previous years.  I’m starting to feel that fitness feeling again.  I thought I’ve been working out pretty hard adding yoga twice a week and some running to the regular regiment of spin classes and long weekend rides.  I logged 12 ½ hours of workout time since I got back from her funeral on Wednesday.  Just two weeks ago I was 163.  What gives?  Where’d these 5 pounds come from?  The only thing I can assume is that Gram’s looking down right now and saying, “Oh, Joseph you look just fine to me.”

In memory of my Gram: July 8^th, 1918 – February 18^th, 2011

Practically Fool-Proof DIY Blood Transfusion

Rule #1 before starting your at-home blood transfusion is to realize that it’s easy to get the blood out, the real challenge that tends to send people to the emergency room with small complications like Ricco’s septic shock and kidney failure is putting it back in.  That said, with this almost fool proof technique, there’s no doubt anyone, even you or I, could DIY a blood transfusion.  Just answer these simple questions to see if you’re qualified:

1) Can you operate a band aid? 

2) Does a half gallon of tomato juice in your fridge remind you of only a half gallon of tomato juice and nothing else, not even a scene from the movie Saw 6? 

3)Do you always remember to shut the refrigerator door? 

If you answered yes to these questions, then you too can easily increase your body’s ability to carry oxygen and boost your on the bike performance by performing your very own at home blood transfusion in your kitchen with the following household supplies and three easy peasy fool-proof steps.

Supplies:

1 sharpened stainless steel spoke

Bottle of 151 proof rum

1 set of barbecue tongs

1 bottle of window cleaner

1 roll of paper towel

Large water bottle

1 lube free latex condom

2 Quart pot filled with water

1 Bicycle

1 Trainer

3 sets of latex gloves

2 thick rubber bands from bunches of broccoli

1 reliable refrigerator where you can locate the temperature control

1 oversized syringe & needle paid for with cash at your local pharmacy (throw away receipt)

2 Bulging veins

1 black marker

1 postie note

Step 1: Get the Blood Out

Bring your bike and trainer up into the kitchen.   Put your pets outside in in another room till you’ve cleaned up.  Ya don’t want pet hair or dander getting in “the good stuff.”  Clean your countertops with window cleaner.  As seen in the movie “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” it is rumored to kill most bacteria and cure many ailments.  Arrange the sharpened steel spoke, bottle of rum, condom, and rubber bands on the counter top.  Start by boiling your water bottle for 10 minutes in the 2 quart pot to sterilize it.  While it’s boiling, hit the trainer and bust out a few hard 1-min on 1-min off intervals.  When finished spinning, using latex gloves and a set of tongs, fish your water bottle out of the pot and set it on the counter with the top open.  Sterilize the spoke with the rum.  Quickly find a bulging vein in your arm or forehead or wherever one’s sticking out.  Jab it with the spoke and let the blood drizzle filling the bottle.  When it’s close to full, take a rubber band and run it up your arm to slow the blood flow.  If you used your temporal vein, put the rubber band around your forehead.  Use a paper towel to apply pressure and sop up the wound.  Once the nastiness is over, cover wound with band aid.

Step 2: Store the Blood

Now, cover the water bottle with the sterile condom and another rubber band.  Stick it in the fridge.  Label it with a sticker that’ll help you identify it and keep others from using it.  I usually call mine tomato juice, nobody in my household likes that stuff and it’ll never get touched.  Set the temperature control to between 4 and 6 degrees Celsius, from what I hear that’s the best temp range to store blood.  If you need to convert that to Fahrenheit, it’s just around 10 degrees above freezing, give or take.  It’s your your own blood, no need to sweat a degree or two.  What’s the worst that could happen?  Close the door and let it chill for 25 days, the approximate time it takes for your body to replace the lost blood.  I’m certain nothing could possibly contaminate it.  Heck, tomatoes last in the fridge for days.  Certainly human blood will keep for much longer than say american cheese or juicy Spanish steaks.  When you’re satisfied with your storage, go lie down and watch Sports Center while you rest.

Step 3: Give Yourself More Blood

When it’s time to get pumped up for your big event, get back on the trainer and find a vein again.  This time when you’re done, put on a set of latex gloves, use the oversized syringe and draw a syringe full of “the good stuff” from the water bottle in the fridge.  If the blood looks like chocolate syrup, don’t worry that’s probably normal.  Heck avocados turn brown on the outside, but they taste just fine when mashed up in guacamole.  Put the needle in the vein and inject the whole thing.  Repeat, using a clean needle each time, till all the blood is back in your body.  Oop.  Maybe I forgot to mention to get more than one needle.  Yep, should’ve been needles with an “s.” My bad.  No worries.  If you only have one, use the bottle of rum to sterilize the needle before reinjecting it.  Clean up, put on another band aid and go out there and kick some ass champ.