The Tricyclist family has doubled! Two new tricycles arrived last week. They are already in training for the next big fun adventure. I can tell they will be much faster swimmers than Dad with an impressive 4 foot arm span and ankles that actually bend to the horizontal, again unlike Dad's, making them perfectly suited for future triathlon glory. Mrs. Tricyclist is recovering nicely, although I had to hide her running shoes, bike cleats, and goggles so she would actually get some much earned rest. She's itching to start training again so she can show the boys how Mommy can wup Daddy's butt. Dad is still in a bit of shock wondering how he could possibly have helped produce two such perfect little guys.
My Blog:
I've created this blog to have a place to share the various stories I've written over the years about the athletic (and not so athletic) adventures my wife and I have pursued. We are both competitive age-group triathletes: Mrs. Tricyclist is certainly the one with more talent and more 1st place trophies.
My race stories are more than just a play by play recap of the day's events. I try to interject some humor and observations about the people and places we encounter as we walk and race down lifes' roads. I will also occasionally toss in a story unrelated to triathlons or running, just to keep things interesting.
I will be adding new content over the next few days plus uploading some of my classic stories from the Hood to Coast Relay, Athens Marathon, and other adventures.
Hope you enjoy. Please leave a comment and let me know you stopped by.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The Right Spin
The Right Spin
spin: to cause to have a particular bias; influence in a certain direction; to pedal in a smooth even circle.
I often supplement my triathlon training with an indoor cycling class called “spinning”. Thirty to fifty gym goers cram themselves into a converted aerobics studio adorned in their best Lycra and Spandex to pedal furiously in place to the pre-recorded sound track chosen by the perky purveyor of pedal prowess, the spin instructor. One of my friends, Tom, makes his living as a spin instructor while another, Steve, supplements his triathlon addiction with twice weekly forays into spin instructordom. He holds down a well paying day job in the tech sector, but due to the triathlon monkey riding on his back, he is forced to spin for money at a local health club.
Tom has perfected the art of spin. His classes are the only ones I know that require students to line up days in advance to get a bike. For his special themed spin events, some students have been known to pay line sitters to queue up days in advance camping overnight in front of the spin studio living off Powerbar crumbs and left over sports drinks. Tom has been known to hold Valentine spin classes, Christmas and Halloween classes, a Rocky Horror Picture Show class, and the famous Saturday Night Live spin class. All the classes require students to conform their dress to the theme causing many a strange site at the gym. For this past Valentine’s spin class, I wore my trusty red t-shirt with the slogan “I may not be pretty, but I can lift heavy things” emblazoned across the front. As I walked to the studio to relieve my line sitter, I was passed by a 225 lb Cupid dressed only in a diaper, golden wings, a little bow and arrow, and a matting of body hair that challenged a hirsute grizzly bear. If that was not nightmare worthy enough, the same fellow attended the Rocky Horror class wearing even less in the lead role of Rocky and sporting even more body hair glistening with a healthy application of baby oil.
As I have learned over the years, there is more than one kind of spin. I’ve worked in marketing for over 15 years now. I make my living creating the right spin for a variety of products ranging from blood tests for early detection of cancer to products that allow people with COPD to breathe easier. Some of my peers have spent their careers marketing such fascinating products as KC Masterpiece BBQ Sauce, Bleach, Combat Ant & Roach Traps, and Kingsford Charcoal. Believe it or not, all these products are manufactured by the same company, Clorox. I realize marketing is not as glamorous a career as say a neurosurgeon, a firefighter, an astronaut (even a depends wearing, cross country driving, sociopathic one), or a reality TV star, but I like to think that I market products to improve the quality of life for people. I suppose my peers at Clorox can say the same thing, but I still struggle with the societal benefits of Pine Scented Bleach or KC Masterpiece BBQ Sauce with Real Hickory Smoke Flavor. Maybe Clorox should start combining some of their products; like for example, charcoal and BBQ sauce. They could launch a new line of KC Masterpiece Flavored Kingsford Charcoal. I can just see the advertisements “Forget the hassle of marinating your meat for hours or endlessly brushing on sauce while you grill…Introducing KC Masterpiece Flavored Charcoal…the latest invention from the grill masters at Kingsford”. Or, who could resist Combat Roach Traps – Now with Pine Scented Bleach for easy clean-up and odor control. Or Clorox could even go for that breakthrough innovation – Combat Ant & Roach Traps infused with all the BBQ goodness of KC Masterpiece. Your ant and roach problems are solved and the little critters go to the big roach motel in the sky with BBQ smeared smiles. This kind of out of the box thinking would certainly move my Clorox peers up the ladder of societal benefit, if not a full rung, at least half a rung.
We all spin in one way or another. Lately, if you have been paying attention to the news, spin has almost become synonymous with “lying” or “malicious misdirection”. The elegant art of spin has become corrupted by those who wish to avoid the negative fallout of poor decisions or cover-up some nefarious scandal. Spin Doctors are brought in to apply a nice shiny coat to the scandal plagued and ethically challenged. These spinners dishonor the purity of spin and sour all of us on the noble art.
Whether you spin for exercise or you spin for a living; balance, integrity, character, and making perfect little circles with your feet are key to maintaining a positive spin on life.
spin: to cause to have a particular bias; influence in a certain direction; to pedal in a smooth even circle.
I often supplement my triathlon training with an indoor cycling class called “spinning”. Thirty to fifty gym goers cram themselves into a converted aerobics studio adorned in their best Lycra and Spandex to pedal furiously in place to the pre-recorded sound track chosen by the perky purveyor of pedal prowess, the spin instructor. One of my friends, Tom, makes his living as a spin instructor while another, Steve, supplements his triathlon addiction with twice weekly forays into spin instructordom. He holds down a well paying day job in the tech sector, but due to the triathlon monkey riding on his back, he is forced to spin for money at a local health club.
Tom has perfected the art of spin. His classes are the only ones I know that require students to line up days in advance to get a bike. For his special themed spin events, some students have been known to pay line sitters to queue up days in advance camping overnight in front of the spin studio living off Powerbar crumbs and left over sports drinks. Tom has been known to hold Valentine spin classes, Christmas and Halloween classes, a Rocky Horror Picture Show class, and the famous Saturday Night Live spin class. All the classes require students to conform their dress to the theme causing many a strange site at the gym. For this past Valentine’s spin class, I wore my trusty red t-shirt with the slogan “I may not be pretty, but I can lift heavy things” emblazoned across the front. As I walked to the studio to relieve my line sitter, I was passed by a 225 lb Cupid dressed only in a diaper, golden wings, a little bow and arrow, and a matting of body hair that challenged a hirsute grizzly bear. If that was not nightmare worthy enough, the same fellow attended the Rocky Horror class wearing even less in the lead role of Rocky and sporting even more body hair glistening with a healthy application of baby oil.
As I have learned over the years, there is more than one kind of spin. I’ve worked in marketing for over 15 years now. I make my living creating the right spin for a variety of products ranging from blood tests for early detection of cancer to products that allow people with COPD to breathe easier. Some of my peers have spent their careers marketing such fascinating products as KC Masterpiece BBQ Sauce, Bleach, Combat Ant & Roach Traps, and Kingsford Charcoal. Believe it or not, all these products are manufactured by the same company, Clorox. I realize marketing is not as glamorous a career as say a neurosurgeon, a firefighter, an astronaut (even a depends wearing, cross country driving, sociopathic one), or a reality TV star, but I like to think that I market products to improve the quality of life for people. I suppose my peers at Clorox can say the same thing, but I still struggle with the societal benefits of Pine Scented Bleach or KC Masterpiece BBQ Sauce with Real Hickory Smoke Flavor. Maybe Clorox should start combining some of their products; like for example, charcoal and BBQ sauce. They could launch a new line of KC Masterpiece Flavored Kingsford Charcoal. I can just see the advertisements “Forget the hassle of marinating your meat for hours or endlessly brushing on sauce while you grill…Introducing KC Masterpiece Flavored Charcoal…the latest invention from the grill masters at Kingsford”. Or, who could resist Combat Roach Traps – Now with Pine Scented Bleach for easy clean-up and odor control. Or Clorox could even go for that breakthrough innovation – Combat Ant & Roach Traps infused with all the BBQ goodness of KC Masterpiece. Your ant and roach problems are solved and the little critters go to the big roach motel in the sky with BBQ smeared smiles. This kind of out of the box thinking would certainly move my Clorox peers up the ladder of societal benefit, if not a full rung, at least half a rung.
We all spin in one way or another. Lately, if you have been paying attention to the news, spin has almost become synonymous with “lying” or “malicious misdirection”. The elegant art of spin has become corrupted by those who wish to avoid the negative fallout of poor decisions or cover-up some nefarious scandal. Spin Doctors are brought in to apply a nice shiny coat to the scandal plagued and ethically challenged. These spinners dishonor the purity of spin and sour all of us on the noble art.
Whether you spin for exercise or you spin for a living; balance, integrity, character, and making perfect little circles with your feet are key to maintaining a positive spin on life.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Redwoods Ho!
Sunday mornings are typically reserved for sleeping in, reading the paper, filling up the kids with sugar laden breakfast cereal, and/or annoying your neighbors with the cacophony of your lawn mower. Triathletes and runners are different. Sleeping in is sleeping until 6AM, our kids get their best quality sleep and do their dining in the back seat of the car on the way to a race or in the jog stroller, and our lawns are usually overgrown.
This past Sunday, my friend Liesbeth Brouwer and I hit the road at the butt crack of dawn to drive to Felton for the annual Race thru the Redwoods 10K. Yes, I know, we violated the strict race distance to distance to race ratio rule, but the Redwood run promised high schwag potential and a post race pancake breakfast. We felt if we walked away with a podium finish, a t-shirt, and at least 3 pancakes, the one hour drive was justified.
The city of Felton, home of the Roaring Camp Railroad and more redwood trees than people, hosted the annual 10K. Literally 10’s of people drive from locales as distant as Santa Cruz and Boulder Creek (5 miles away) to compete in this epic event. The course features a flat and fast paved first mile, then dumps the competitors onto dusty single track followed by a monster hill at mile 2.5. I was able to hang on by the skin of my teeth behind Liesbeth for the first 2 miles while she clocked a 6:25 and 6:30. She told me afterwards that she felt her start was a bit on the slow side, while I felt like the wheels were going to fly off at any moment.
We hit the monster hill and queued up for the slog skyward. I took the opportunity offered by the drop in pace to begin breathing normally again and bolting the wheels back on. I noticed Liesbeth was walking up ahead of me, but despite doing what I thought qualified as running, she continued to gap me. Since I had run this race once previously, I had tried to describe the course to Liesbeth, although I failed to “remember” the monster hill had at least two false summits. When we hit the second false summit, Liesbeth backed off a bit to recover and prepare for the long downhill to the finish. I charged by. When the last steep pitch of the hill appeared around the corner, Liesbeth was in downhill mode while I was still in uphill mode.
Once I cleared the hill, I tried to get my legs to turn-over, but they refused. I stumbled through the next few miles, and then finally found the rhythm at mile 5. I kept looking up ahead to see if any other 40 year old runners were within road kill range, but only saw infants and toddlers.
I finished just in front of the 3rd place female, slightly mitigating the damage to my fragile male ego. Liesbeth was hot on my heels and would have caught and passed me if I had not employed the “shuffle the feet and create lots of dust clouds” tactic in the last mile. She pulled out a 1st place AG and 4th place OA while I managed a 3rd AG.
As we waited for our podium schwag, we both won raffle prizes of $50 cash each. We picked up our medals then headed over for the post-race nosh. The Felton Volunteer Fire Department served us an excellent pancake, sausage, and omelet breakfast. While dining, I noticed there was plentiful fireman eye-candy for Liesbeth in addition to the pancakes, but I had to be satisfied with a second serving of sausage. Good times.
This past Sunday, my friend Liesbeth Brouwer and I hit the road at the butt crack of dawn to drive to Felton for the annual Race thru the Redwoods 10K. Yes, I know, we violated the strict race distance to distance to race ratio rule, but the Redwood run promised high schwag potential and a post race pancake breakfast. We felt if we walked away with a podium finish, a t-shirt, and at least 3 pancakes, the one hour drive was justified.
The city of Felton, home of the Roaring Camp Railroad and more redwood trees than people, hosted the annual 10K. Literally 10’s of people drive from locales as distant as Santa Cruz and Boulder Creek (5 miles away) to compete in this epic event. The course features a flat and fast paved first mile, then dumps the competitors onto dusty single track followed by a monster hill at mile 2.5. I was able to hang on by the skin of my teeth behind Liesbeth for the first 2 miles while she clocked a 6:25 and 6:30. She told me afterwards that she felt her start was a bit on the slow side, while I felt like the wheels were going to fly off at any moment.
We hit the monster hill and queued up for the slog skyward. I took the opportunity offered by the drop in pace to begin breathing normally again and bolting the wheels back on. I noticed Liesbeth was walking up ahead of me, but despite doing what I thought qualified as running, she continued to gap me. Since I had run this race once previously, I had tried to describe the course to Liesbeth, although I failed to “remember” the monster hill had at least two false summits. When we hit the second false summit, Liesbeth backed off a bit to recover and prepare for the long downhill to the finish. I charged by. When the last steep pitch of the hill appeared around the corner, Liesbeth was in downhill mode while I was still in uphill mode.
Once I cleared the hill, I tried to get my legs to turn-over, but they refused. I stumbled through the next few miles, and then finally found the rhythm at mile 5. I kept looking up ahead to see if any other 40 year old runners were within road kill range, but only saw infants and toddlers.
I finished just in front of the 3rd place female, slightly mitigating the damage to my fragile male ego. Liesbeth was hot on my heels and would have caught and passed me if I had not employed the “shuffle the feet and create lots of dust clouds” tactic in the last mile. She pulled out a 1st place AG and 4th place OA while I managed a 3rd AG.
As we waited for our podium schwag, we both won raffle prizes of $50 cash each. We picked up our medals then headed over for the post-race nosh. The Felton Volunteer Fire Department served us an excellent pancake, sausage, and omelet breakfast. While dining, I noticed there was plentiful fireman eye-candy for Liesbeth in addition to the pancakes, but I had to be satisfied with a second serving of sausage. Good times.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Nucleathlon – Rancho Seco Recap 2007
On a lonely stretch of wind swept highway, between the towns of Galt and Ione, a now defunct nuclear power plant looms over vineyards, small cattle ranches, and the venue for a series of sprint and Olympic distance triathlons. If you have no idea where Galt or Ione are located, you are not alone. These hamlets are located at about the point you lose your Bay Area radio stations on the drive to Tahoe at which you frantically search the dial in a futile attempt to find anything not country before you send your significant other over the front seats into the back of the car in search of your collection “Best of Disco” CDs.
In the lake once meant to be the back-up cooling source for the Rancho Seco Nuclear Power Station, race organizers Total Body Fitness stage a summer series of races.
Now, I personally would not immediately pick a nuclear power plant as the site for a triathlon unless you believe free genetic mutations would be a good draw, but then again, I’m not a Race Director, so what do I know. Maybe it isn’t such a bad idea to bill the venue as an alternative to performance enhancing drugs. I can see the ads now, “Race at Rancho Seco, your kids will be faster with four arms, and run so much faster with three legs!” European cycling teams might even send their development teams over for a good dose of radiation and genetic manipulation. Hey, radiation seemed to work for that Lance guy.
Regardless of the motivations for choosing the site for the race, the folks at TBF run a great series of events. Each month from June to August, they stage a sprint distance Tri for Fun on Saturday followed by an Olympic distance Tri for Real race on Sunday. To ensure future revenues, TBF also hosts a Tri for Kids Sunday morning for the little tykes. In all honesty, I am a bit intimidated by the youngsters. Most of them had bikes that cost not only more than my bike, but I suspect cost more than my car. I saw more aero helmets on the tots than I saw on the FOGs and I think one kid was taking in packed red cells prior to his wave start. Another kid was sponsored by Amgen, so I suspect he had a future in professional sports. I didn’t want to accuse anyone of doping, but I did spy one young lass of about 8 years old shaving and it was not her legs.
The swim is a fairly tame affair; nothing like the chaos and anarchy of a Wildflower or Ironman event. The lake is clear enough to spot three eyed fish, those allusive WMDs, and last year’s competitors. The buoys are easy enough to see although spotting the first turn buoy is not necessary since the 20 story nuclear power plant cooling tower looms directly over it. If anyone gets lost on the first leg of the swim, then they are more navigationally challenged than I am. Many of us wore our streamlined horizontal flotation devices or wetsuits for the swim despite the high 70’s low 80’s water temperature. There’s nothing like bringing yourself to a slow boil over the course of 1500 meters in a full wetsuit, but hey, I’m faster with it than without it. I even saw one guy wearing a squid lid, a neoprene swim cap designed for cold water swimming. Since the water was so warm, I can only surmise that he had a very large noggin and needed the added flotation afforded by the cap.
Transitions are fast at TBF races. For those racers who require extra amenities during transitions like showers, massages, and large screen TVs, the race organizers provide ample racks and plenty of room to spread out. Truthfully, transitions under a minute are the norm due to the prime location of the area within a hundred yards of the swim exit.
The bike is a quick out and back with a few rollers thrown in for variety. I would rate the road surface as ranging from moderately crappy to downright harrowing at the point where an ancient set of railroad tracks crosses the road. The pits on either side of the tracks still contain bottles, tubes, teeth, miscellaneous bike and body parts, and possibly a USAT official or two from years of hapless triathletes careening cross the craters. After successfully negotiating the train tracks of death not once, but twice, you are treated to a fast return trip to the park with the ever present cooling towers marking the way.
TBF has constructed an entertaining run course. It starts off on a wide undulating fire road that then dumps you onto the park entrance road for a short out and back segment. The ever present cooling towers loom over you as you make the turnaround at about mile 3. The return trip is on some fun single track that twists and turns its way along the edge of the lake, across little bridges, and through a few open meadows. One thing I’ve learned after two incidents (you would think I would have learned the first time), was that trying to do a sharp turn at full run speed on dried prairie grass will, 9 times out of 10, land you on your arse with tri-shorts full of dirt and weeds. The first time it happened I tried to blame the ground squirrels since they have been known to form small commando groups and prey upon unsuspecting runners. I just know they had laid in wait for me and executed a perfect double reverse runner block tossing me head over butt crack into the weeds. I could not blame the commando squirrels the second time around though, since I had received intelligence from CNN that the squirrel squads had been called up to active duty to hunt for WMDs. The fault was all mine when I slid out sideways, caught the edge of my racing flat, and went cartwheeling towards the lake. Only by grabbing a handy poison oak vine did I save myself from a refreshing mid-race spritz.
The last mile of the run is back on the original fire road with a nice straightaway sprint to the finish. The course is designed in a way as to always have an idea where your competition is located. You may not be able to catch them if they are in front of you, but at least you have the peace of mind that if you really wanted to, you just might. Volunteers greet you at the finish and provide cold water, a nice pasta meal, and the nectar of the Gods, Sugar Free Red Bull.
Joining me for the final August race this past Sunday was Clancy “Big Wheels” Emry, Mike “I shave my head for speed” Statz, the uber IM Austria couple Patrick and Christy, Jan “I’m too fast for you old farts” Maynard, and a Steve (there’s so many Steve’s in the club it is hard to keep track of all their last names. Clancy won the series in her AG for the third year straight, Mike placed 2nd in his AG, and I think 2nd in the series, Jan placed 2nd overall, 2nd in his AG, and 2nd in the series, Patrick, Christy, and Steve all set PRs, and I pulled out a 2nd in my AG and 3rd in the series. Forward Motion was on the podium so much throughout the series, TBF is debating whether to just let us have own podium next year.
In the lake once meant to be the back-up cooling source for the Rancho Seco Nuclear Power Station, race organizers Total Body Fitness stage a summer series of races.
Now, I personally would not immediately pick a nuclear power plant as the site for a triathlon unless you believe free genetic mutations would be a good draw, but then again, I’m not a Race Director, so what do I know. Maybe it isn’t such a bad idea to bill the venue as an alternative to performance enhancing drugs. I can see the ads now, “Race at Rancho Seco, your kids will be faster with four arms, and run so much faster with three legs!” European cycling teams might even send their development teams over for a good dose of radiation and genetic manipulation. Hey, radiation seemed to work for that Lance guy.
Regardless of the motivations for choosing the site for the race, the folks at TBF run a great series of events. Each month from June to August, they stage a sprint distance Tri for Fun on Saturday followed by an Olympic distance Tri for Real race on Sunday. To ensure future revenues, TBF also hosts a Tri for Kids Sunday morning for the little tykes. In all honesty, I am a bit intimidated by the youngsters. Most of them had bikes that cost not only more than my bike, but I suspect cost more than my car. I saw more aero helmets on the tots than I saw on the FOGs and I think one kid was taking in packed red cells prior to his wave start. Another kid was sponsored by Amgen, so I suspect he had a future in professional sports. I didn’t want to accuse anyone of doping, but I did spy one young lass of about 8 years old shaving and it was not her legs.
The swim is a fairly tame affair; nothing like the chaos and anarchy of a Wildflower or Ironman event. The lake is clear enough to spot three eyed fish, those allusive WMDs, and last year’s competitors. The buoys are easy enough to see although spotting the first turn buoy is not necessary since the 20 story nuclear power plant cooling tower looms directly over it. If anyone gets lost on the first leg of the swim, then they are more navigationally challenged than I am. Many of us wore our streamlined horizontal flotation devices or wetsuits for the swim despite the high 70’s low 80’s water temperature. There’s nothing like bringing yourself to a slow boil over the course of 1500 meters in a full wetsuit, but hey, I’m faster with it than without it. I even saw one guy wearing a squid lid, a neoprene swim cap designed for cold water swimming. Since the water was so warm, I can only surmise that he had a very large noggin and needed the added flotation afforded by the cap.
Transitions are fast at TBF races. For those racers who require extra amenities during transitions like showers, massages, and large screen TVs, the race organizers provide ample racks and plenty of room to spread out. Truthfully, transitions under a minute are the norm due to the prime location of the area within a hundred yards of the swim exit.
The bike is a quick out and back with a few rollers thrown in for variety. I would rate the road surface as ranging from moderately crappy to downright harrowing at the point where an ancient set of railroad tracks crosses the road. The pits on either side of the tracks still contain bottles, tubes, teeth, miscellaneous bike and body parts, and possibly a USAT official or two from years of hapless triathletes careening cross the craters. After successfully negotiating the train tracks of death not once, but twice, you are treated to a fast return trip to the park with the ever present cooling towers marking the way.
TBF has constructed an entertaining run course. It starts off on a wide undulating fire road that then dumps you onto the park entrance road for a short out and back segment. The ever present cooling towers loom over you as you make the turnaround at about mile 3. The return trip is on some fun single track that twists and turns its way along the edge of the lake, across little bridges, and through a few open meadows. One thing I’ve learned after two incidents (you would think I would have learned the first time), was that trying to do a sharp turn at full run speed on dried prairie grass will, 9 times out of 10, land you on your arse with tri-shorts full of dirt and weeds. The first time it happened I tried to blame the ground squirrels since they have been known to form small commando groups and prey upon unsuspecting runners. I just know they had laid in wait for me and executed a perfect double reverse runner block tossing me head over butt crack into the weeds. I could not blame the commando squirrels the second time around though, since I had received intelligence from CNN that the squirrel squads had been called up to active duty to hunt for WMDs. The fault was all mine when I slid out sideways, caught the edge of my racing flat, and went cartwheeling towards the lake. Only by grabbing a handy poison oak vine did I save myself from a refreshing mid-race spritz.
The last mile of the run is back on the original fire road with a nice straightaway sprint to the finish. The course is designed in a way as to always have an idea where your competition is located. You may not be able to catch them if they are in front of you, but at least you have the peace of mind that if you really wanted to, you just might. Volunteers greet you at the finish and provide cold water, a nice pasta meal, and the nectar of the Gods, Sugar Free Red Bull.
Joining me for the final August race this past Sunday was Clancy “Big Wheels” Emry, Mike “I shave my head for speed” Statz, the uber IM Austria couple Patrick and Christy, Jan “I’m too fast for you old farts” Maynard, and a Steve (there’s so many Steve’s in the club it is hard to keep track of all their last names. Clancy won the series in her AG for the third year straight, Mike placed 2nd in his AG, and I think 2nd in the series, Jan placed 2nd overall, 2nd in his AG, and 2nd in the series, Patrick, Christy, and Steve all set PRs, and I pulled out a 2nd in my AG and 3rd in the series. Forward Motion was on the podium so much throughout the series, TBF is debating whether to just let us have own podium next year.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Naïveté of the Nerd
The week was passing very slowly. Sitting in 7th grade French class, trying to listen to Mrs. Beauvois drone on about the plus perfect tense was unbearable. Didn’t she realize that in less than two days, I was going to my first “real” party, one with alcohol, and girls, even girls with reportedly loose morals. Not much else passes through the mind of a 13 year old boy other than fantasies about girls and maybe the odd re-enactment of a favorite Battllestar Galactica episode.
Sue Miller was going to be at the party, a girl that I had known since the 4th grade. We did not travel in the same social circles; I tended to drift with the Brains while she was making a name for herself with the Stoners. Her father was a sheriff in town which probably contributed to her more overt acts of rebellion. One such act was the openly gratuitous public display of affection on an outdoor lunch table with a young lad by the name of Bart Conner. Bart was the big catch for the ladies in Junior High. He had the looks of Travolta and money from a job at the local tux rental shop. He looked much older than his 14 years allowing him to actually drive to school. He was the only Junior Higher that I knew able to brag about losing his virginity in the back seat of his own car. Bart and Sue were a hot item the first few months of 7th grade. For some reason unbeknownst to me, Sue talked to me when she was not busy getting busy with Bart. Needless to say, I had a bit of a crush on Sue.
I snapped back to the present when Mrs. Beauvois called on me to conjugate the verb “to have” in French. I could not think how to conjugate a verb at that moment, but I was able to think about what I might “have” at the party Friday night. First I would have a beer. I had tasted my father’s beer once or twice, not overly impressed, but I l had learned that my father drank light American beer. His beer preference was understandable with his chosen occupation being a truck driver. I think when you drive a big rig truck, you have to sign a contract stating you will only drive American cars, watch only American football not any of that European soccer stuff, and drink American beer. Canadian beer was ok if the local 7-11 was out of stock of Miller, Bud, and Michelob. At the party, I had been told they would have European and Mexican beer, maybe even some high end American beer called Henry Weinharts. According to my brainiac friends, Henry’s, Lowenbrau, and Corona were the best beers to drink. The reason these beers were the best was not due to the taste or the natural spring water or the mashing of the malt and barley by virgin Dutch girls, it was due to the high alcohol content compared to American light beers. Even though many of us had never had an entire beer before, we wanted to drink beer with the maximum alcohol content per 12 ounces.
As Mrs. Beauvois admonished me for failing to conjugate, a crime just short of a felony in her class, I began to think about the second thing I would do at the party. I had heard that we were going to play spin the bottle, a game our parents used to play, but we were not going to let that stop us. We planned to add some modern twists to the game. When the bottle landed on a member of the opposite sex, the spinner could choose to simply kiss the spinnee or spend three minutes in the closet with them. I knew both which choice I would make and who I wanted to get into the closet. All I had to do was survive 10 more minutes of French class, then I was only two days away from randy Sue Miller.
The next two days passed uneventful for me. I faced the usual trials and tribulations of pre-teen life. I ate cafeteria food worse than airline food, participated in PE by being a human backstop for the 8th graders playing baseball, and watched one of my class mates remove his pinky finger on the band saw in shop class. The food did not kill me although I still have difficulty around tater tots, I learned how to duck after repeatedly being hit by a speeding baseball, and to this day get a little queasy when I see a birdhouse.
The party was scheduled to begin at 8PM. I wondered what the best time to arrive should be. Should I arrive early, in order to see and be seen all the guests that arrive or should I arrive late to make a grand entrance uncluttered by others’ arrivals. I think my habit of arriving exactly at the event start time was forged that day so long ago in 7th grade. I arrived smack dab in the middle of a milling, jostling, boisterous crowd. In effect, I was not noticed nor was it possible to gauge who was already at the party.
I soon discovered a delicious treat called a Slimy Slammer, green lime Jell-O made with Vodka. Who needs to drink beer to create the perfect party buzz, just a few of those innocent little green squares and I was ready to do the Limbo stripped down to my Scooby Doo undies. Thankfully I kept my clothes on and what little dignity I had acquired by the age of 13 intact. I found myself in the back yard joining the anticipated Spin the Bottle sporting event. I was seated opposite Miss Sue Miller who had come stag to the party, sans Bart. She gave me a big warm smile and blew me what I interpreted was a good luck kiss. My turn arrived after a few minutes and I spun the bottle using all the wrist English I could muster to persuade that bottle to stop pointing in Sue’s direction. The bottle had other ideas, though, it stopped on Deanna Tally, a cute cheerleader type that I would eventually date in high school. I resigned myself that I would not have my 3 minutes in the closet with Sue and puckered up for Deanna. The kiss wasn’t that bad, a fact I stored away for future reference.
Sue’s turn soon arrived and she spun the bottle. It whirled and whirled, grinding to a halt in front yours truly. I could not imagine Sue would want to spend 3 minutes anywhere with me, so I prepared myself for what I thought would be the only kiss I would ever get from her. Then she shocked me and everyone there by grabbing my hand and leading me off to the closet. Once there she gave me this “OK, this is the part where you put the moves on me”, but I just stood there. I had no idea what to do. All the fantasies, all the simulations, all the preparation for this moment were suddenly lost. Sue looked at my stumped expression, and then started laughing. Oh, did my fragile male ego take a direct hit when that happened. I stammered a hurt “What?” to which she replied “Oh, Jeff, you are so naïve!”. She then planted a big wet kiss on me, tongue and all. I was not prepared for the tongue, but I think I adapted admirably after the crushing my ego had just taken. Thinking back, something restrained me from trying for second base with Sue, maybe it was forethought that we would become lifelong friends or maybe it was something more primal like fear. Her father was a sheriff and had this fascination with terrorizing all of Sue’s male friends. Either way, I held back, enjoyed the kiss, and walked out of the closet with my head held high trying not to reveal any clues to my peers of the events in the closet
I think Sue’s utterance of that word, naïve, has helped shape my persona. I know I have strove to avoid ever again being labeled naïve. I have always tried to be in the know, to be educated about the world around me, and to rarely be caught off guard. Not to say being naïve is bad, it lends itself to innocence and genuineness, admiral traits for everyone. The key is to which areas of life we are perceived as being naïve. I think I have overcome the naïveté associated with French kissing, but I still have a problem with the aftereffects of Slimy Slammers.
Sue Miller was going to be at the party, a girl that I had known since the 4th grade. We did not travel in the same social circles; I tended to drift with the Brains while she was making a name for herself with the Stoners. Her father was a sheriff in town which probably contributed to her more overt acts of rebellion. One such act was the openly gratuitous public display of affection on an outdoor lunch table with a young lad by the name of Bart Conner. Bart was the big catch for the ladies in Junior High. He had the looks of Travolta and money from a job at the local tux rental shop. He looked much older than his 14 years allowing him to actually drive to school. He was the only Junior Higher that I knew able to brag about losing his virginity in the back seat of his own car. Bart and Sue were a hot item the first few months of 7th grade. For some reason unbeknownst to me, Sue talked to me when she was not busy getting busy with Bart. Needless to say, I had a bit of a crush on Sue.
I snapped back to the present when Mrs. Beauvois called on me to conjugate the verb “to have” in French. I could not think how to conjugate a verb at that moment, but I was able to think about what I might “have” at the party Friday night. First I would have a beer. I had tasted my father’s beer once or twice, not overly impressed, but I l had learned that my father drank light American beer. His beer preference was understandable with his chosen occupation being a truck driver. I think when you drive a big rig truck, you have to sign a contract stating you will only drive American cars, watch only American football not any of that European soccer stuff, and drink American beer. Canadian beer was ok if the local 7-11 was out of stock of Miller, Bud, and Michelob. At the party, I had been told they would have European and Mexican beer, maybe even some high end American beer called Henry Weinharts. According to my brainiac friends, Henry’s, Lowenbrau, and Corona were the best beers to drink. The reason these beers were the best was not due to the taste or the natural spring water or the mashing of the malt and barley by virgin Dutch girls, it was due to the high alcohol content compared to American light beers. Even though many of us had never had an entire beer before, we wanted to drink beer with the maximum alcohol content per 12 ounces.
As Mrs. Beauvois admonished me for failing to conjugate, a crime just short of a felony in her class, I began to think about the second thing I would do at the party. I had heard that we were going to play spin the bottle, a game our parents used to play, but we were not going to let that stop us. We planned to add some modern twists to the game. When the bottle landed on a member of the opposite sex, the spinner could choose to simply kiss the spinnee or spend three minutes in the closet with them. I knew both which choice I would make and who I wanted to get into the closet. All I had to do was survive 10 more minutes of French class, then I was only two days away from randy Sue Miller.
The next two days passed uneventful for me. I faced the usual trials and tribulations of pre-teen life. I ate cafeteria food worse than airline food, participated in PE by being a human backstop for the 8th graders playing baseball, and watched one of my class mates remove his pinky finger on the band saw in shop class. The food did not kill me although I still have difficulty around tater tots, I learned how to duck after repeatedly being hit by a speeding baseball, and to this day get a little queasy when I see a birdhouse.
The party was scheduled to begin at 8PM. I wondered what the best time to arrive should be. Should I arrive early, in order to see and be seen all the guests that arrive or should I arrive late to make a grand entrance uncluttered by others’ arrivals. I think my habit of arriving exactly at the event start time was forged that day so long ago in 7th grade. I arrived smack dab in the middle of a milling, jostling, boisterous crowd. In effect, I was not noticed nor was it possible to gauge who was already at the party.
I soon discovered a delicious treat called a Slimy Slammer, green lime Jell-O made with Vodka. Who needs to drink beer to create the perfect party buzz, just a few of those innocent little green squares and I was ready to do the Limbo stripped down to my Scooby Doo undies. Thankfully I kept my clothes on and what little dignity I had acquired by the age of 13 intact. I found myself in the back yard joining the anticipated Spin the Bottle sporting event. I was seated opposite Miss Sue Miller who had come stag to the party, sans Bart. She gave me a big warm smile and blew me what I interpreted was a good luck kiss. My turn arrived after a few minutes and I spun the bottle using all the wrist English I could muster to persuade that bottle to stop pointing in Sue’s direction. The bottle had other ideas, though, it stopped on Deanna Tally, a cute cheerleader type that I would eventually date in high school. I resigned myself that I would not have my 3 minutes in the closet with Sue and puckered up for Deanna. The kiss wasn’t that bad, a fact I stored away for future reference.
Sue’s turn soon arrived and she spun the bottle. It whirled and whirled, grinding to a halt in front yours truly. I could not imagine Sue would want to spend 3 minutes anywhere with me, so I prepared myself for what I thought would be the only kiss I would ever get from her. Then she shocked me and everyone there by grabbing my hand and leading me off to the closet. Once there she gave me this “OK, this is the part where you put the moves on me”, but I just stood there. I had no idea what to do. All the fantasies, all the simulations, all the preparation for this moment were suddenly lost. Sue looked at my stumped expression, and then started laughing. Oh, did my fragile male ego take a direct hit when that happened. I stammered a hurt “What?” to which she replied “Oh, Jeff, you are so naïve!”. She then planted a big wet kiss on me, tongue and all. I was not prepared for the tongue, but I think I adapted admirably after the crushing my ego had just taken. Thinking back, something restrained me from trying for second base with Sue, maybe it was forethought that we would become lifelong friends or maybe it was something more primal like fear. Her father was a sheriff and had this fascination with terrorizing all of Sue’s male friends. Either way, I held back, enjoyed the kiss, and walked out of the closet with my head held high trying not to reveal any clues to my peers of the events in the closet
I think Sue’s utterance of that word, naïve, has helped shape my persona. I know I have strove to avoid ever again being labeled naïve. I have always tried to be in the know, to be educated about the world around me, and to rarely be caught off guard. Not to say being naïve is bad, it lends itself to innocence and genuineness, admiral traits for everyone. The key is to which areas of life we are perceived as being naïve. I think I have overcome the naïveté associated with French kissing, but I still have a problem with the aftereffects of Slimy Slammers.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Priviledge
I’ve never felt privileged. I know that is a fairly bold statement from white male living and working in Silicon Valley, recently ranked the most expensive place to live. Tokyo was ranked the third most expensive to give some perspective. A two bedroom one bath tear down was sold this past month for $850,000. The new owner paid this exorbitant sum for the property. The house was destined for the landfill. I live among this nuttiness, I have for my whole life except for a brief stint residing back in the hinterlands of Kansas and Bushland (Texas).
Maybe I do not understand the meaning of the word privilege. I’ve always associated it with wealth and status. If I judge my life on these two criteria, I would probably fall in the lower middle class. Remember though, this is by California standards. I remember rough times when I was just a wee tot. My father was a truck driver, first doing household moves, then going into the air freight business. During the 70’s, times were rough in the trucking industry. Dad would be out of work for long stretches, when our sole income was from my Mom’s nursing income. My father was a proud old country sort. The man was supposed to bring home the bacon, except in California the expression was “bring home the tofu”. When he was not working, life around our house was a bit rough. My Mom was lucky; she spent the day at work. I was not so fortunate. When I arrived home from school, my Dad often took his frustrations out on me. Siblings would have been a welcome distraction, but that was not in the cards for my family. I was destined to be an only child. One who became fearful of coming home. I never knew if all my bed clothes would be on the front lawn because I failed to properly make my bed that morning or if my toys had been given away to Goodwill due to being left out.
I identified a pattern way back then. When my Dad did not work, he tended to smoke and drink more. Many of his out of work friends smoked and drank quite a bit. I remember visiting a wealthy family of a friend of mine. His Dad was always working. He smoked and drank quite a bit too. Then there were the Dads of friends of mine who I would now label middle class. They neither smoked nor drank, at least not in excess. My young mind could not establish a corollary between these three pieces of information. I thought my Dad drank because he was not working. But the wealthy always working Father drank even more than my Dad. I’m not sure of the exact time when I arrived at the answer, but I think it was somewhere around Junior High. Most of my more earth shattering revelations occurred in Junior High. There have been a few since then, but not nearly with the frequency. I had so many revelations in Junior High, I am surprised I did not discover the meaning of life. Oh well, Douglas Adams solved that mystery for me in high school. It was 42.
My father and the wealthy father drank because they were frustrated and unhappy. Events in their life were not in their control. Middle class afforded the families a comfortable lifestyle, their basic needs were met and they had enough left over to enjoy a trip or two to Mickeyland or Brooklyn. My Dad struggled with providing for the basic needs of our family, while the wealthy father struggled to stay on top, working longer and longer hours to obtain more and more stuff. Neither was happy. I realized back then that middle class was not a bad lot to aspire to in life. I’m not sure if I would have come to this insight without having lived in a less than privileged household.
If privilege is thought of as a ladder defined by wealth and status, then my family started out towards the bottom. The top of the ladder was no where in sight. We could only see a few rungs up. My Mom and Dad managed to keep us off the ground, provided for our basic needs including new bell bottoms and fake Polo shirts, and were able to save a little for my college needs. There was little fear of falling off the ladder, we never had far to fall. I think we realized we always had some sort of safety net through friends and family. I can imagine that there are some who fall off the ladder without any safety net. I wonder if these are the unfortunate souls I see living on the streets in San Francisco. Were they once like me and my family? Did they fall off the ladder without a net? This thought is frequently in the back of my mind when I make choices in life. I asked myself, what are the repercussions of this decision, how far could I fall, is there a net?
Starting out at the top of the ladder through family inheritance must be very difficult. One has a long way to fall and I believe the wealthy are ill equipped to catch a lower rung on the way down.
Maybe I do not understand the meaning of the word privilege. I’ve always associated it with wealth and status. If I judge my life on these two criteria, I would probably fall in the lower middle class. Remember though, this is by California standards. I remember rough times when I was just a wee tot. My father was a truck driver, first doing household moves, then going into the air freight business. During the 70’s, times were rough in the trucking industry. Dad would be out of work for long stretches, when our sole income was from my Mom’s nursing income. My father was a proud old country sort. The man was supposed to bring home the bacon, except in California the expression was “bring home the tofu”. When he was not working, life around our house was a bit rough. My Mom was lucky; she spent the day at work. I was not so fortunate. When I arrived home from school, my Dad often took his frustrations out on me. Siblings would have been a welcome distraction, but that was not in the cards for my family. I was destined to be an only child. One who became fearful of coming home. I never knew if all my bed clothes would be on the front lawn because I failed to properly make my bed that morning or if my toys had been given away to Goodwill due to being left out.
I identified a pattern way back then. When my Dad did not work, he tended to smoke and drink more. Many of his out of work friends smoked and drank quite a bit. I remember visiting a wealthy family of a friend of mine. His Dad was always working. He smoked and drank quite a bit too. Then there were the Dads of friends of mine who I would now label middle class. They neither smoked nor drank, at least not in excess. My young mind could not establish a corollary between these three pieces of information. I thought my Dad drank because he was not working. But the wealthy always working Father drank even more than my Dad. I’m not sure of the exact time when I arrived at the answer, but I think it was somewhere around Junior High. Most of my more earth shattering revelations occurred in Junior High. There have been a few since then, but not nearly with the frequency. I had so many revelations in Junior High, I am surprised I did not discover the meaning of life. Oh well, Douglas Adams solved that mystery for me in high school. It was 42.
My father and the wealthy father drank because they were frustrated and unhappy. Events in their life were not in their control. Middle class afforded the families a comfortable lifestyle, their basic needs were met and they had enough left over to enjoy a trip or two to Mickeyland or Brooklyn. My Dad struggled with providing for the basic needs of our family, while the wealthy father struggled to stay on top, working longer and longer hours to obtain more and more stuff. Neither was happy. I realized back then that middle class was not a bad lot to aspire to in life. I’m not sure if I would have come to this insight without having lived in a less than privileged household.
If privilege is thought of as a ladder defined by wealth and status, then my family started out towards the bottom. The top of the ladder was no where in sight. We could only see a few rungs up. My Mom and Dad managed to keep us off the ground, provided for our basic needs including new bell bottoms and fake Polo shirts, and were able to save a little for my college needs. There was little fear of falling off the ladder, we never had far to fall. I think we realized we always had some sort of safety net through friends and family. I can imagine that there are some who fall off the ladder without any safety net. I wonder if these are the unfortunate souls I see living on the streets in San Francisco. Were they once like me and my family? Did they fall off the ladder without a net? This thought is frequently in the back of my mind when I make choices in life. I asked myself, what are the repercussions of this decision, how far could I fall, is there a net?
Starting out at the top of the ladder through family inheritance must be very difficult. One has a long way to fall and I believe the wealthy are ill equipped to catch a lower rung on the way down.
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