A New Beginning

Seb has never been happier.  Seb was towing the bench.  Yesterday we floated along the great open spaces between Safford and Duncan in near silence, relieved of the psychic and physical burden of the clattering, clunking platform of failed dreams and hopes.  George W. Bush probably felt the same way on the day he left the Oval Office, when suddenly things just got a whole heck of a lot less complicated, heh, heh, heh...

Seb's been dying for me to use a pun he came up with for a stretch of road between Superior and Globe, Az a few days ago, so here goes:

Seb and I were cycling along a stretch of highway between Superior and Globe, Az a few days ago.  We were grinding up a 10-mile climb involving tunnels, twists, twenty-ton trucks, tragically unsympathetic horn tooters, and it was, like, real hard and- wait for it - we didn't have a shoulder to cry on!  Get it? Get it? There were no shoulders!! Classic wordplay.

Actually, it did feel pretty freaking dangerous, especially as, right before the long, dark tunnel, there was a little memorial to Deano at the side of the road, with a set of bike handlebars replacing the cross as a centrepiece.  Nice. On yesterday's stretch of highway, a cyclist doing the same route as us, a year ago, was wiped off the road, permanently.  Happy thoughts.

Deborah and Clayton (well, mostly Deborah) have restored the historic Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Az and turned it into a profoundly funky B & B. The image above is part of their back garden where, out of charity, curiosity, and pity, they allow touring cyclists to pitch a tent for free. A menagerie of 1 goat, 3 chickens, and 70 -80 cats share the garden with us, making it feel like an Eden run by the original Cat Lady, the one with a kindly, but limited, tolerance for select other species.

We cross into New Mexico today.  Scorning the 8200' Emory Pass, we've chosen a southern route to El Paso involving lower elevation, higher oxygen content, lower population density, and higher chance of Breaking Bad interactions.

Later y'all...

A Radical Benchectomy

Failure is a strong word.  It speaks to self-esteem, negativity, and self-flagellation. So rather than go down that path, I've chosen to frame the project scientifically: 

1) I tested the hypothesis that a single object, appropriately shaped and coloured, would attract stories and jokes without any external influence. 

2) Perhaps owing to an absence of a particular shade of lilac, or an irregular, discordant geometric shape, the hypothesis proved negative.

 

18 Hours Ago

Seb and I left Globe, Az without a care in the world.  Over the next 120 km, the following events took place:

Km 41 - Barc notices that the tires of the trailer, after only 500 miles, are squared off and bald, sort of like Barc's head.  

Km 77 - The right trailer wheel begins to wobble like Dumbo on a unicycle.

Km 82 - The left trailer wheel begins a repressed, self-conscious imitation of the right trailer wheel.

Km 96 - The metal, stabilizing bar/axle snaps.

Km 104 - The trailer wheels, following a final encounter with the rumble strips from Hell, perform an Olga Korbut sideways splits that, even for those without anthropomorphic inclinations, would induce a wince.

Km 104.4 - Drag the carcass behind a milkshake and burger joint, stare into the middle distance for 17 minutes, gather up the bits and pieces, and carry on.

(Author's Note: We've shipped the remains to Shaker Heights, Ohio, home of open-minded, sympathetic admirers of all creative projects, however ill-conceived.)

 

Where We Go From Here

Two nights ago I was sitting beside Charles, storyteller extraordinaire, who was regaling me with tale after tale in his rich Savannah, Georgia accent.  About 63 stories later, I said "Charles, would you like to tell some of these stories on film for my blog?"  Charles, the human, became Charles, the clam.  

My Charles experience has been repeated many times on this journey.  As I have no intention of wheedling, cajoling, or C'monnnnnnning stories out of people, I'll just keep making my one "ask", and one of these days someone will say "Sure!"  Actually, someone did say "Sure!" about a week ago.  John, an old soul, sat on the bench and sang a terrific, amusing song about UFO's landing in the desert.  Three days ago, Seb went to upload the song to YouTube and, well, there was about 10 seconds where John was getting himself seated and I say "Okay, I'm turning the camera on NOW..."  Then there's another 10 seconds of film where I say "That was great! People are going to LOVE that!"  Funny eh?

Never daunted (because we won't put ourselves out there far enough to get daunted), we've still got all our film gear.  Our Canadian flag is going to be the story stick.  If, between here and Florida, anyone ever decides to tell a story on film, by God we'll be ready.

And so it goes...

A Conservative Approach

We stayed last night at the home of Pat, a 56 year old cycling enthusiast and reformed asshole.  In an effort to keep the inner asshole at bay, Pat does a lot of charity work, including taking in stray cyclists who meet a certain profile. Pat has strong views on many subjects, especially political, and we left his house this morning intending to turn left but kept turning right, and right, and right....

 

PAT'S RULES OF PROPER CONDUCT

1)  Always carry a gun.  Always.  We'd been cycling with Pat for about an hour before he shared that he never goes anywhere, ever, without a gun.  Cue the Twilight Zone music.  Who'd have thought the back pockets of cycling jerseys could be so versatile?  Right pocket - 9 mm; center pocket - spare magazines; left pocket - Republican Party card, power bar.

2)  If you aren't a conservative, you're stupid.  Pat's not judging, cuz he was a stupid liberal once too.  Then he got smart.  So it's not too late to stop being stupid.  Just get your head out of your ass and look around you.  Welfare bums, Obamacare, taxes, and gun control - not a country Pat wants to live in.

3)  Never relinquish control of your destiny to another person.  In 2005, Pat was on a cross-country cycle tour and met up with a young professional couple, also touring.  One morning, one painful morning, Pat blindly followed the couple as they turned out of the campsite, submitting without question to the orientation skills of the young doctor.  TWELVE MILES LATER - TWELVE MILES!!!!! - Pat realized they'd all been going the wrong way.  He dropped them like a hot potato, pondered a malpractice suit, and vowed never to put himself in a position of dependency again.  10 years later, not a day goes by that Pat doesn't think of those goddamned, spatially-challenged freaks who made him pedal an extra 24 miles; a hard but valuable lesson.

4)  If you tell a man "God Bless You" a hundred times in a row and he doesn't flinch or break eye contact, he's alright.  Seb and I are alright.

5)  If you make a mess, you clean that mess.  Pat was in charge of the Punishment Room in the Air Force at one point in his career, and no one in that room needed plates, cuz they ate off the floor, cuz the floor was cleaner than the inside of a hazmat suit at the Atlanta Centre for Disease Control. Pat had squeegees in his bathroom shower stall.  We used them.

Pat showed us tremendous generosity.  He's a guy making his way through the world and trying to do good works when he can.  We were one of his good works.  Hope it works out for all of us.

Last night we stayed with Charles and Mari in Superior, Az.  These superi... er.... extraordinary hosts provide an Airstream for flagging cyclists and the above-pictured dog to protect us from sadness.  While I suspect Charles and Mari of harbouring liberal thoughts, I love and forgive them.  God bless.

On the Open Road

Seems like forever since we talked.  I'll just touch on a few of the highlights of the past few days:

- Timing is everything.  We emerged from beneath the Tin Man corpus at Rambling Roads RV Resort to discover that Saturday mornings are all about the weekly communal breakfast.  For $3.50 we gorged our physical selves but, more importantly, scratched the spiritual itch that can only be reached by bad coffee in styrofoam cups, an announcement of memorial services for Edgar, a $12.00 jackpot on a 50/50 raffle, and the soothing white noise of loose-dentures slipping over shrivelled gums.

- we spent the next night in Aguilla, Az. in a public park beside - yes, a theme is emerging - the fire station.  Aguilla has a population of 767 humans and 2943 dogs.  The dog figure may be low since most of them are the size of a tennis ball, a frantically loud, yapping tennis ball that looks like the one that's been sitting in the corner of your backyard for three years.  As we lay thyroid-eyed in our tents, the tennis balls and coyotes went at it all night, triggering each other into greater and greater fits of lunatic yammering.  The next morning as we rode out of town a dog started barking at us and - no joke - suddenly lost it's bark.  A muted, strangled kind of woof came out, like a case of sudden-onset dog laryngitis.  It made me very happy.

- the suburbs of Phoenix are haunted by end-of-movie Stepford trees: perfect orange trees painted insane-asylum white, branches immaculately trimmed in a Dumb and Dumber bowl cut, but with thousands of oranges scattered beneath - the jarring note of wrongness suggestive of imminent breakdown and total collapse.  I'm telling you, it was discordant and weird.

- we cycled along the Arizona Canal Bike Trail System for 20 miles through Phoenix.  Most of the time, the "canal" was a massive, 200 yard-wide spillway with a tiny, mocking trickle of water down the middle.  End of Times thoughts come easily to a couple of sensitive Canadian flowers on bicycles, so if any of you reading this would care to invent cheap desalination, or at least publish a patented, peer-reviewed prescription for perpetual precipitation in a respected academic journal, we would both sleep better.

Finished the first map of the seven-map set published by the Adventure Cycling Association today. Yay!  Off to Superior, Arizona tomorraaaaa......

Tainted Saint

We left our private rest stop reluctantly this morning.  Everybody has private jets these days, but who among the 1 %-ers are pitching a tent beside the "Not All Cacti are Pricks" display at their own private rest stop along the Interstate, lulled to sleep by the soothing screech of air brakes?  Damn few that's who.

We reached Quartzsite in a timely manner, at least by the standards of slugs and snails, and began the search for the perfect breakfast.  One of the quirks of character that June treasures in her husband is my desire to "check out every single choice" before committing to, for example, a place to eat breakfast.  In a car, this endearing quality takes an irritating, but not psychotic amount of time, and June can do her crossword.  On bikes, in a town approximately 3 miles long by 1 mile deep, with restaurants at each cardinal point, it can take just a little longer.  I think we spent about an hour and a half of prime cycling time diddling around Quartzsite settling, of course, for the first restaurant we checked out.  On the plus side, we upped our daily mileage.  On the down side, we didn't get anywhere.  While the breakfast was ultimately mediocre, we were inspired by an 85 year old man sitting in an adjacent booth who was cycling to Phoenix on his road bike (about 130 miles).  He was holding hands across the table with his wife who, following in their car, acted as the support vehicle - early Valentine's Day "Awwwwwwww..." (don't ask me why I didn't get a story from him - just don't).

Camped last night at the Ramblin' Roads RV resort in Hope, Az.  For 10 bucks we got a spot under a metal A-frame, hot - not warm - showers, and unlimited conversational opportunities with garrulous retirees who had, I'm just guessing, thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of amazing stories.  I had enough energy to prepare camp, lie down on my thermorest, assume the position and poof!  Out like a light by 7:00 pm.  Sheesh.

Home is Where the Tent Is

I'm watching Seb string a string between two trees for his clothesline.  I'd say "our clothesline", but no garment of mine ever sees a sud.  Despite my profoundly masculine exterior, I'm really all sugar and spice and everything nice inside, and therefore my perspiration smells like fresh-baked bread on a crisp fall morning.  I can't tell you how many times I've walked by people at the gym and heard "There goes Doughboy".  You get used to it.  Seb, sadly, is about to hang up all his snips, snails, and puppy dog tails, cursed as he is with the y-is-for-yucky chromosome.  But let's table the confused-gender talk for now, and move on to a selective description of our progress.

We left Palo Verde late yesterday morning, lingering over the breakfast Nancy made us: hot cereal with saffron, apricots, cherry, raisins, and diced (peeled first - sheesh!) almonds - we didna wanta goh.  But go we went, toward the town of Blythe.  Now when I write "Blythe", I'm sure in your head you're saying "Bl-eye-the".  The locals, on the other hand, pronounce their town name "Blit."  As in, "Ah live in Blit."  - sort of the sound children make when you ask them if they like brussel sprouts.  It was weird.  Wearing spandex and saying Blyyyyythe, we're lucking we escaped with our lyyyyyves.

For those of you eagerly following along on Google Maps, we next headed east on I-10 across the Colorado river, aiming for Quartzsite, Arizona (that's right, we finally crossed a state) home of the perpetual flea market.  The sun had been setting in California a little after five, so when we left Blit at 3-ish, we figured we could still make the 25 miles to Q-town, headwind and uphill be damned, without it being utterly dark when we got there.  Picture my consternation when, 10 miles east of Blyyyyyythe I look at my Garmin and it says 4:45 pm (Whaaaat?  Not another hallucination!  The stuff seems to take forever to leave your system).  So, not wanting to pedal on the interstate in the dark, again, we immediately bailed at the closed-for-repairs rest stop that just happened to lie conveniently ahead.  As we set up camp feverishly at our own private rest stop - no water but the plugs worked - in a race against time and the demon darkness, a sneaky, dawning thought occurred to me; something about, you know, Pacific Time, Mountain Time, Central Time, and so on.  A quick confirmation, using non-GPS time devices, indicated that we'd magically lost an hour crossing the Colorado river (even with water tables at historic lows, that's one wide river).  Suddenly the sun didn't appear to be in such a hurry to fall.  Suddenly I felt like a boob.  And that brings us back to the question of gender orientation...

Boulevard of Broken Spokes

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The 20 mile stretch from Ocotillo to El Centro on Hwy 78 is a testament to current federal and state funding priorities: topping the charts are the ever-popular platinum-selling winners - Alien Repulsion and The War on Drugs.  Then, several thousand line items, B-sides, and afterthoughts later, we reach health care and road repair.  For 20 miles, Seb and I steered, swerved, and skidded through a sea of potholes.  There was no conversation as each of us had an inner tube stuffed in our mouths to avoid shattered teeth.  Inner tubes taste like ass.  Speaking of donkeys, allow me to share that wild burro are common in this part of the world.

I write from the Palo Verde home of the lovely Nancy, a Warm Showers hostess with the most-ess.  Warm Showers is an organization comprised of homeowners who, lacking the DNA strand responsible for caution and cynicism, welcome touring cyclists into their homes.  Modeled on the couch-surfing template, bikers crash for a night with a real roof over their heads and a sympathetic ear for their troubles.  Two nights ago we stayed with Jim who, despite suffering from a plethora of personal pain, suffered us.  Pretty cool folk.

So we crossed the Sahara yesterday.  The North Algodones Dunes Wilderness Area is a stretch of sand 7 miles wide by several hundred miles long and home to many species of loudness-is-next-to-Godliness dune buggies.  An entire sub-culture of sand machines frolic here.  All you need to fit in is a VHS copy of Mad Max and a hearing disorder – tattoos and obesity are encouraged but not mandatory.

Seb and I left Brawley at 6:30 am for the 100 km crossing to Nancy’s house.  On a road bike ride that might take you 3-4 hours, depending on how powerful you were feeling that day, and always assuming that a highly-elevated heart rate and a tragic sense of only-discomfort-will-bring-me-completeness is what you call fun.  Well, Seb and I took 9 ½ hours.

We were good for the first couple of hours, propelled by tailwinds both elemental and burrito, but as soon as we hit the dunes, evil Stepmother Nature produced a headwind of encephalitis proportions.  Over the next 7 hours, gaiety and cheer were gradually sand-blasted away, replaced by an appalling tendency to look at your Garmin every fifteen seconds and, every time, be shocked and dismayed that you still had forever to go.  Mental toughness, wherefore art thou, mental toughness?

In another twist of fate, we managed to bend the towing arm of Barc’s Bench when the bikes blew over at one of our rest stops, resulting in the bench being towed into Palo Verde at a 45 degree angle, with all Seb’s gear strapped precariously at the fat-boy end of the teeter totter.  

Time to fix stuff.  Barc out.

See Level

Ocotillo, California  

Stardate: February 8, 2015

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As I gaze out of my tent at the reddening horizon, awaiting the glorious desert sunrise, I count my blessings:

-      The massive colony of fire ants, or possibly inferno ants, 12 feet north northwest, has embraced us as friend, not foe.

-      Among the seven items on the shelf of the destitute, gas-pumps-removed, kept-open-by-love-and-stubbornness convenience store behind which we’re camped was the best strawberry jam I’ve ever tasted.

-      For those of you who remember the movie “Who Framed Roger Rabbit”, the female half of the couple fighting an apparently losing battle to keep their business going, in a hamlet of 277 deserting souls, is Jessica Rabbit’s sister – an improbable, extraordinary, pleasing sight amidst the harsher-edged boulders and cacti.

-      With our route hugging the Mexican frontier, the Border Patrol (every second vehicle on the road), ceaselessly vigilant, protecting America from Dangerous Depleting Hispanic Hordes, has apparently determined that we pose no threat to The Way Things Should Be; troubling whiffs of Winston Smith all about.

-      Zooming down from the mountains on Interstate 8 through In-Ko-Pah Gorge, amidst a landscape lacking only a broken, tilted Statue of Liberty, losing two days of climbing in one hour, we encountered no damn stinking apes.

Okay, now I’ll count my curses:

-      The individual responsible for font control on the set of biking maps we’re using needs to rethink his settings.  When you’re cycling through the desert, possibly short of food, water, and tranquil thoughts, and the map, using font so large it spills over the side of the paper, indicates a town - nay metropolis - five miles ahead, a certain degree of raised expectation is fostered with respect to the goods and services awaiting cyclists with poor planning skills.  When, five miles later, you arrive at a tumbleweed-laden crossroads with a sign pointing to an abandoned Slinky factory on one corner and a shuttered Jim Jones “Just Do It!” Kool-Ade stand on the other, disappointment naturally ensues.

-      The part about this trip where we’re supposed to be filming jokes and stories from enchanting, quirky, and enthusiastic characters we meet along the way has, so far, kinda slipped through the cracks.  Part of it I blame on the black miasma of self-loathing I immersed myself in for a couple of days following the implosion of Barc’s Chair into Barc’s Bench.  And part of it I blame on the bracing transition from armchair musing of riding up mountains with over-laden bikes - waving happily to awestruck observers - to real-world riding up mountains with over-laden bikes – a surprising and significant difference, leading to end-of-day malaise, kill-me-now thoughts, and a total disinclination to interact with strangers, unless they’re selling hemlock.

That’s it for blessings and curses.  Dowd out.  

Climbing for Dummies

I write from inside our tent, dizzy from incipient altitude sickness at nearly 4000 feet, in the awfully pretty mountain hamlet of Pine Valley, California.  I could just write Pine Valley, Ca, but I'm still a little intoxicated and star-struck by the Golden State, and milking each letter for all it's worth.  

Seb and I have been worshiping at the blog altar of Timothy Towers, a retired, fantastically OCD engineer who painstakingly recorded his Southern Tier (thankfully non-bowel) daily movements with wonderful, if presumably somewhat trying for his loved ones, precision.  Following Tim's advice, we stopped at Major's Diner in Pine Valley today and asked - feeling like we should be talking out of the sides of our mouths while checking over our shoulders - for a realtor named Charlie who would let touring cyclists pitch a tent in his backyard.  Well in a twist of fate somewhat less impactful for us, Charlie went and died a month ago.  Of all the bad luck...

So I went to the fire house next door and asked if there was anywhere in town where we could pitch a tent.  The fire woman was kind enough to lead us into the fenced compound behind the station where, amidst the illegal immigrant shipping containers, jaws-of-life practice cars, and the poor sad sack of a "Save my baby! Save my baby" house that's been torched and drenched a thousand times, she told us to pick any spot we wanted, but maybe a little away from the chemical foam.  So here I (we) lie, listening to the sounds of Pine Valley on a Saturday night.  Either I'm going deaf, or the social calendar around here reaches Dead Sea levels in early February - or possibly the chemical foam is muffling the sound of unbridled revelry.

Pulling the bench is a VAST improvement over pulling the chair, thank you for asking.  The only issue seems to be that going downhill at any speed over 25 kph, the bench starts to waggle back and forth like Spot's tail at dinnertime (following that unfortunate incident, when Dick and Jane received a 3-day detention for not having fun, and nobody fed the dog).  Fulcrum fine-tuning may be required.

In a sloth-based strategic decision, Seb and I both decided to "ride ourselves into shape" on this journey.  Our first two days have been steady climbing.  Cross-fit and triathlon psychos of my acquaintance may embrace the burn but, personally, I'm looking for a somewhat more gradual reintegration to fitness.  Today we have more downhill than uphill ahead of us.  Yay!  See Spot wag.

A Slow Start in Paradise

No takers yet for the chair.  So much for the easy camaraderie and sharing of stories that is so much a supposed part of the hostel experience.  Of course, Seb and I don't quite have our sales pitch mojo flowing just yet.  On the one hand, my vibe is that of a unionized parking lot attendent with only one gap remaining, profoundly disinterested with whether or not you fill my slot. Seb, on the other hand, has that whiff of a used car salesman on an unusually-long crystal-meth jag,  jittery, rambling, possibly well-meaning, but ultimately toxic and on the edge of sticking a knife in your eye. I'm sure we'll get better soon.

By the way, the piece of detritus under the chair that looks like a catch basin for incontinent storytellers is the barcschair.com "license plate" that displays as you tip the chair back and tow it down the road.  Gotta work on my production values...

Last Minutes and First Hours

The day before departure...

Apparently I don't handle stress well.  I've been standing paralyzed in the dining room for the last ten minutes, surrounded by Barc's Chair detritus, staring blindly and making little rhythmic mewing noises, like an endless loop featuring the Top Ten Therapist Sounds of Acknowledgement.

The day of departure...

Pierre Elliot Trudeau had a regular fasting regimen that he believed cleansed his inner and outer man.  At 6:00 am on the day of departure, I ate a Tim Hortons breakfast sandwich.  18 hours and no solid food later I was standing in the teeny, deserted San Diego airport, pitch black outside,  surrounded by Barc's Chair detritus, staring blindly and making little....  (Historical aside: many Albertans believe Trudeau was on an extended fast when he brought in the National Energy Program.)

Our flight was diverted to Chicago owing to the selfish decision of an oxygen-tank-bearing individual choosing to live rather than see San Diego from the other side (of the veil, not compass point, for those of you who are fasting).  By the time the customs and paramedic smoke cleared, our 5 and a half hour flight had become a 9 hour flight.  Airline food was available, but I was worried about consuming it and then having to divert the plane to Denver.  So I starved.

The chair and bike assembly went well, if you leave out the frequent extreme despair and the what-the-hell-have-I-done moments.  My vow to avoid cycling past sunset lasted exactly 0 days, thanks to Chicago, starvation, sleep deprivation, and general mechanical ineptitude.  Full night had fallen as Seb, who's never pedalled a fully-laden touring bike, let alone used the clipless pedals that he's practiced getting out of maybe once for about 30 seconds, followed me out into blackness, like the only-surviving duckling of a really bad mother duck, and we wended our way through dark streets, past even darker alleys, the whole 5 miles to the Point Loma Hostel.

The Start.

Preparation B

Just got off the phone with Tiger and Lance.  They're kind of my go-to people for advice on self-induced adversity.  Don't get me wrong, I still fully expect a fairy tale adventure absent of dragons and heavy on happy endings.  But a couple of days ago I found myself standing on top of a workbench clutching my Back-up Bike in a death grip.  It was clamped upside down to a vise by the seized seat post, and I was pulling up like a madman, abdominal one-pack threatening to shred and heave, Ed and Caleb torquing the bike side-to-side, trying to get the tiniest of movements started before the frame snapped, and I thought

I don't have to do this.

No one's making me do this.

I'm doing this trip for fun, right?

These are dark thoughts to entertain on the eve of a bike trip featuring the exquisite pleasure of dragging a 17-ton sledge containing Chernobyl parts from the Pacific to the Atlantic, asking people to tell glowing stories.  Can't wait to see how they react. 

Make Good Choices...

A theme is emerging among the many well wishers expressing support for our ride.  Please circle the answer you think most closely matches that theme:

A)  Barc!  What an adventure!  Does mental illness run in June's family too or does Seb stand half a chance of having escaped your chemical imbalance?

B)  Barc!  What an adventure!  You know that this chair of yours is going to attract the attention of every unstable, marginalized, gun-toting, you-only-live-once-and-you've-lived-long-enough crazy south of the 37th parallel.  Is that what you want?

C)  Barc!  What an adventure!  It's not everyone who risks not only his own life but his son's life too!  Hope you go first!!

D)  Barc!  What an adventure!  It's so random, so possibly pointless, so ultimately weird, it... it... it just seems so YOU!!!

E)  Barc!  What an adventure!  I think I'll pick all of the above!

Yeah, yeah.  I know what you chose.

And you're right.

The Cracks are Beginning to Show...

 

Smooth Sailing = Calm Seas = Doldrums = Stagnation  

My new best friend Ed, the bike whisperer, informed me that the frame of my cherished but untested - and likely to remain that way - Koga Miyata touring two-wheeler is cracked, and susceptible to spectacular failure in the near, far, or possibly never, future.  The fault line lies in the headtube below the handlebars, and it takes little effort, given the horse-with-no-name desert crossing looming before us, to imagine a karmically-seismic collapse involving explosions, shrapnel, and full Bugs Bunny/Road Runner sound effects.  Harder to imagine is Coyote Ugly Barc rising charred from the mushroom cloud, then miraculously restored to cartoon health in the next scene.

Sooooo, with a week to go, we - and of course I use the royal bike-prep "we" - are frantically refitting the under-cherished, over-tested, and geriatrically-geared chariot of my youth.  I'm not worried.  The Folly Cycle shall see me through the toughest terrain - physical, emotional, and Texan - with an economy of motion and the cool certitude of Sophia Loren striding over a sea of Kate Moss limbs, snapping bones with every step.  No problem.  

Happy Birthday June!

As you stand at the altar with your life companion - a term rapidly becoming archaic - there's an unmistakable quality of closing your eyes, crossing your arms, and letting yourself fall back, hoping she'll catch you.  27 years later, June has never let me hit the ground.  She may have hit me in the face with a flyswatter a few times as I fell, but she always, always caught me.

Apparently June puts up with a lot.  It's almost uncanny how, with exasperating regularity, when introducing June to new people I've met for more than 30 seconds, their faces crinkle up in an expression of funeral parlour solicitude, and the first thing out of their mouths is "Ohhh....  I'm sooooo sorry.  Be brave....  Be brave."  As if.

Sooooo  June .....  on your special day, caught up as I am in my:

* father and son bonding experience (disingenuous)

* bringing joy to others odyssey (really disingenuous)

* self-amusement sojourn (better)

* vanity project (dead on)

Thank you for long-suffering fools gladly - especially me.  

Many happy returns of the day.

All my love.

Barc

T-Minus 15 Days...

Y'know how you hear "Seemed like a good idea at the time"?  Well, I'm still at the good idea stage of this project.  Some of the pleasing images coursing through my mind include: happy people slapping their thighs, bent over with mirth, tears streaming, ribs aching; awestruck people with mouths open, eyebrows raised, not daring to believe the depth and richness of what they've just heard; children begging their parents to stay, foregoing the ice cream truck, mesmerized by what they're witnessing.  And that's just the airport.

There are one or two questions marks with respect to how things are going to play out on this trip.

For example...

- Seb has never ridden a bike for more than 30 minutes, and that was when he was nine.

- I am, in my natural state, disinclined to approach people and try and pitch them on doing something.  Not to be confused with approaching people and yabbering inconsequentially - I'm totally inclined toward that.  So when people say "What's the deal with the chair?" and I tell them we're collecting jokes and stories, they may well go "Huh...", and I'll say "Yep...", and the awkward silence will go on and on, only to be saved by gunshots, sirens, or prayer.