Burnt Orange

Nina's tail measures the beat.
Three clicks, and a
sun-sharp snare
cracks, bounces off
the bricks.
Leaves in the wind are
tiny shuffling feet.
The tangerine sunset
calls the foxes of dusk
as the summer starts
to rust.
Pumpkin drums make heartbeats
as an ocher guitar smolders
then bursts with
a fire's heat.

Late Roses

Pink blossoms in July,
soft petals aside wrinkled
blooms on the same stem.
Your orange dog steps carefully
through my garden, paws
light, one raised, nose twitching.
Inside, cats keep a wary distance.
Our animals mingle—
no one eats.
High sun and cotton clouds,
a gentle breeze, as if
May came after the fireworks.
More bemusement as a
soft breath of air
causes us to stir,
to rise from our sleep.

First line of a story

Courtesy of my pal Sylvia:

"Every piano player, no matter how small the hands, has a tremendous reach."

Somebody get on that!

Seven haiku

Summer splashes in
the pool, fuzzy sweaters in
winter--a child's carefree life.


Dribble, jump, turn and
air ballet before the swoosh--
fist bumps and back slaps.


Squealing tires up
the block, held tightly in my
angry pinhole sight.


Empty apartment--
now home to random trash and
chilly, weeping ghosts.


Not a sad goodbye--
skinny arms around me and
her cheek on my chest.


Bags of groceries fill
my car's trunk, as Dad stands, arms
clasped, held behind him.


A soft purr at my
side, the soundtrack to a dark
night in my green room.

Past Perfect, Present Tense

Past perfect, present tense
Safety and danger, both so near
to touch, to see, to sense--

A step back, away--a defense.
Lie low until the storm relents.
The past is present, the present tense.

I wait, in irons of suspense.
Open the present, the moment so dear--
past present, present tense.

Can I give without recompense?
It's a charmed light when comets reappear--
to touch, to seek, to sense.

Lying, like cats in the sun, content
in the silent bond that I revere--
to touch, to seek, to sense.

Will we live only in words we hold dear?
Words are ways which have their ends.
The past is present, present tense--
to touch, to seek, to sense.

Race With the Wind, or: “Putting the ‘Ow’ in ‘Lowville’”

After a long week getting back into school mode, and not sleeping well at all, I headed west to the Tug Hill Plateau with my cycling pal JC for the Race With the Wind, a fifty-mile bike race mostly on dirt roads and snowmobile trails. On the drive back, we concluded that riding and racing teaches many things, among them the odd pronunciation of ‘Lowville.’ Read on.

I’d never seen this particular part of New York before, but I hear about it all the time in the winter: it’s a perennial winner in terms of snowfall due to the infamous ‘lake effect.’ It’s gently rolling hills, fields and forests, and the area near the race is filled with wind turbines, quiet white sentinels stretching for miles. Their blades made gentle sighs, almost breaths. A fighter jet from a nearby base ripped across the sky as we got closer.

We pulled into the parking lot to find a smaller-than-expected number of racers. Maybe some folks had a more updated weather report. I loaded my gear: spare tubes, mini pump, caffeinated gels, phone, water, and a drink called Perpetuem—it’s isotonic and hyperbolic.

Time for the start of the long, narrow drama. Shortly after rolling out, the skies opened up. Searching for an adjective, I tried to remain positive, passing on “miserable” for the more poetic “epic.” I was with the front group, doing the best I could to hold the wheel in front of me as that wheel kicked up a gritty rooster tail. These riders were the lean and hungry racer types I’d seen in the parking lot, and when they pulled away, I was somewhat relieved. Holding a wheel on a gravel road in the rain is a bit dicey. I rode at my own pace, leapfrogging two riders on mountain bikes several times, and following the pink spray-paint arrows.

The road surface varied widely, from hardpack dirt to fist-sized rocks. I was riding Fine China, my cyclocross bike, and my skinnier tires went from advantage to liability and back. The alloy frame transmitted more than I cared to know about those rocky fists under my wheels, but I kept on.

Mile 17: The road was some sort of chip-and-seal, and my tires happily and noisily bit into it, until the abrupt left onto a snowmobile trail. My front tire washed out, sliding several inches to the right as I leaned into the turn. My body responded automatically, and my right arm moved so quickly that the muscle burned immediately. I would have went down hard on my left side. Fortuitous? I think my angel gruppetto was smiling on me.

My legs burnt, my back tensed up, undoing all the magic of Friday’s massage. My Perpetuem seemed to fall short. I did the mental trick of dividing the miles I had left, saying, “Oh, I can ride 25 miles anytime.” I felt great. I felt like I had to stop. My hands got numb. I shook them out until feeling returned. My breaths steadied, and I reminded myself that I tend to get stronger the longer I go, and that it’s enough just to finish.

Forty miles in, one rider way ahead, none visible behind. I figured there were about six to eight ahead, an unknown number behind. The course doubled back a few times. I recalled this from a cursory glance at the map. Pink arrows pointing different ways. A man in a pickup at an intersection said “about four more miles.” Energized, I sped up, went through another intersection, saw another man at an intersection, who said “about six more miles.” Huh? My mood plummeted. I passed a cabin I swear I’d seen once before. Or was it twice? Arrows going both ways. Mile 50 came and went, with me alone in the woods.

I caught a glimpse of something large and white, and heard the swish of air. I was never more happy to see a wind turbine, and I knew I was close. A peek back—no one. Am I doing well? Who knows? On the gravel road, I sped up. A quick left, down the hill to the finish.

The woman’s clipboard was filled with riders who’d already returned. My heart sank. It turns out I’d missed a turn and ridden an extra six miles.

Okay, so I rode more miles than anyone else. There’s no special jersey for that. Considering the circumstances, I’m happy with how I did. The weather cleared, the view was beautiful, and that sweet post-race endorphin buzz was coming on. Pass/fail? Pass.

Fire and Water

Anger and guilt go together for me. In that order. I got good at it at an early age. I can remember running up the stairs after my mother; my father was not far behind. I can remember my own yelling, my mom’s crying, and my dad’s deep, calm voice. What I can’t remember is what caused all of this. I also can’t remember how many times it happened. More than once, I’m sure, but I’ve distilled it all down to this one scene that I replay in my mind.

What happened that made me so angry? Whatever it was, it was a match struck in a dry forest. The match disappeared in the flames of anger. Deliberately set. A type of arson. Anger is an accelerant, a shortcut that scorches and consumes other emotions. It’s voracious and pernicious. I started this fire, and it wiped away all traces of its origin.

As I grew up, Mom and Dad were loving, but not very expressive, demonstrative or animated. I do remember Dad’s hearty laugh from downstairs. In trying to reconstruct this scene, I've surmised that my anger was a way to provoke an emotional response. I've learned through life and teaching that all of us at times need that, and that negative attention is better than none at all.

The pattern was established: Get angry; watch Mom crack and run off, into the bedroom and shut the door, crying. Dad comforts me as I beg to see Mom, to apologize. He calmly says, "Not right now. Wait a while." Is this comfort what I was seeking all along? The guilt floods in now, a wall of water putting out the flames, but presenting new dangers as its waves pull me—pull me under.

These emotions were very confusing to a child, and I’m still trying to find the words for them, all these years later. I'm still trying to find why I reach for the match at times. It happens with those closest to me. Is it a level of intimacy? A test of love? Fire and water. A rough metaphor that works for now.

A Tale of Two Rides

On Monday it was neither raining, nor too hot. Perfect riding weather. My schedule, however, lent itself to errands, and one stop led to another. I soon found myself in the belly of the beast: Crossgates Mall. I had to venture in to get the battery replaced in my heart-rate monitor that I use while cycling. It tells me useful things, like "you're barely working," "you're sort of working," and "whoa, you're at about 90%, bro." By the time I'd stopped to browse at the phone-accessory kiosk, I knew that artificial lighting and smarmy mall-air had nearly gotten to me. "Need any help?" the young man asked. Yes. I quickly came to my senses and broke out, determined to ride the next day.

I rode to my allergist's on Tuesday, to get two shots of the things that make me sneeze. The hope is that after about five years of weekly needle sticks, I won't be as allergic to these things. I've concluded that Albany is not very bike-friendly, something I'd written in my ride journal but must have forgotten. Washington Avenue sucks, no matter what time of day it is.

The nurse, prepping the twin syringes, noticed my helmet. Assuming a tone of surprise and slight disapproval, she asked, "You rode your BIKE here?" I replied, "yes." More questions, inflected just a tad higher: "From where? Where did you leave the bike?" I'd ridden a whopping four miles. "Downtown... There's a bike rack in front of this building." Slight pause. "Oh." One needle. The other needle.

I want to practice what I preach. I want to use my bike for short errands. I like leaving my car parked. I just wish it was easier, and safer. It's a fact that cyclists are safer when there are more of us. (Holland is the best example.) But it's just not enjoyable riding down Washington Avenue, especially when it widens and speeds increase by the SUNY campus. There are no alternative routes that are any better. There's the perception problem as well: the nurse's attitude is not unusual. It's part of the car culture. The cycling idealists will say that one more bike will make a difference. This rider may not see that difference for a long time.

Ride number two: club ride out of Schodack, 5 pm, with the regular crew. We rolled out and quickly got up to cruising speed, south on Route 150. Ah, that's better. Sure, a tight pack of cyclists has its dangers, but we're all competent and aware riders--and we're more easily noticed by drivers. We even get positive attention at times: waves, thumbs up, that sort of thing.

Dennis led the way, with his cue sheet clipped to the bars. We dropped down to 9J for some easy rolling along the river. Gary took a huge pull, and I was next in line, just before the route turned left and climbed. Oh, great. Just like on TV, those who'd been sitting in moved to the front as Gary and I felt the burn up the first substantial hill. Two rights and we were descending the ridge we'd just climbed.

This climb-and-descend pattern continued, and I wondered aloud what our normally mild-mannered ride leader had been thinking. Then again, I'd wanted a hard ride. My legs burn, sure, but I don't think of it as pain, and certainly not as suffering. I like riding with a group, measuring my progress, and seeing how my body and mind respond to the shifts in terrain. This all clicks on an emotional level as well, with the ups and downs, the group dynamics, the periods of effort and recovery. It's life. The road rises for everyone.

The ride went from hilly to rolling, with riders splitting up and regrouping as the evening unfolded. Unsure if a county-line sprint was happening, I went for it--and got it, as a rider behind me groaned. I told him, hey, I got that sprint, but I'm no king of the mountains tonight.

I seemed to get stronger as the ride continued. Proper hydration, terrain changes, good mojo, cooler temps? Who knows. We all got back safely, kibbitzed about club rides, pro races, travel, the coming school year. Two rides in one day. One practical, both necessary.

May you rise with the road.

The Angel Gruppetto

It's been a tough week. I lost a dear friend after a brave struggle with ovarian cancer. She was in hospice, so the outcome wasn't unexpected. I have learned, though, that expecting grief does little once it arrives.

Riding my bike helps me process my feelings, and, given the volume and complexity of emotions, a ride was in order.

I try to not believe in the pathetic fallacy of weather influencing mood and vice versa, but it's been that kind of summer, with these low-pressure weather systems moving in, silent gray troops looming a way off, but looking like they mean business. I set out on Thursday, right around noon, under generally sunny skies. I was following an old cue sheet from a club ride.

I quickly got into the open country, and noticed a tiny, beetly bug perched on my bike computer. I did not flick it off, but instead carried this creature, and thought about involuntary relocation. Where would he/she end up? Somewhere more remote, and at a higher elevation, if I followed the cue sheet. That's life, right? We all get relocated, physically, but also emotionally. Sometimes we have a say, but often we don't. This year feels like one of those times for me.

Taborton Road rises from Sand Lake, up into ever-thickening pine trees. The scenery up there is like riding through the cover picture of an L.L. Bean catalog. I found my pace on the climb. I ascended, as the brown, foamy water in the creek to my side descended. Overhead, the sky turned to that popular if not fashionable color for the summer: mottled gray. Reminded again that weather changes like my moods.

I rounded a corner and saw two riders ahead on the hill. I gradually caught up, and chatted with them. Both retired, it turns out--more time to ride. We chatted about routes and climbs, dirt roads getting paved, and, of course the Tour.

Sprinter David Millar got within two kilometers of a win today before getting gobbled up by the mass of riders in the peloton. Not what he wanted, for sure, but heroic nonetheless. These breakaways in races go that way more often than not, yet everyone cheers for those bold riders who attempt it. Millar, totally spent, passed through the peloton backwards, out of contention for any notable place for the day. In my own racing, I'm not much of a breakaway artist--more like a hang-onto-the-wheels-for-dear-life type. But I am that man, in other areas. Trying, falling short, occasionally making it. We're all the breakaway hero sometimes, and other times we're the hungry peloton.

Further along, riding alone, I felt the presence of some departed friends around me. Sharon was there, my "bartender" at the school library who would always lend a sympathetic ear. My friend George, who showed me so many great roads. A former student, whose exuberance in life won't be forgotten. My dad, who had come to my rescue so many times when I'd gone out for a ride.

I'm not so quick to dismiss this sort of thing as the ramblings of an overworked body, with more blood flowing to the legs than the brain. No, there's something there. Something safe. High up into the woods of Rensselaer County, I prefer to think of this as my angel gruppetto, others riding close, keeping me in sight, pointing out hazards and highlights, helping me pick good lines as I ride on.

Goodbye to my cassette tapes

I threw out my cassette tapes tonight.

It's been a long time coming. I had been carting them around in my old car, which had a cassette deck, and the tapes were fabulous little nostalgia packets. The car is no more, having been supplanted by Sweet Potato, a car with an iPod-ready glove compartment.

That's clearly a sign.

I have 4,000 songs on my iPod, which is way more than I ever had on all of the cassettes I've owned. I have one semi-functional cassette player, in the stereo cabinet next to my computer. I can't remember the last time I used it. Most of my music comes out of my computer these days.

Okay, so, then, why is this such a big deal with the tapes? Nostalgia, maybe. But the tapes are real. I can remember staying up past my bedtime in 1982 to record The Who's (first) farewell concert, broadcast live from Toronto. I recorded it all, on one gray and one black TDK cassette, and I scrawled labels on them.

Now, 27 years (!) later, they don't sound so good. I'm not a scientist, but I know that cassettes house long, thin pieces of plastic, coated with magnetic metal bits. I know that these things deteriorate over time. Cassettes lose the high frequencies first. Sometimes the cases warp, and the pitch of the music ebbs and flows. All this means they're not the best listening now. The tapes are gone. We'll see how CDs and iPods hold up.

I had two cases of tapes that I threw out without even looking. I knew that if I looked, they'd be spared, only to sit for a few more years before this ritual would be repeated. There were some loose ones, so I had to look. I started a list of albums I need to get to replace the tapes: The Queen Is Dead, Californication, Pump, Rastaman Vibration, Rumor and Sigh.

I'd already set aside some other tapes: my college radio show with my old friend Chip (who promptly disappeared after graduation), and a couple of mix tapes from an ex-girlfriend. These are totems, talismans, tickets to parts of my past. Sure, I could copy them, digitize them, warts and all, and put them onto my iPod, right next to that song by Moxy Fruvous that I downloaded last night. But it wouldn't be the same. These are not just the songs, but THE tapes. They've moved with me--aged with me, too.

(I keep my old record albums for a similar reason. But that's for another blog post.)

The blue box below where I'm typing just flashed: "Save Now." This blog is saved. As are some of my tapes.

Having a birthday that ends in "oh" this year has a lingering effect. I've collected lots of things in this life. I'm looking back and ahead right now. I guess life is like this tape ritual, sorting out, setting aside, throwing out. I have a small house and a crowded mind. Some space is a good thing. I'm blogging now, choosing words, maybe reaching for some of these worldly analogies and metaphors from the clutter around me. But, saving and letting go seems like a good m.o. for now.

Off to bed, and my ritual of music before sleep. It's much easier with that iPod.

Climbing, ripping, growing

It is the highest point in Massachusetts. The road was recently paved. Its profile closely resembles the Col D'Aspin, a fabled climb of the Tour de France. Its peak was shrouded in clouds all day today. Forty percent chance of rain.

I happened to be in North Adams, with my bike. Of course, I had to ride up Mount Greylock. I just hadn't gotten around to it, until today.

I took a nice warm-up out Massachusetts Avenue, to Williamstown, about 40 minutes or so. Raindrops mixed with patches of sun. I took the right turn on Notch Road, a surprisingly nondescript spot from which to begin such an epic climb. I left busy Route 2 behind, and the road immediately began to rise. My legs felt rubbery, and the thick, humid air seemed to stick to my lungs. I was out of the saddle on the very modest rise, passing people cutting lawns, kids playing.

I soon turned right, and started into the park, and the road pitched up even more sharply. I put my head down, and slowly turned my lowest gear, trying to keep my breathing even. My heart rate monitor wasn't working, which was just as well. The relevant information was all there, in the form of my labored breaths, the creaks of my cleats, and the sound of the tires on the new pavement.

Climb inside yourself, I've read in more than one place. Go at your own pace. But there's often another meaning to that phrase. Climb inside yourself--scaling a grade on a bike allows me to climb into my mind. It's a narrow focus. It's an elegantly simple proposition: keep the wheels moving, stay upright. Sure enough, my mind opened itself. I thought about how I haven't been riding that often or that hard recently. I thought about how the muscles of my legs were hosting little explosions, as the glycogen burned, as the fibers of the muscles were being stretched and torn. I'll be stronger because of this, I thought. I'll feel it in a couple of days. That's good.

I continued riding, fairly straight, but my mind was turning corners. I thought of Monday, when I was helping a dear soul make some sense of her yard. We'd cleared a small patch, turned over some soil, and planted a few things: hosta, astilbe, tomatoes, basil, and tiger lilies transplanted from my own yard. I've learned that it's best to be a bit rough with plants: tear those root balls a bit, really separate them. So I did. My friend, pulling weeds, was aghast when I urged her to do the same. "It's alive--I don't want to hurt it!" It does seem counterintuitive, but I assured her that it's the way to go. She and I are transplants, too, and we both know a lot about ripping and tearing, then growing. It's humbling and empowering at the same time.

My muscles continued their quiet fusillades as I rocked the bike a bit to get more leverage around the switchbacks, the hairpin turns designed to make the Greylock road more manageable for motorized traffic. The switchbacks began to take on the appearance of a jester's lopsided, sinister smirk, sharp and steep on the low, inside corner, flatter toward the outside.

Twelve switchbacks in all, and I was seeing clear sky and tiny landscapes to my right, and increasingly scrubby pines on my left. I got a small wave from inside a Williams College van, a nod from a descending cyclist, and a bemused glance from two chipmunks. More clouds than sun. I avoided checking my mileage, and kept focusing on the road immediately ahead. I must have checked my jersey zipper (already unzipped) and rear derailleur (still in the lowest gear) at least twenty times. I got the distinct sensation that I was riding into a cloud. It was hard to imagine that this same piece of pavement started in gritty Wednesday-morning North Adams.

The road flattened out a bit, and I began to see sky on both sides. I rounded a corner, feeling a surge of energy, and saw the sign for the summit: elevation 3491 feet. I circled the monument, originally intended to be a lighthouse. That seemed appropriate: as I looked out over the railing at the top of the mountain, I felt that I might have been at sea level, looking out over a very low fog over a calm shoreline. No matter: my legs and lungs knew the deal. My breathing took on that deep, slow rhythm that tells me all is well in my body and mind.

I rolled past a rock, noticed a stanza on it, and went back. Words from Henry David Thoreau:

"As the light increased, I discovered around me an ocean of mist, which by chance reached up exactly to the base of the tower and shut out every vestige of the earth, while I was left floating on this fragment of the wreck of a world, on my carved plank, in cloudland. . . .

I lingered for a few minutes, inhaled some bits of clouds, zipped my jersey, and set off for the long, speedy descent. I knew my legs would carry me home. I knew I'd be stronger for my effort. Cycling tells me again and again that I can. I can, and sometimes it takes climbing and ripping in order to grow.

Why do people put on silly clothes and propel their bicycles up ridiculously steep slopes, dawdle for a while, then descend in a breathless, 40-mile-an-hour isometric rollercoaster? Well, why do people do anything?