Haiku

If I could turn down
the static in my head, what
sweet song would I hear?

The Rider Up The Road

Tomorrow is a speeding rider up the road.

My slight gain, a slip back--I can't reel him in,

hovering, rocking, shimmering in the cold.

No number, no race, nothing clear to win.

What may I see around the beckoning curve?

No matter my speed, I will face it alone.

Will it steel me, spur me, or unhinge my nerve?

Feeling much, only seeing what is shown.

We all ride, trapped in our bubbles of time.

Yet in any moment, who can say “it's mine”?

I will be that rider, as I was the one behind.

You and I are alike, not in time but in kind.

Chasing that next fleeting rider up the road

into another evening's quickly fading glow.

Haiku

Two rivers of speech
flow to a silent pool where
all is understood.

Two about breathing

Silence, then wind comes

off the river, like the breath

of eons of words.

Let my anger come

and go, quickly and cleanly,

as a breath: in, out. 

 

Haiku

The moisture in my

breath fogging the window was

once hard, angry hail.

Forward

Three hundred sixty five

days open and shut, darkness

and light, and we're here

again, this arbitrary line

that the earth and stars

disregard, operating on

their own silent clocks

but, still, time (a gift!) to

think of a similar line in

between this now and the next,

each ripe to begin--

So, universe,

let me look forward

using vision (in all its senses),

let me see color and shape

emerge from the dawn of

each future moment, to

look forward at least as much

as I reach back to those

familiar comforts (even when

they are sharp and hard),

forward, into that which

only seems like a void,

leaping and large.

Up the Hollow

Midnight, on the way home

walking uphill from the

bar where the music

cut to the viscera

far beyond the day's

ennui and minutiae

of contracts and salaries

grades and plan-book

ledger lines--

who's here, who's not

what they earn--

and life opens up

along Sheridan Hollow

this desolate gash of canyon

in the heart of Albany--

and I am a dog

marking his territory

loving that alone-ness

of big spaces for crowds

now empty and quiet

with the hum of lighted

kiosks and halos over streets

angels or not it doesn't matter

as linden leaves dance in

the warm October air

and it's a foreign country

as soon as routine is broken

and it's a Thursday night

several pints deep now

and my feet know the way

as I move like a fugitive

picking up and leaving behind

little bits here and there

down Dove Street across Washington

a quick skip as the relay clicks and

lights change for midnight traffic

of cabs—blond waves crash

into the front seat and a

mummy-figure sweeps past

in a bright bus whoosh

and I find my way home--

not lonely just alone.

Race report: Catskill Divide Road Race, August 19, 2012

Conventional wisdom says train hard, then taper your training before your race or event. Conventional wisdom says get a good night's sleep. In my world, friends speak louder than that wisdom, so when one says “I really want to ride Deerfield... will you ride with me?” and another friend says “Hey, there's this really cool race you'd like,” the answer of course is yes. And yes.

The morning after 55 miles at Deerfield—after wrong turns, route extensions and a trip to the emergency room for a friend's thankfully minor incident--I found myself in Big Indian, in New York's Catskill mountains. After several wrong turns and the distraction of runners, recreational cyclists, and weekenders, my friends and I pulled in and unloaded. The whole thing was remarkably low-key for a road race, with a group of riders so small that the race organizer decided to put us all together at the start—categories one through five, men, women and a solitary junior racer.

This race bills itself as a super-tough dirt-road race that's comfortable on a cyclocross bike—if you don't mind falling way behind riders on road bikes. I chose my road bike, but did not have time to change out my Michelins for tires with a bit more width and puncture resistance. Oh well, throw more wisdom to the wind.

We rolled out, and I felt more twitchy than I'd expected. Maybe it was the recent memory of my friend's crash the previous day. Maybe it was that I was in such proximity to pros—I was hoping my bike-handling would be adequate for our admittedly brief time together before they went up the road at their pace. We rolled out fairly slowly, no doubt because the Pro/1/2/3 guys (all three of them) had two laps to do, not just one like us.

The first climb broke up things. It was hard to tell who was in what field, but I consoled myself by knowing some of the cat fives were behind me. I had a rider in front of me in sight, and a big gap behind. We zig-zagged through a small town, and I had to squeeze between two cars, one on either side of the road, the one on my side not quite committed to either driving or pulling over. Then it was up a sharp dirt climb, where more riders came into view as everyone's pace slowed. I tried to keep a reasonable speed without blowing up. I did reel in a rider within a couple of miles—the junior, who probably hasn't yet worked out how to dole out his energy reserves--then another, which is always good for a little extra shot of motivation.

We had a group of three on another dirt section, and they seemed to know where to go—which was down a tiny, narrow road threaded between a couple of barns. One rider on a BMC flatted, within FEET of the wheel truck. He got back on quickly. We stretched out and bunched up off and on over the next few miles.

The website suggested mountain-bike shoes, should a rider need to run on part of Townsend Hollow Road. “Not me,” I thought. I thought incorrectly. Mr. BMC came around right as a rider ahead of me un-clipped. I was next. I walked about 50 feet, found a flat spot and got back on. My calves and lower back—parts of my body that I generally do not need to tell to shut up—were screaming as I crested the climb, the road filled with soft soil and fist-sized rocks.

The dirt descents were sketchy, more so than what we encounter on our Tuesdays in Rensselaer County. I rode within my ability, which I thought was pretty good, but a couple of guys just bombed right down them. Fearless. My friend Johny K. says the bike wants to stay upright. Me, too. Again, we'd spread out and re-group. One rider seemed a bit frayed: His bike and jersey looked beat up, and he wobbled a bit. Not the best wheel to follow.

We had more of this sort of up-and-down on the dirt fun for the next few miles, and it actually DID feel fun. My what-the-heck attitude at the start had morphed into spirited competitiveness, and my body felt way better than I'd expected, given the previous day's riding. We had a group of three or four: myself, the guy on the BMC, and the squirrely guy. We worked together, in a ragged way, until the last big dirt descent, where they took off. I was on the brakes, trying to balance the relative dangers of speed and an overheated rim from too much braking, which can lead to a blow-out. I passed a few other riders on the way down, and caught sight of my previous partners soon. The wobbly guy's bike sounded like it was about to fall apart, which was more incentive for me to get around him. We picked up our third again and worked together, until the base of the hill, where we came around the noisy bike. His graceless cornering explained it: he was riding on a flat front tire, at speeds pushing 30 mph downhill. We dropped him out of the corner and worked together for the last couple of miles, trading pulls.

I was wondering when the alliance would split. I wasn't wondering too hard, since I had no idea where we were, place-wise. It was just fun. I took what I decided was my last pull, and then came around him about 400 meters out, and sprinted. I don't think he responded, and I'm not sure if it was due to fatigue or disinterest, but for today at least, I gained a place in the finale. Again, fun.

I ended up sixth out of seventeen registrants, fifteen starters, and fourteen finishers. We were only separated by a few minutes. If I hadn't promised to drive my friends to the race in my car, I may have blown off the entire race. I'm glad I didn't. That was one of my best results this year. I'm clawing my way past the middle.

We hung around afterward, and chowed down on a huge container of fruit the organizer provided for us. I talked with some other racers, people on actual teams—not clubs—and heard some great stories. I even got a pair of socks. Hey, it's the little things. Everyone left with something, which is pretty cool. This race is definitely on my calendar for next year. 

Full results

Promoter's website

Questions About Home Repair

We moved in quickly

once the decision was made

and worked hastily,

filled in jagged cracks

with the malleable goo of

white caulk, tubes and tubes

of the stuff, smoothed with a finger

over rough wood from another time,

a perfect concave shape ready

to be painted over and forgotten--

So now--

years later

I use heat and force to pull

the cracked and shrunken caulk

away from that same old wood,

taking it down deeper now to its

earthy brown essence, peeling layers

of paint—that cheap latex we used

comes right off in sheets--and

I think of the quick fix of

two innocent, ignorant new

homeowners working close

but not together on walls

and trim work, hastily

painting only what's seen,

not really breaking a sweat

or working too hard--the paint

peels in irregular patterns,

until, in maroon under green

under white, a question mark

appears and my work halts,

tools down, as I search,

reach for these words.

Titles

Teacher, judge, critic, arbiter of pass/fail.

Therapist, counselor, seeker of unknown grail.

Good son, angry kid, loyal friend, outcast.

Late bloomer, number-wearer, second, never last.

Friendly shoulder, prickly loner—confused.

Sound shaper, channeler, painting shades of blue.

Handyman, homeowner: measure once, swear twice.

Hold-out, repeater, stumbler, ignorer of advice.

Long rambler, stream-of-consciousness swimmer.

Light seeker, push on as the day gets dimmer.

Cowboy Cornering

On the ramp from I90 to 787,

my hand out the window,

with Rush playing, I remembered

how you once called me a cowboy

for taking this same turn

with confidence and daring--

and I smiled, just then, and

pushed my right foot deeper,

enjoying the tires' sure grip

and the slight sideways force

as my orange car continued to

track firmly and truly.