Pendelum

Yesterday was one of those days that began with such strong feelings of accomplishment.  I woke up to knowing I clocked 94 miles in all, tackled 2500 feet of ascents and met some cool people as well.  Yet, the day continued in a dreadful manner right after those thoughts passed.  I was supposed to do another 20 mile ride, but had to cancel due to sinuses.  Then, the cough and shivers appeared.  I managed to clean my apartment and made it over to a friend's apartment to catch Breaking Bad and then retuned home coughing in fits.  Oh yeah, BB was so fucked up last night and might need its own entry.  Man, what a tough episode to watch.

The idea of being on such a high and then falling down so quickly is a blow.  I took the day off today and have been in that stage of perpetual sleep and waking up to only find myself returning to bed.  It is that kind of sick where you can't really even read anything; the crossword puzzle doesn't even sound appealing.  At the time of typing this, I normally would have done a few laps around the park, eaten lunch and graded a few papers before my first class at 2:00.  Instead, I'm stuck with my computer and trying not to fall asleep.  48 hours ago, I just finished crossing the George Washington Bridge on my bike.  It is a dramatic swing and one I don't really need right now.  It is also torturous to look out the window and see this September day go to waste.

When you get sick and you feel like shit, the depression and sadness that has been kept at bay creep up and seem to begin to mock you in a way.  They have you and know you have nowhere to go.  This swing needs to be short-lived and return to the place it had been for the past few months regarding rides and serenity on that track.  My fingers are crossed; hoping this day of rest will get me back on track by tomorrow.

C'mon pendulum, swing back!

A Haiku for Rockland County

To Rockland County,

thank you for not killing me. 

I'll recall your hills. 

The Bike: A Tale of Rekindled Obsession

It is Friday night and nearly 11:00 PM.  I'm gearing up for doing my third long-distance ride in as many weeks and am freaking out about it.  That feels strange as I love it so and it really clears my mind in a myriad of ways.  This ride is called Escape New York.  When I first saw the ride's title, my mind immediately thought of John Carpenter and Kurt Russell and knew it had to be done.  Yet, I didn't pay attention to the climbs, 2300 feet of them over 65 miles in Rockland County and the city.  I'm actually going to be clocking about 90, as I'm riding up  and back to Sakura Park from Brooklyn in the AM and that is about 12 miles each way.  It'll be a major accomplishment if I finish it.

Onto the rekindled relationship with the bicycle.  In 1997, before moving to Brooklyn, I bought an amazing bike from a guy in Maryland.  The bike wasn't anything fancy frame wise, just some Japanese no-name steel frame.  But, as we all know, the Japanese make quality shit and that bike was a quality bike.  The previous owner was exactly my height and it was a perfect fit for my body.  I rode it a bit on meandering country roads on the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake and then finally introduced it to the city in the spring of '98.  I  know there are plenty of arguments to be made about aluminum or carbon frames, but steel just absorbs all of the shitty aspects of city streets.  It literally attacks the street and much less of your body.  Immediately, I fell in love with cycling Brooklyn and Manhattan.  Sadly, it got stolen in 2001.  I bought a Giant for a decent price in Chelsea.  I hated the Giant.  Long rides were reduced to a minimum.

Now, this past summer's summer shitstorm occurred and I needed a major release to just stop thinking about things for a prolonged time during the day.  These days I'm riding a Rocky Mountain Fusion from the mid-90s.  It all began with a few laps in the park on a blistering July day.  Then it came back.  All of it came back!  The immense freedom of just being one with a rather simplistic machine while not checking your phone every few minutes for e-mail or texts because it truly is a distraction.  You begin to notice advances in your speed and obviously, in the distance you feel comfortable riding on a regular basis.  Your calves become these rock monsters.  You actually start thinking about protein and good carbs versus bad ones.    You really begin to give a damn about your body and maintaining it to perform.  That is quite a feat for me!

So, the rides, for me at least, begin with a nagging, albeit, short-lived pain.  My legs are aching at first; hills burn them while starting out.  For the first 5-10 minutes it seems like acid is pouring through my muscles, saturating them and roasting them.  Then, adrenaline kicks in and the burn dissipates.  At this point, I'm usually pedaling with anger.  Angry, fucked up thoughts fill my mind and each thrust is like my legs saying "fuck you" to the world.  My rides always seems to start out this way.  All of the hurt, pain and anger release themselves in the initial miles.  Suddenly, it becomes too tiring to think of those things.  In a seemingly magical and inexplicable manner, those thoughts just literally disappear.  The focus becomes your pace, the street, the surroundings and architecture/nature of whatever cityscape/landscape surrounds you at the time.  You begin to focus on things that pass by quickly.  As I ride without an iPod, you literally hear a breeze and then the sounds of everything you pass by.  The sounds become blurs, adding a sensation of leaving your body in a way.  Yet, the irony is that your body is doing all of the work, but your mind separates from it.  The only way I can explain is via dichotomy:  You are obviously pushing yourself to keep going, yet your body feels as if it isn't listening to anything at all.  Does that make sense?

Tomorrow is going to be a long day and hope I can deal with the ascents......

The Spotify Syndrome

Music is one of the only things I feel as if I have mastered; not in the way I can play it well, nor even pick up an instrument and make it make beautiful noise.  I feel like I have an ear.  It goes way back to young kid rebellion when you fought your parents for no reason, just to hear other things.

I feel as if I've written about my sister brining home The Violent Femmes back in 1984-85 and just hearing that band made me happy.  I was way into Prince at that point, still am, actually.  But it was the word, "fuck" that lit up my eyes.  It was so bad in 1985....84....still kinda bad now?  At least in front of students.  Prince opened up the f-word to me in 1982 with the 1999 album, his eye spinning around the spindle.  His bare ass on the record sleeve, neon surrounding it.  "C'mon baby, let's fuck..."

But, it was this daring thing back then to even use the word.  I also listened to Minor Threat later,  in those days, 86' to be exact, when I got my first Powell and Peralta board.  I think they were still a a band then and I used my allowance money to order both the board and that iconic shirt of Minor Threat sitting on a porch.  I didn't get what "I don't fuck" meant at that point.  I was 12 and didn't get "fucking" in that way.  Now I do.

Spotify.  Man, God bless it.  Without it, I'd probably be "fucking" all over town.  Those late nights without hindrance til' the morning.  That's when it is odd.  I haven't "fucked" since her, my Favorite Librarian, as it is too raw to even get there.  That is where Spotify is amazing.  I can go back and listen to albums I loved all the time while fucking my brains out.  I can relive old shit where she has no say.  That is the gorgeous thing about it.  It rehabilitates yourself and makes you remember a time you probably had forgotten.

The Spotify syndrome to another extent is that we "follow" each other on that random social/quasi/medium that it is.  I need to drop her.  She needs to drop me, but it is the last bit of anything we have to connect each other to anything.  So, here I sit on a night she didn't play anything.  ANYTHING.  And the last song she played was one of our favorites by Band of Horses.  It played at our wedding a little over a year ago.

What to do.....

Funny how long it took to me to address the Spotify Syndrome.  Maybe that is why it failed.

The Gun Thing (In a Cat Perspective)

Lately, I've been very outspoken on this issue, on Facebook, getting people to respond to an atrocity.  I have always owned cats.  Commanche, Siren, Kumo, Mocha, Natsha, Chloe, Lilly.  Those cats have been with me throughout my entire life.  Kumo is still here.  Commanche died from probably cancer, something no vet will ever know.  Siren, on the other hand, and she had been mentioned in blog posts before, I didn't know how to deal with.  I left her in an abandoned lot in Brooklyn, simply because I didn't know how to care for her.  I knew where she had been left was a rescue center for cats, that she would be found and taken care of.  I'll never forget "dropping her off" there.  She followed me home and I shooed her away.  She was sick in a cat way that vets, without the money I had already put into her ($2500) could not diagnose.

And so, this cat, who slept with me every night for ten years became too much to handle (or, sadly, too expensive).  And, I let her go into the wild.  I'll never stop feeling guilt for that.

So, there are kids, who are not cats, who got shot in a small Connecticut town.  And, I feel like there are so many citizens of this country who just see them as "pets."  They are things we have very little obligation towards because we want what we want.  That "want" turns into a very personal validation of an outdated need.  We don't need guns anymore in the way the Constitution printed it.

I had put on my Facebook post that this country really doesn't care about its' citizens anymore.  That basic heath care was a fight.  That we had to get all uppity to just have one basic right announced and put into law for all of us.  That was a battle.  And, we, seemingly, the country won that one.  Yet, when it comes to this senseless violence, this death without meaning, we are silent for the most part.  There will be another one of these.  We will sit there and say, what could we have done differently?

Back to Siren.  If I had the resources (which were not there), I would have gotten her help.  I'd have taken her to as many clinics as she could have been taken to (which had not existed), and I would have done all I could have done.

A cat and the gun are the same in so many ways.