R.I.P. Lux Interior

Signposts to the Season of Hate

Ask not what hatred can do for you...

but what you can do for the Haters.

Near Death by Cliche

I hadn't thought of officially counting the cliches involved in my near miss today until half-time started and I sat down to type this out.  

As I stopped at a street crossing southwest of Lincoln today, a woman with quite fashionable oversized sunglasses decided she only needed to look left for her right hand turn and, while carrying on what I sure was a critically important conversation in her live, started to one hand the wheel and turn right into me.  I looked up, catch her daughter's petrified eyes as her Mom then saw me but, of course, instead of stopping, Mom decided the solution was to punch it, cross over the other side of the road and then rip a hard right turn in front of me.  Of course, then she gunned it down the road in a great impersonation of a getaway drive.  

Ride it like you stole it, but drive it like you might have killed him.

I've told Mrs. Snob that if I do ever get ran down and the driver is identified to have someone check the driver's cell phone records.  Since it will likely come down to a "he said, she said," that could be the only 'true' account you might get from the driver.

In a strange twist of circumstance, the rest of the gravel driving public, including several white trucks and SUVs, almost seemed to, not only know of, but be offended by this woman's ridiculous driving.  Acknowledging, waving and generally driving like champs and making me remember that most people are pretty reasonable, it's just the idiots we remember most.

Be safe everyone.  (Cliche count?  I number it at five.)

Soloist

With the Pinewood Derby (Best in Show) and a girl's basketball game (victory) eating up my morning, I missed the D Street Gravel Convention and found myself rolling solo through a strangely sunny and warm final day of January. I pulled the Fixed Niner out for some heavier rotations and discovered just how fall the fitness has fallen.

It's always interesting to climb back on any single and ride a familiar route.  It provides a touchstone for where your fitness sits and let's you know what you need to get done.  I discovered I have a lot to do.

Birds of a Feather

Perhaps it seeps in through the windows or slides through an open door, either way, the plague known as over-analysis has taken over our house.  With NAHBS only a few weeks away, Snappy Cap preparations have consumed the Casa de Cronin.

Mrs. Snob has faxed me show floor layouts, booth decor and any other detail up for consideration, all in an attempt to make her first show memorable and stylish as only Mrs. Snob can.  

After an email back and forth leading to the selection of a booth on the main aisle across from the Vanilla enclave, last night consisted of moving furniture out of the living room and grabbing a tape measure to truly visualize what you can really do with a 10x10 space.  (At the time, I had silently wondered if we would tape the space off Les Nessman style.)  The concept is there, several unique elements are set so it's now all down to execution and a little bit of madness.

With sessions to attend for War Axe in mind, John and the Ninja assisting in the booth, and the show being in one my former home towns, the show is likely to be a whirlwind which I won't completely absorb until Nate, Sam and I arrive back in Lincoln after the twelve hour drive.  

Whenever it soaks in, it's hard to imagine our first NAHBS won't be a memorable one.

An Answer...

... to 17 hour hands?

This Damn Blog

It's so easy anymore to throw out a Fight Club quote for nearly any circumstance or social occasion, so in the interest of continuing to let the dominos fall, let's do it again.

"The things you own, end up owning you."  So predictable.

Many of the links to the right were in need of updating, including one that you now apparently need permission to read.  I didn't even know that functionality existed.  Links used to stress me out but I stopped caring.  Not that I don't care about the people who right them, but I have found I am the proverbial creature of habit, not efficiency.  In someways, my links are a rundown of my favorites, but in other ways no.  Some blogs are my gateway drug to other blogs (some of which I visit more frequently than the ones on the sidebar.)  Others don't update that often, get light visits because of it, yet they remain my favorites.  Fickle?  If you say so.

What does that little rant amount to?  Not much, I agree.

Aside from War Axe, racing and shrinking seem to be occupying most corners of my mind lately.  Thankfully beyond double-digit downsizing, I'm starting to look again at the little mythologies that I start to believe mean I am faster than last year.  Again, having stacked a bulk of racing before the end of April and not having a clue of what to do until Nationals rolls around, this time in October.  Maybe I can lose a winning blackjack hand by that time (as in lose 21 pounds), but history is not on my side.

Side Thought:  My daughter has a softer jump shot than you.  (But, she can't go to her left so play her tight and take away the drive to her right.)

Yours in randomness,

Snob

Calling All Photogs

In finalizing the new War Axe site, I'd like to put together a gallery of War Machine from last season.  If you have photos you wouldn't mind sharing and attaching to an email, we would appreciate it.  I think it will round out the new site nicely.

Mileage Like the Mailman

As in, neither wind nor snow...

It seemed to take a long time for it to happen, but my mind has finally clicked into the mode which makes you want to eat miles. Week after week I was coming up short but now I can look back on this week and be satisfied. Of course, the becomes keeping it up until Spring rolls through and we all grab number plates, line up and go.

No, Corey, I'm still not waking up that early.

StillLife

Assorted Snobbery: Doing It Wrong

The problem with visiting Elk's Blog and then wandering about YouTube's selection of Fugazi and The Evens is coming across the snippet below. It could potentially cause you to want to leave your office, take your computer to a coffee house and work on a little upstart frame fabrication company instead of actually doing your day job.



Of course, the fact I started piling on miles this week has also left my legs in a state of pleasant tiredness, which also makes me want to go get coffee and work on War Axe. Can't go wrong. Can't do it right.

The American Pit Bull

I have to believe that as long as their have been cyclists, they have been chased by dogs.  And if your riding habits put you on gravel or in rural parts of your world, it likely happens enough that you've developed your own way of coping with the offenders, with it's own peculiar order of operations.  A friendly voiced, a sprint, water shot out of bottles, bottles themselves; all in a effort to stay one step ahead of a bite aimed for your achilles.

Of course, I've been through my fair share of dogs sprinting through yards.  Most come to say hello but a few have wanted a little something more.  Today was a first though, as I pushed into the West wind on Bennett road just southwest of Lincoln.  My head was down as I mashed my way up a hill.  As I crested, I looked to my right to see two dogs in a dead sprint toward me.  The second dog barely caught my attention though, because his buddy was a large white, muscles ripping, American Pit Bull.  My eyes went wide.

Of course, not every Pit Bull owner runs the 40 in 4.4 and tortures dogs in his spare time.  In fact my brother has a Pit, so I slowly dismounted to put my bike between myself and the block of flying muscle.  "Hey Buddy!!  Come here." 

The tale gave him away and a little love-fest ensued with my new single serving canine friend.  His owner came out just as I started scratching the dog head.  He walked out and I said, "most of you guys freak out, but he wouldn't harm a fly."  I just smiled, gave the other dog a little pat and headed out.

Even though all was well.  That moment of looking up and seeing the Pit in a full sprint toward me had still jacked me up.  At least it helped me finish out my ride strongly.

"Throw'em Con!!"

Worked from four windy hours in the but the stoked on the new War Axe
t-shirts in undiminshed.

Thanks to the Hoss Creative and Screen Ink for the style council.

Crap, It's Starting to Feel Real

UFO sighting number one.

(Personally, I think this photo, and the others, are photoshopped.)

Sickly Scent of Desperation

Naturalist missives about the circle of life aside, it is ironic and seemingly pathetic to me how I feel the same ruts, paranoia and passion start and restart the same times each year, a passion victim case study in how difficult it is not to constantly hit 'repeat.'

Now, sitting here in January with the earmarks of a season to come queued up waving in the distance, my little panics about riding and training keep creeping up my back to stand on my shoulder and ask me why 2 degrees is too low, cookies still catch my eye and 8am is too early to meet people to ride.

'New' Chrome store in SF.  Yet another do-over.

At least now, those panics prove to be more archangel that devil, prodding me along as opposed to providing a load bearing weight.  Eight pounds lost.  Bikes restored to standards.  Finding fitness under the dust-covers.

So as the cold temps continue and trainer time turns the movies I own into the movies I quote, it's the little twists that spark fire.  Little steps with War Axe, strides with Susan's Snappy Caps and races viewed with a competitive eye and others for the sake of new experience. 

More space.  More product.  Same great vibe.  Same shitty phone camera.

NAHBS.  Ouachita.  TransIowa.  Kanza.  24hr Nationals all sit in that queue, holding places in line to be filled.  Revamp.  Rewind. Repeat.  I'm ready to let the archangel on my shoulder lead on, even if I am not sure I'm ready for where we are going.

You Are Not the Coffee You Drink...

City Lights

Bayside

Hipster is so Mainstream

20 Feet from the Hotel

at the Contemporary Jewish Museum of San Francisco...