State of the Union

Having attended a party last night touting celebration of American history and ideals, I rolled out of bed through a smattering of red, white, and blue cans to confront my computer screen (as and most other Americans will do for on average 8 more hours). A New York Times article about reinventing the urban landscape in this country caught my eye:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/29/arts/design/29ouro.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&src=sch

The author discretely incites a call to action to our nation, consciously or not. I feel that although articles and movements like this seem outrageously progressive or "hippy-ish" to many, environmentalism and a sense of national responsibility will return to our nation through future generations. Just as I was born into an era and community where racism and women's oppression are becoming relics, I believe that subsequent generations of youth will be born into a more eco-conscious America.

However, my optimistic outlook may be unprecedented due to an issue of "critical mass." As the article makes poignant, we see cities in France, Denmark, GB, and China restructuring urban settings and mindsets for a more sustainable future. These cities, much older and more densely populated than US cities have no option but to adapt as critical mass has been reached. American cities, St. Louis in particular have no limits to sprawl thanks to the Eisenhower interstate system and car-culture that came in suit. What will it take for US cities to reach this critical mass? Rising gas prices? Shortage of natural resources? Government regulation? Awareness through community outreach?

I invest my stock* in future, educated, socially conscious Americans. Hah laughable.

*('Cause I sure as hell ain't investing in the stock market)

Existential

Why can't anyone give me a straight answer as to the meaning of that word. It is though they know I am haunted by such a crisis and withhold some secret in attempting to be courteous. Or perhaps it's embarrassment. Like the cast of the Truman Show with Carey or the Ting Tings Japanese manager knowledge is obscured.

I relate with Jack Lemmon.

A Norwegian Philosopher, Phillip Wessel Zapffe suggests four methods of coping; isolation, anchoring, distraction, sublimation. Soy un estudiante de distracción.

Lost Valley Luau

Bike racing resumes coaxing me to update my blog as I find it easier to record my training and racing through creative writing than by the confines of lines and tables in a staunch training log. Since my return from Texas in December, I have monotonously droned away on the cross bike racking up base miles like tickets at a Chucky Cheese. However, with only a few hundred tickets, I am still short of the ultimately cool radio control car or jam box prizes on the top shelf. These awards are strictly for the kids who's parents dump tons of money into the machines for their rascals or for those diligent enough to laboriously throw 1000's of ski balls down the alley. I will let you sort through the similitude of this abstraction, yet the point is I need more tickets(base).

"All the base are not belong to us, but I do have chance to survive make my time."

After a few rainout weekends, Sunday afternoon marked the opening of the MidWest Fat Tire Championship Series at Lost Valley. As I mentioned, my base and strength training up until now have been marginal with some last ditch effort intensity training the week prior. Lining up with the sport field, we were off grinding down the Katy Trail. As I speculated, a few Tool Academy cadidates blasted off the front only to be reeled in during the trudge to the single track. A small breakaway group of seven riders or so formed and began to slowly edge off the front. Strategically, I nestled myself in the middle, shielding the wind for the first few miles letting the ambitious do some of my work (the American way). Like a first grade class, the group single filed and held hands down the screaming descent into the loop. Once again, as I speculated, the monstrosity of a climb that followed segregated the field; men first, boys distant second. Seeing the girl scouts in front of me drop into the small ring, I geared up, called on the Single Speed gods and took the hill standing. Cresting the hill, I found myself in first by a marginal distance having moved up through some of the slower women and expert riders with only one sportivo following.

Lap 1 meandered on insignificantly, loosing only one spot to the kiddo on the full suspension who apparently doesn't know how gears work. Somewhere in the midst of Lap 2, my energy tanked and legs started to compromise. A small group of riders, not sure what category got around me on the second gravel grind, putting in a considerable gap. Some words of encouragement from an unknown single speeder, afforded me the mental capacity to gap back to the group and eventually sprint them out to the finish line. However much to my dismay, our rivalrous haul-assing and sprint finish saw us across the line five minutes too early, affording a third lap.

Out of water, legs, energy, and rocket sauce, my body a la stock market began recession. The third lap was a sufferfest. I remember very little except that it started to rain making the new course milage euro as hell. With my white lips and vision narrowing to a pinhole, I crossed the finish line somehow retaining second place in my age category!

A Fictitious Graphical Representation of My Day

Honored, baffled, fatigued. I think this coming weekend might be spent with more base building rather than rim wrecking. Although I finished respecitbly, it was not the glorius finish I could have hoped for. Thanks go out to my teammates at Mesa, especially Matt for putting on such an awesome race, CON-AIR for the encouragement on Lap 3, and RB for the water and brownies.