MrJumbo Gets a Blog

Goofing at 1178, March 17, 1990

2011-07-21T23:10:00.000-07:00

Mom and her three brothers, no different from any other little kids when a camera comes out. My brother Franklin took this sequence. That’s our old family car in the background.

1945 Road Trip VI

2011-03-27T13:15:00.000-07:00

These notes were in an unmarked manila folder at Mom’s house, with no further explanation, nor any sign of any further correspondence from the trip. If I were a gambling man, I’d bet Mom had preserved them from her mother’s files back when Mom and her brothers spent a couple of years clearing out Grandmother’s house, much as my siblings and I are sifting through Mom’s, trying to sort the clutter from the keepsakes.

I have no idea why Dick enclosed the torn-off classified ad in this envelope, unless it was to show that he had received a packet of newspapers from California.

Envelope postmarked Kincardine, Ontario, July 18, 1945, 4¢ Canada stamp on an unmarked envelope.

Addressed to The De Witt’s, 3482 Knollcrest Ave, Los Angeles 43, Calif., U.S.A.

Tuesday, July 16, ’45
On the farm

Dear Mom & Dad & Doug

Well, this is going to be a short letter as I have about ten minutes in which to write. Yesterday we chopped & cut wood all afternoon. It was all elm. It rained a lot again Sunday and thus made things pretty wet.

We turned part of a field of hay over to dry last night and I am going out now to help load it and bring it in.

Dad, do you need any Gillette razor blades? They have plenty of Canadian Gillette razor blades up here and they sell 5 for 25¢ same as down there. If you want me to, I’ll get some. Let me know. The[y] have lots of things up here that are scarce in the States. Yesterday I bought a box of Wrigleys gum. It is a cinnamon-flavored gum and is pretty good. When I get back in the States, I’ll mail it home.

How is Bill? I hope everyone is all right.

Dick.

Dick DeWitt
℅ Bill Ferguson
R.R. #1 Kincardine
Ontario,
Canada

1945 Road Trip V

2011-03-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

After Dick got out of university a few years after this trip, he more or less settled in at my grandfather’s manufacturing company, where he worked the rest of his career in an industrial environment. All his life he remained fond of travel. It was only at the far end of his biography that fate found him once again farming hay, this time involved with his brothers in setting up a series of alfalfa fields, in the U.S.

Unmarked white envelope with four green 1¢ Canada stamps.

Addressed in pencil to: Doug E. DeWitt, 3482 Knollcrest Ave, Los Angeles 43, California, United States of America.

Saturday July 14, 1945

from
Dick DeWitt
℅ Bill Ferguson
RR#1
Kincardine
Ontario

Doug—

How are you? Is everything OK? I haven’t heard from anybody yet and I have wondered how everybody is. Maybe the lack of mail is due to the fact that I haven’t been in one place too long!

We got up here to the farm last Wednesday. The hay was ready to bring in and we started to work on it. There is Bill (Bruce’s cousin), Bruce, John (Bill’s brother), and myself working on the Hay. John helps Bill with his haying, and then Bill goes over and helps out at John’s farm, etc. with all the crops.

Bill’s farm has 100 acres and it keeps him busy. He has pigs, a few chickens, a few calves, sows and 7 cows. Bruce and I milk 2 each and Bill milks three every morning and night.

Last night we went down to Lake Huron, which is about three miles away, and did a bit of swimming. The air is pretty cool and so is the lake. When you go in swimming and come out you are warm, because of the cool air. The lake sure is a change from the ocean. It is nice and clean. There are no waves and the bottom slopes out slowly, thus making it possible to walk a long way out.

How is your job? We are getting up about the same time you do. How is the beach? Is the weather getting warmer.

Up to last night we have brought in about 20 loads of hay. He has one now which is 19' x 40' and the rafter is 18 feet high which is filled a little bit above the rafter. Yesterday we started pitching hay in a loft. We have a few loads in it also.

Many thing[s] are much cheaper up here. The exchange on an American dollar is ten cents. You can go in a store, buy a hamburger which costs ten cents, hand them an American dollar, an[d] they will give you the hamburger and an Canadian dollar. That’s pretty good!

When we came across the border we got our ration books. They ration sugar & preserves, & butter. Now they have started to ration meat. There is no shortage up here, and we can buy plenty to eat.

It is raining and storming right now, so there isn’t much to do. The rain up here isn’t like California rain. It most likely will rain for a few hours and then blow over. Anyway I hope so!

I guess that’s about all now. If you have time, drop me a line. Say hello to everyone for me. Thanks

Dick.

1945 Road Trip IV

2011-03-27T12:56:00.000-07:00

Nothing says Modern and Air Cooled like a picture of a Conestoga wagon in the desert with a cactus.

Envelope postmarked Detroit, Michigan, 10:30 a.m. July 9, 1945

Two enclosures: single-leaf flyer on Mammoth Cave (at Put-in-Bay) and four-page glossy black-and-white newspaper, “Lake Erie Breeze,” Summer 1945 edition

Sunday, July 8, 1945

Hi there—

Well, we went to Put-in-Bay yesterday. It is up in Ohio in Lake Erie, not Lake Huron. It wasn’t a bad place, except there were millions of June Bugs. There were piles of dead ones all over. One good thing about June Bugs is that they don’t bite. We saw the Mammoth Caves. We walked down some stairs and as soon as we were down about fifteen or twenty feet, it got very cold, and it stayed that way. There was a lake down in the bottom which had very clear water and was perfectly pure. The temperature of the cave is 45°F. all year-round. After seeing the lake we went through a tunnel, around which were small stalagmites ? (the ones on the top of a cave). I guess if you have seen Carlsbad Caverns this would be a hole in the ground, but being I haven’t, I liked it. We didn’t [do] anything special the rest of the day.

Today we mo[w]ed Bruce’s aunt’s lawn and then went to his Aunt Jennie’s house for dinner. We had pot roast and a regular home cooked dinner. You should be glad that you have meat out there. Here, it is really scarce.

After dinner, we went to the ball game with tickets that Mr. Cameron bought for us. It was a double-header between N.Y. & Detroit. New York won the first game 8-6 & Detroit the second, 3-2. Eddy Mayo is now playing for Detroit, & he hit a homer in the first game. Joe Hoover is also playing for Detroit.

We just finished dinner and are going over to Dearborn to do our washing and to stay with some of Bruce’s friends over there. They are leaving now, so I must say good-bye.

I hope everyone is all right. Say hello to Mary, when you write her. Thanks!

Love

Dick

1945 Road Trip III

2011-03-27T12:51:00.000-07:00

When Dick took his trip, his brother Doug would have been in high school too, and their sister, my mother, Mary Sarah, was 13. The baby of the family, my uncle Bill, was three going on four.

Envelope postmarked Detroit, Michigan, 11 p.m. July 6, 1945. Envelope is from Pioneer Hotel (“Modern, Air-Cooled,” with illustration of a Conestoga wagon), Tucson, Arizona

Addressed to: The DeWitt Family, 3482 Knollcrest Ave., Los Angeles 43, Calif.

Return address: Dick DeWitt, ℅ 3626 Wabash, Detroit 8, Michigan

In ink, on 3 folded leaves of stationery from Pioneer Hotel (“J.M. Procter, Manager”), each leaf hand-numbered into four pages.

I

July 6, 1945

Hi there—

I guess that you’ve been wondering what has happened to me. Well, when I last wrote to you I was on the bus to Omaha. We got to Omaha at about 7:30 AM, July 2. We slept on the bus all night. Our luck wasn’t too good Monday either. We got to Des Moines, Ia. Monday evening. Owing to the fact that auto travel was rather slow, we decided to try trucks! We would go to an eating place where a lot of the truck drivers stopped, and if they were going where we were, they would give us a lift. We left Des Moines Monday evening and got to Aurora, Ill. Tuesday morning. We slept a bit on the truck. By Tuesday evening we were at Gary, Indiana. Note the great mileage! There was another eating place for truck drivers outside of Gary and we got a ride to Detroit. At Gary we split up. Because the next day was the 4th, none of the trucks could unload, so very few trucks went all the way through to Detroit. Only those having homes in Detroit came through. We couldn’t get a ride in the same truck, but we could get rides separately.

Bruce went ahead in one truck and I followed. We met at the YMCA Wednesday morning. After we cleaned up, Mr. Cameron picked us up and took us to Bruce’s aunt’s house. He then took us down to send the telegram, and to get my pants pressed. Then we came back to Bruce’s aunt’s house, where we have been staying ever since, and had lunch. We then did a little washing and unpacking. Later on Mr. Cameron took us out to eat, and he showed us a bit of the town. We got to bed early Wednesday night, and slept late the next morning. Both nights on the trucks, we didn’t get too much sleep. When we got up we had a bath and breakfast, and then decided to do a little sight seeing. We decided to go to Belle Isle (Thursday). It is an island in the middle of the Detroit River. Going across the bridge to the Isle we saw two people in a small boat being pulled out of the river. There was a strong wind which made the river roll right along. When we got to the Isle we looked around and then rented a canoe. It cost only thirty cents an hour! We canoed up to the very end of the Isle and then back. On the way back it began to rain. There were lots of bridges over

II

the canals, and we would wait under a bridge until the rain would let up, and then would head for the next bridge, etc., until we reached the boat house. The buses didn’t run too often, so we walked back across the bridge in the rain. We came home and then had dinner. We were canoing for about three hours.

We then had to get some ice and get Bruce’s aunt’s carburator [sic] fixed. It seems that they have a very close friend who is head of tool production at Willow Run. Some job, eh!

He helped take the carburator all apart and fix it. Then we went in and talked and had some cookies and lemonade. Mr. McGreggor (the man who is head of tool production at Willow Run) said that Ford is putting out a “straight 5,” and it wouldn’t have a dead center, thus making it better. He also had a very good workshop in his cellar. He had a lathe, drill press, forge, and all kinds of tools, although he said “All my tools are out at the plant.” Also he designed and made the heating system for their house. Also, he happened to mention that Henry Ford is a sick man: Mr. McGreggor had seen Henry Ford several times recently, but each time he didn’t get out of his car. That was unusual for Mr. Ford.

This morning we decided to go to Greenfield Village, that is a town reproduced by Henry Ford, just outside of Dearborn, and the museum. We went through the village first. It had all kinds of buildings connected with the life of Henry Ford and the development of America. I am sending to [?] booklets about the Village and the Museum home. The village was a place that you all would really enjoy.

The museum was also a beautiful structure. Different parts of the buildings were reproductions of parts of famous structures, such as Independence Hall, etc. You walk in the museum, and pay, and then you go down a large hallway which has much furniture and china wear [sic] of different periods. Then you come to the main room of the Museum. The floor is made of teak wood blocks about a foot or so long and about three inches wide and worked into a herringbone pattern. It is the largest teak wood floor in the world. Many early shops are reproduced there and there are many automobiles, bicycles, airplanes, trains, and all kinds of inventions which have aided in the developement [sic] of the country. Because of the labor shortage we were hurried through the museum, but we could have spent a

III

week there and still enjoyed it. But time marches on and so did we. We came home and I got my shoes fixed up and then I started writing this letter. Then we finished dinner and I continued on the letter.

Tomorrow Bruce and I are going to Put-in-Bay which is up the Detroit River and in Lake Huron. I believe the round trip is about one hundred and sixty miles. We leave at nine tomorrow morning and we get back at eight in the evening.

I imagine that we will be heading for Canada the first of next week. Don’t write me here, because I will be gone by the time a letter would have time to reach here. My address will be:

Dick DeWitt
℅ Bill Ferguson
R.R. #1
Kincardine, Ontario

We are having a swell time. I forgot to mention that Mr. Cameron had two tickets to the ball game the day we got here. It was between Boston & Detroit. They split. Boston won the first game 4-3 and Detroit the second 5-3. In the first game Hank Greenbey hit a homer in the second tier and the ball was still going up. Hank, I believe, played his first game last week. The ball stadium here is “Briggs Field.” It is owned by Mr. Briggs, of Briggs Manufacturing Company, Mr. Cameron’s company.

Where we are staying here, we are having swell food and it is a good place.

How is Bill getting along? Doug—Are you still working-out hard? I hope Mary Sarah is also having a swell time. Dad—How is the cellar coming? I hope you are all all right. Mom—How is it not to wash and cook for one less?

I have been meaning to write more but something always comes. I hope this letter will make up. I should have taken my camera out to Greenfield Village today, but I didn’t think of it. I’ll be sending some pictures along later.

I guess that’s about all for now.

Love

Dick

P.S. The stationery is Mr. Cameron’s. It is the only stationery around the house. Dick

1945 Road Trip II

2011-03-27T12:38:00.000-07:00

It’s a hoot to read the story of Dick’s cross-country jaunt, because I took a similar ramble across the U.S., also in a high-school summer, also on a lot of buses (but without the hitchhiking), also stopping by the families of friends I was traveling with—and also making a point of stopping in Laramie, Wyoming, on the outbound leg, getting off the bus to spend the night and meet with relatives of my grandmother, who grew up there. At the time I knew nothing about the trip Dick had taken 35 years before.

Four penny postcards, written in pencil, postmarked North Platte, Nebraska, 10:30 a.m., July 2, 1945, addressed to The DeWitts, 3482 Knollcrest Ave., Los Angeles 43, Calif. (The second card is addressed to Mr. & Mrs. & Doug DeWitt.)

Dear Mom & Dad & Doug

afternoon July 1, 1945

I didn’t get to write the last two nights but I am writing now. When I get to Detroit I’ll write a good letter.

How are you? We are just fine! July 29 [sic] we stayed at Craig Colo. The man that picked us up out of Las Vegas brought us there, and we stayed with him. We could have gone on with him to Denver, but as we were stopping by Laramie, we had to cut up to the Lincoln HI-Way.

Being we were on a bad road, we had trouble getting rides. We expected to get to Laramie early, but we got there at about 5:30. The stores in Laramie close up at 6:00! & we just said hello to Uncle Bert & Guy & Mr. Walker. They all said to say hello!

We had a ride to Cheyenne that night. It was pretty rainy in Laramie so we decided to go on. The man said he knew the Raifs? [handwriting unclear, but he writes a question mark after the name and underlines it, as if he’s not sure of the name either]

When we left Cheyenne we went on about 30 miles out of Cheyenne & we stayed at an auto court. This morning going was pretty slow. We got to Pine Bluffs and were able to get a bus to Omaha—so here we are on the bus. That’s why my writing is so jumpy. The roads just got better, as we came into Nebraska. We’ll get into Omaha at 7:30 tomorrow morning. The drivers change at N. Platt. [sic]

Dad:—
I’ve been wanting to send you a birthday greeting, but we seemed to pass through all the towns where I could send one. But here’s wishing you

A H A P P Y B I R T H D A Y.

[spelled out in block letters like a telegram]

Say hello to Bill for me and tell him I’ll be thinking of him. I guess that’s about all now, so until later, I’ll be seeing you.

Dick.

1945 Road Trip I

2011-03-27T12:18:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 1945, my uncle Dick was in high school. The Germans had surrendered in Europe, but the war in the Pacific was still on. My mother must have been off at Girl Scout camp. Henry Ford was a few months away from passing the presidency of his namesake company to Henry Ford II. Two years later, the elder Ford would be no more.

With the summer stretching out in front of him, Dick got on a bus with a friend and headed across the country to find a job haying in Canada.

In ink, on a penny postcard postmarked Provo, Utah, 4:30 p.m. June 29, 1945, addressed to Mr. & Mrs. D.H. DeWitt, 3482 Knollcrest Ave, Los Angeles 43, Calif

Friday
June 29, 1945
1:30PM
Provo, Utah

Dear Mom and Dad:

We left Los Angeles early Thursday morning on the P.E. bus for San Berbnado! [scribbled, apparently trying to say San Bernardino]

Last night we slept at Cedar City. That’s where Dad and I slept in 1939, and in the same auto court.

Yesterday we got several rides and about 75 miles out of Las Vegas we got a ride with the man we are still driving with.

Hope to get to Laramie early Saturday. Everything is going well. Hope you’re fine

Dick

Ceci ne Sont pas des Collines

2010-12-27T02:34:00.000-08:00

It’s not the hills you capture; it’s the light.

Christmas Eve 2010, California

2010-12-25T11:56:00.000-08:00

The star I was following in the later part of the day. More of an asterisk, really.

Wine & Roses 2010

2010-10-09T16:06:00.000-07:00

I was up early enough to see Orion come home from the hunt and Helios get his chariot out of the garage, which meant I got to see the golden hour just after dawn through the mist rising off my coffee in a Styrofoam cup.

Last time I did this ride, it was also beautiful. We started just after dawn then too, under a fresh rainbow. I knew the scenery would be just as good today, but October weather’s always a wild card until it happens.

We ended up with a gorgeous late harvest day, starting off crisp enough to call for a windbreaker, climbing to summer 80s (30° C) by the afternoon.

The Wine & Roses ride winds through vineyards and equestrian farms, olive orchards and open pastures.

The roads are never too challenging, but they roll up and down a little to keep things interesting, making this a great late-season ride, a carefree cap to a good year, a victory lap of sorts.

Bicycles are inherently discriminatory against anyone with more than two legs. If you have four legs, there are tandem frames, but I haven’t seen a good solution for those who articulate eight.

Still, this little friend was making pretty good time up the pavement. He ducked off into a vineyard later, staying out of thick brush and bramble. Autumn is mating season for tarantulas. I saw one last year too, on a different stretch of road. They’re amazing creatures, large as mice but less alarming, since they don’t scuttle and dart. Tarantulas promenade gracefully. All they need is a parasol to complete the image.

The wine country around Paso Robles has had a great late warm fall, after a cool, mild summer, nearly perfect growing conditions for the grapes. The grapes got plenty of sun but weren’t likely to starve for water or burn as they grew, and the winemakers have had the luxury of letting them plump out on the vine, adding flavor for a final few weeks before harvest, with no threat of rain or mildew from an early temperature drop. Most of the crop is off the vine by now, but a few vineyards were still wrapping up a relaxed harvest.

Far down in the valley below . . .

. . . is where you can see this road, which I’m about to swoop down onto.

The cows had it figured out.

Tonight

2010-09-11T22:38:00.000-07:00

Images from the Los Angeles River

Randonée (from late April)

2010-08-04T19:04:00.000-07:00

Getting Your Bearings Right

2010-07-24T21:10:00.001-07:00

Morning project: Replace the bearings underneath this bad boy, so it stops binding when it rolls back and forth.

Step 1: Detach the gantry from the trolley plate underneath it. The bearing trucks are bolted to the bottom face of the trolley plate.

Step 2: Hoist the gantry up a fraction, just enough to clear the trolley plate . . .

. . . just enough so you can see daylight between the gantry framework (on top) and the trolley plate (which it normally rests on).

Step 3: Start advancing the trolley plate out from under the raised (and braced) gantry, in order to open up access to the bolts that attach the bearing trucks to the bottom of the trolley. Keep advancing . . .

. . . and advancing, until the trolley plate is clear out from under the braced gantry.

Now you have access to all the bolts that go through the trolley plate to hold the bearing trucks onto the bottom of it.

Step 4: With the top face of the trolley plate exposed, undo the bolts that attach the bearing trucks to the bottom of the trolley. (The bearing truck is the C-shaped hunk of metal directly underneath the plate from where he’s loosening a bolt.)

Step 5: Slide old bearing trucks down guide rail to remove.

Step 6: Amuse self by gasping at how trashed the old bearings got.

This is a bearing truck turned belly-up. Normally this side of the bearing is what slides back and forth on the guide rail.

See the row of balls, a little bit hidden, toward the top of the picture? There’s supposed to be another entire row right underneath that, and you can see the channel for them—the bearing race—but they’re all missing.

See the deep groove that cuts halfway across the bearing from the right? That’s not supposed to be there at all. That’s the spot where a single ball got stuck under the bearing and was dragged back and forth long enough to erode that groove into the steel of the bearing truck. Nice. What’s amazing is that the gantry was still going back and forth at all.

Step 7: Slide new bearing trucks down guide rail to install under trolley plate.

Step 8: Reposition trolley plate under gantry again. Align and re-attach. Check for extra parts. Cross fingers. Repeat above steps under opposite side of gantry. Put away tools. Go home.

Ancestor

2010-07-16T20:56:00.000-07:00

Travelin' Thru

2010-07-14T20:51:00.000-07:00

Handy portable camera.

Handed down for years, much used and cared for, it has no fewer than three owners’ names affixed to it.

In the words of James McMurtry, “I’m not from here.”

Tall

2010-07-09T20:15:00.000-07:00

Don’t let it be forgot
That once there was a spot—
For one brief, shining moment
—King Arthur, to a young boy, at the end of Camelot

Several months after the World Trade Center disaster, I visited my old home, Manhattan, checking in on some old acquaintances. I of course had to head down to Ground Zero, to see what all the fuss was about.

I had been in these buildings—who hadn’t?—and I had been riveted by their unimaginable collapse, narrated live on media worldwide. I can still distinctly see in my mind the welded autograph of Philippe Petit in a steel beam at the top of one of them, visible from the tourist platform, signed after he had walked a tightrope from one to the other. I still owned—I still own—the T-shirt I had bought at the world chess championship held on the top floor a few years before, which I had attended on a day off for curiosity, not about the buildings, but about the sporting world of chess. For me the eight-wide bank of escalators coming up from the subway below into the immaculate atrium is a permanent memory.

Friends of mine had close calls, and more than one had stories of that day. But I had to look for myself.

I’m reading a book by Michael Chabon where he talks about hoisting his toddler son on his shoulders in Bryant Park the night Barack Obama won the U.S. presidential election. “Look at them,” he tells his son. “Look at them, remember them. You’ll remember this night for the rest of your life.”

“How do you know I won’t forget?” his son asks, with the inconvenient candor of a child.

I remember standing outside the fence, a few blocks back, where there was still a crowd surrounding a great hole in the ground, where trucks and tractors and excavators worked around the clock. I had walked the circumference of the site; there was no viewing platform to speak of, but nobody was stopping anyone who wanted to have a look. The atmosphere was not mournful or angry or bewildered; mostly there was a sense of respect and alertness, a distinct curiosity. We all knew what had happened here. It wasn’t a packed crowd; we gave each other enough room to digest in private. But numbers-wise, we were a crowd.

A man had his kid on his shoulders; they were looking south toward where the buildings used to stand, where now there was a big gap with no buildings, then some buildings on the other side of that gap. We were not right at the fence, but a good way back.

“Look up,” the man instructed. “They were tall . . . they went way, way up.” The kid had never seen the World Trade Center towers, and never would. The man had seen them, and remembered them, clearly.

The kid looked across at the tallest buildings across the gap, then looked up at where there was nothing, trying to imagine.

“How high?” the kid wanted to know.

I remembered the dizzying scale of the WTC. Pretty much by design, from the bottom it was impossible to gauge their height. The parallel white lines went straight up their sides and vanished in the forever. You could see they had tops, but there was no sense of scale, no detail adorning a topmost cornice by which you could judge—falsely or truly—how far away it must be.

When I had visitors from out of town, the best spot to show them New York was from the Empire State Building, older and smaller. It nestled in among other buildings; from the Empire State, you could see cabs on the street below, pedestrians, apartment windows. You were not quite eye to eye with the Chrysler Building, but you looked across to it, not down at it. You could see the bustle of the street below.

The WTC was an attraction, sure, but the top level was so far removed from the ground that you didn’t feel as if you were amidst Manhattan; you felt way up there, too far to up to reach across—or even down—to touch the other buildings, too far up really to see them. If a fire truck pulled up below, would you hear a siren, so far up? This was a platform in the sky; you looked for mountains on the horizon, not other landmarks in the inconsequential city clustered below like so much green lawn.

“How high?” the kid wanted to know.

I looked up into space, trying to remind myself what they had looked like, reaching far, far up and away beyond estimate.

“Farther . . . ” the kid’s father started, mumbling, unable to articulate—

“They went up farther than you can imagine.”

Belongs to You and Me

2010-07-04T10:54:00.000-07:00

When you’re driving with the window down and the wind at your shoulder, this whole land is your land.

Double Down

2010-06-22T19:29:00.000-07:00

People who have known me long enough will remember The Beard, which I started as my college days came to a close, wore overseas for a year and after I came home, and continued to nurture through a year of grad school and into my first years of gainful adult employment.

I don’t know what happened to The Beard after we parted ways. It had its own personality, its own fragrance, its own ecosystem and self-sustaining food supply, plus quite possibly an internal heat source separate from whatever I was providing. With a little help from a friend who was trimming my hair one February day, I cut off The Beard and set it free. I did get a postcard once a few years later from wartorn Afghanistan, where it had fallen in with a ragtag band of fighters on one side or another. But no other word since then.

The Beard inspired artistic depictions back then. Maybe it’s time for another type of inspiration.

My brother has had a tame, civilized beard for decades now. He’s been fighting to keep any kind of color in it, but even he admits it’s starting to look a little gray and, um, distinguished. (He’s my younger brother. No way he looks old.)

My brother has announced he may shave his beard.

My brother’s nice, well-mannered beard

In early August, he’s expecting to ride 190 miles in two days to raise money to fight cancer. He has posted a challenge for the month of June: If he can raise $2,000 during June, my brother will shave his beard.

In early August, I fully expect to be sitting on my butt at home. I would love to ride with my brother, but I decided early on that the best way for me to support him in his fight against cancer—which I do support, in full, and proudly—was to take the money I would have spent to fly there, with a bike, and stay in hotels and rent a car and so on, and put that money instead into funding my brother and the organization he’s riding for.

So I won’t be riding with him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have some skin in the game.

So here’s the deal: Want to see The Beard come back? One good beard deserves another: If my brother raises $2,000 for his cancer-fighting ride in the month of June, after he shaves his face for the first time in decades, I will not shave my face during the month of July.

And I’ll post pictures.

So it’s your call: What’s it worth to see me sprout an embarrassing curly shrub under my chin? $20? What’s it worth to know that as summer starts to warm on up, I’ll be scratchy, hot, and uncomfortable? $50? What’s it worth to know that when I spill soup, I’ll have to shower? $75? What’s it worth to know that every time I ride, the strap on my bike helmet is getting tangled up in long whiskers? $100? What’s it worth to know that all month long, my friends and co-workers will be offering me free razors, asking when I’m going to scrape that nasty growth off my face? $200? What’s it worth to imagine myself explaining this half-grown mess on my chin when I have to dress up for a friend’s wedding on the 17th? What’s it worth?

What’s it worth to know that you’ve done something meaningful to help people fighting to reclaim their lives from a diagnosis we all hope never to hear? What’s it worth to know that you have given someone hope?

The time to give is now. The clock is running. For July, if you give now, I won’t shave.

(After July, no promises. But if you can raise my brother’s $2,000 in June, watch this space for further developments.)

Point of clarification: As of June 1, my brother had raised $2,945 toward his goal of $6,000, so $2,000 during the month of June would put him at $4,945 by June 30. That’s the amount it will take to start The Beard growing again. As of this posting, you have 8 days to raise $1,550. Good luck!

The place to give is at http://www.pmc.org/profile/FB0028. Or, if you want to fight cancer but hate whiskers, you can always send him some Clif Bars to help him train.

About That Technical Glitch

2010-05-03T21:39:00.000-07:00

About five miles before the end of the Breakaway Ride in Santa Rosa last weekend, I ran into what I described later as “one little hitch.” I never did provide further detail on that. Here, then, is the rest of the story.

I haven’t had time to put this together in a proper account. What follows is a rather rushed e-mail I sent my brother describing the ride, very lightly edited.

Wow. I finally really got the whole thing of riding in the pocket, letting everyone around you push the wind off the group. I’ve known it in principle for years, but I mostly train alone, so I’d never had a chance to see the difference it makes.

We had a steady headwind in the outbound miles, maybe the first 10-15 miles of the course before we came into our first range of hills. Started out in a good spot behind the first bunch of let’s say 150 riders, all bunched up behind the motorcycle cop in front. When he peeled off, things stretched out a bit, and that front group tugged away; let’s say I was in the second group of several dozen riders. It was early in the ride, with some late starters still advancing from the rear toward the front, a few hot starters from the front already dropping back, but mostly all of us riding forward together with some decent speed.

Wind was coming from off the starboard bow. There was some room to pass on the right, so I edged over and started inching forward past a rider, then another rider, then another rider. Still plenty of room over in that lane to pass. I was happy not to be stuck behind these riders. But boy, was it windy! When I had been in the group, I had plenty of juice to push ahead past these riders, but now that I was out in the wind, I was working my tail off just to keep up. When I was ready to fall back into the group and let them protect me, I couldn’t get between these guys (and women) with a putty knife. They were all too happy to let me ride forward and catch the wind for them, but I had to drop back several lengths before I could get in again.

This is what it looks like when the real pros are in the same situation. Wind in the picture above is coming from the left-hand side of the frame. Nobody wants to ride over there. They all are ducking further and further off to the right, behind other riders, to the point of riding on the shoulder, just so they don’t have to be the one riding right out there in the teeth of the wind. They have miles to go yet in this day, and riding in the front is exhausting. That poor guy riding out by the center line is in the thick of it; he’s carrying everyone else, and by the end of the day he’ll be feeling it. His team captain is probably back in the pack somewhere, saving his energy for the sprint at the end of the stage. Everyone on the team knows his job for the day. (Picture from Tour of the Gila 2010, Stage 2, from the Team Radio Shack page: http://www.livestrong.com/teamradioshack/news_photos-tour-gila-stage-2/ )

I’m sure the difference was at least 10 bpm on my heart-rate monitor. Might have even been 15 bpm. It was the difference between going uphill and going downhill. It was the difference between being in the red zone and riding at a pace I could maintain. In the group, I was pedaling to keep up, but I wasn't pedaling always. I'd pause, then pedal again. (That was the frustration that led me to want to pass. I had the legs to go faster, as long as I was still in the protected windspace.)

And the speed I was going, in that sheltered position, was probably a notch faster than I’d normally do on one of my own training rides, even though I wasn't working so hard. When I look at the time stamp on photos, I raise my eyebrows, because I know how fast I must have been riding. Never could have kept up that pace for so long on a solo ride.

Later on I got dropped out the back of that group for some reason. Lost contact going around a corner? Someone in front of me dropped speed and let the group get away from us? I forget. I wanted to catch them again. And I could just about hear the classic TV cycling commentator Phil Liggett narrating, as he always does, how hard it is to bridge the gap. And once again I felt the difference between riding protected and riding naked to the wind out in no-man’s-land. It was really hard work to get back into the tailwind of that group. But so worth it. Even though we were on the flat, it was like riding to a summit, then (as I finally caught up with the rear of the group) getting a break as the slope starts leaning downhill. Great fun. Incredible.

It was well worth it, particularly to get through what would have been a lousy wind that would have smashed the start of the day and left me wrung out for the rest of the ride. And I took my pulls near the front of the group too, once I had caught my breath from the effort of catching them. Everyone rides in the front some, then eases back and lets someone else take the fore. But I suspect that accelerated speed was what led to my cramping a little bit later. My legs weren’t in the habit of going around so fast for so far. Even though it was relatively light effort, my legs were doing all they could to keep fluid and flowing.

By the time I ran into any cramping, I was past the windy portion, so I didn’t mind letting the group I’d been with pull ahead. After I drank about half an ocean at the next rest stop, I didn’t have any real problem with cramping for the rest of the day. Here and there a twinge from tiredness, but not the same constant griping. I made it over the rest of the hills. Just.

To finish the story: Blew a tire on the final flat into town, about 5 miles from the finish. A tire, not a tube. One minute I’m whipping along easy on my way in. Then I noticed one of those bump-bump-bump rhythms where you ask yourself whether that’s the pavement or the equipment. Just about when I’d decided it might could be something on a wheel, I got a bang like a car backfiring and the front wheel went all silly. Didn’t take three strokes to figure out it was time to stop. This is my Specialized bike, which I’ve been riding for about three years; I replaced the rear tire a few months back, but this is the original front tire.

In retrospect, the bump-bump-bump had been the tire giving way and bulging; the blowout was just that: the much softer inner tube couldn’t hold the air in without the tougher tire to contain it, so it poked through the weak point in the outer tire and popped like bubble gum. But here am I, five miles from the end, with a blowout. The folks who had been trailing me since the last rest stop whizzed by, checking to be sure I was O.K. Well, yeah, I was O.K. Have pump, have spare tube, already within walking distance, dead flat to the end; I’m already in town and could probably find a beer within a few blocks and relax if it came to that.

I bet I wasn’t there five minutes before a guy in a beat-up Toyota pickup pulled up, a SAG wagon. Very friendly. Also had pump, a floor pump. But my tire—not the tube, but the tire—had a big old hole in it, a split about a half-inch long. Any new tube inside that tire would bulge through the split and blow out just like the first one had. Since Mr. SAG was there, I decided to try a Hail Mary; I popped open my patch kit and patched the inside of the tire. It only had to last for five miles. Put in new tube. Inflated. Dopey moi. I should have had him radically underinflate the tube, to maybe 75 or 80 psi, just enough to protect the rim while I limped in mostly flat. But I told him to go ahead to 120, not thinking, and while I held it there in my hand it blew again, just like a car backfiring. My ears rang. The blowout stung my palm.

Fine. I had another tube with me, but I had already proven my point with the hills, and it was the end of the day, and I said fine, let’s just get this sucker done, and I let him drive me in. I didn’t really feel I could call myself a finisher, but I felt no guilt taking an extra burrito from the stash at the bikefest.

It would have been interesting to see what the SRAM support cars that were pacing us on the course all day might have done for me if this had been 50 miles earlier. (I can just imagine some of the fun that blowout might have been on a downhill or an uphill or any of the other ratty pavement I was on that day. This was the most gracious possible point on the ride to get a blowout. I was already done with the course; this was just the fadeout as the needle swings into the inner groove.)

The SRAM cars had tires; they had tubes; they had wheels. Do they swap your rim out if you want them to, and take a credit-card deposit? Do they give tires? Sell tires? In that situation, in the middle of the course, I would have had no qualms about buying a new tire and getting going on the spot. My legs were still good. By five miles from the end, it wasn’t worth much production; fixing the tire would have taken longer than the ride to the finish. (I do kick myself a little: I should have re-patched the tire and put it together again with my other spare tube and had the SAG guy underinflate the tire. But I was oxygen deprived by then and tired, and that solution didn’t occur to me till I was already munching burrito. And even that might not have worked, though it had a better chance.)

And the great news from the whole episode was that as I sat there admiring my new bling (what? you thought I didn't grab a medal when I got to the finish line?), this woman walks by with about 10 Specialized tires over her shoulder, brand-new ones. I’m sure they were from SAG support somehow. Keep in mind that Specialized was a sponsor of the ride, and they had a bike tune-up booth at the start (and I think at the finish). “I’d buy one of those from you right now,” I told her. (I still had to get back to my car, and I still had a pump and one spare tube.) “Where are those going? I’ll buy one from the Specialized booth, if that’s where you’re taking them.” She was a little obscure about where exactly they were from. The SAG crew? A SRAM car? She said that Specialized was expecting to get them back.

I truly don’t know what arrangements they make mid-course; it makes sense to me that they’d charge you something for the tubes or tires or chains they provide. Or maybe the expendables are just a part of doing business for them, rolled into the fee they charge the ride organizers for showing up.

(The SAG teams make all the difference, by the way, even when they’re not pros driving shiny cars with logos. They and the folks who staff the refreshment tables at rest stops are the completely unsung heroes of any ride like this. I always try to thank them profusely as I snarf down my carb recharge on my way back to my bike.)

The woman with the tires over her shoulder wasn’t exactly walking around with a credit-card machine, and I got the impression she had no idea how much to charge for one of these if it came to it, and from how she was wandering around, I was also pretty sure she wasn’t sure exactly where the people were that she was supposed to return them to. After I offered her one more time to buy a tire from her right now, she just peeled one out of the bunch and handed it to me. Specialized Armadillo: Score!

That was even better than the medal I had been gloating over. I sat back down on the bench and quickly decided I was too tired to bother changing out the tube and tire; I was two blocks from my car, and I could walk that far. But that kinda made up for whatever gap I felt for not finishing. I didn’t at all feel bad about the part of the course I had skipped. I had done all the work to get there, muscling up over hill and dale, and all that was left was several blocks of flat suburban roads on the way into town. But if I was going to have a mechanical a stone’s throw from done, getting a free replacement tire out of it sure helped ice the sting.

Every ride is a training ride, and along with some muscle work, this one reminded me that you have to think about all your gear, not just the most common fail points. I check my chain regularly; I had just replaced brake pads; I twang my spokes; I check tube pressure. Here’s a new one to think about before going off on a long expedition on cobbles: How old are my tires?

Anyhow, that’s the rest of the saga.

Oh, and of course, the first thing I thought when I blew was that I had to put the picture on Facebook. Got out the phone, but the battery had had a long day already. It turned on, then immediately (when it saw what I wanted to take a picture of) turned off. So at that point I knew two things for sure: 1) No Facebook pix, which was a daunting loss; 2) I wasn’t going to phone for help, which didn’t bother me, because I knew I could walk in from here. Oh, and 3) No GPS guidance if I did decide to walk it in. Which I would still consider to be officially finishing.

But the SAG truck was a much better alternative.

I had miles to drive before I would be back in Long Beach.

It was a great day.

A postscript, about flats: On May 2, a week later, Mick Rogers in the 5th stage of the Tour of Romandie flatted 4 km from the finish line. He had barely been clinging to the overall lead in the race up to that point. That close to the end, there’s no time to change a tire. He rode in on his flat (but not fast enough to keep the race lead). He’s a pro rider, and if he ruins a rim, there’s another waiting for him before the next stage. Me, if I trash a rim, I get to pay cold hard cash for the new one.

If you want a real story about riding in on a flat, ask Lance Armstrong sometime about Leadville 2009, or better yet, see Race Across the Sky. But that’s mountain biking. This was a road ride.

Team Support

2010-04-24T03:16:00.000-07:00

I train solo, but when I go on a ride like the one I’m doing Sunday, it’s what’s called a supported ride.

That means that along the way we’ll have rest stops stocked with food and drink, and volunteers to cheer us on. It means we’ll have a route sheet, and turns along the way will be marked with bright arrows so we don’t get lost. It means we will be passed at several points along the way by a “sag wagon,” a vehicle that patrols the course carrying spare inner tubes, a tire pump, and some basic tools for field repair, plus a first aid kit and a radio to relay messages back to ride HQ. It means that at the end of the ride there’ll be a fat lunch, and on nine out of ten supported rides a crowd of people right at the finish line to cheer you on and congratulate you just as if they knew you and had watched you train. Sometimes they hand out medals to the finishers.

I could ride that far by myself (and sometimes have), but it’s a lot nicer to do it supported.

In life, there are solo rides and supported rides. Sometimes you get to pick which way you ride. Sometimes life picks the ride for you.

For folks who have sat in a paper gown in a sterile office to hear a doctor pronounce a diagnosis of cancer, the uphills are steeper, the descents more treacherous, and the ride a lot longer than any I’ve ever had to put up with on two wheels.

The least we can do for them is to give them a supported ride.

Cancer is a lot more than pills and prevention and physicians, treatments and therapies and tests. It's not all research and remissions and recovery rates. Those are all fine things too, and I’m on their side. But outside of the clinic, there’s life to get on with.

People who happen to have cancer don’t stop having families who love them (and look to them for support); they don’t stop needing to pay the rent or grocery bills; they don’t stop loving baseball games and milkshakes. People with cancer are often treated to mountains of paperwork and fights with insurance companies.

Wouldn’t it be nice to have a course sheet, some markers along the way to help you decide which way to turn, waystations stocked with food and refreshments and people to cheer you along? A cancer-fighting sag wagon?

Along with many great organizations that are searching the roots of cancer’s causes and trying to find therapies that knock out cancer without taking down the patient in the process, you can find groups that offer non-medical help: patient advocacy, family support, financial aid, counseling, information services, education.

When I ride out of Davis on Sunday, on a 107-mile road to Santa Rosa, over hill and dale and through Napa Valley—mostly upwind—I will be riding to support four nonprofit groups that provide some of these services to folks with cancer and their families. I’ll be on a supported ride, but I’m hoping my ride makes it easier for some other people to find the support they need on their roads.

When I make a pitch for donations, I always try to calibrate the seriousness of my request. I’m not going to make this out to be some life-or-death thing, for me. To be plain about it, I would have gone on this ride whether it was to help out against cancer or not. And when I signed up for the ride, my registration fee already covered the cost of the ride—the support teams—plus a contribution to the cause. So I’ve already got some skin in the game, and I’m not under any obligation to raise more just so I can ride.

Having said that, I’ll add: I’ve got six easy names that I can write on the dedication wall at the start of the ride—an uncle, a friend, a friend of my brother’s, a couple of people I have worked with, and, reaching all the way back to my college days, Dad. That’s six people off the top of my head who have needed the support of a strong team as they fought cancer—six people in my immediate circle, without trying too hard to remember others, without having to name celebrities or friends of friends. I’m more than happy to support this cause.

(I bet you know someone too who has been able to benefit from some support against cancer.)

And: You don’t have to give any money. I always feel with events like this that half the goal is raising funds, but the other half is raising awareness—not talking people into thinking they should drop everything and take this up as their life’s prime purpose, but reminding them in some small way of the good that goes on around all of us, mostly unnoticed, while we go through our daily routines. Sometimes when a lot of people do some easy, small things, the effect is better than when only a few people strain and struggle to do huge, difficult things. If you have read this far, whether you give any money to the campaign or not, you have helped me raise consciousness, and I thank you.

If this is a campaign you can believe in, I would be honored if you made a donation. You can add money in my name at http://www.active.com/donate/breakawayride1/DBradle101, or you’re welcome to give on the campaign’s generic donation page. (Like I said, and I will emphasize: I don’t owe them any more money. I’m not working on commission.)

While I’m at it, I also have to give a plug for an even longer ride my brother’s going to be doing this summer, a two-day ride that stretches to nearly 200 miles. This ride is also for a very good cause. In 30 years, putting together a lot of small donations from folks like you and me, the Pan-Mass Challenge has raised $270 million to help fight cancer. If you’re looking for a place to send some money, you don’t have to give anything for my ride at all. Try giving to his: http://www.pmc.org/profile/FB0028

(There are many other fronts in the fight against cancer. I’m not promoting this one or that one as the only important way to engage. These are just two I happen to be connected to.)

It will be my pleasure to ride this Sunday—although around Mile 70, I may be rethinking that platform—and after riding part of this route solo a few weeks ago, I’ll be glad that this time I’m on a supported ride. As I ride, please feel welcome to help me support others.

Many Thanks!

Autograph Hound

2010-04-07T07:34:00.001-07:00

This camera dates to about 1925, which would make it my grandfather’s—one he would have used as a young man.

The camera came fully loaded. It uses large film (116 size), so you get good resolution. And you can manually set focus, aperture, and shutter speed, so you don’t have to rely on a computer to pick automatic settings that can come out wrong and ruin a good picture.

The little hole in the front cover is a tripod mount for when you’re taking a vertical-frame picture. Later on I figured out why “Kodak” is upside-down here, although I might have designed it differently.

Notice the little widget up and to the left of the main lens. More on that in a minute.

Once you have picked your subject, you’ll want to focus on it. This is accomplished by setting the catch into the correct notch on the focusing scale.

The Ilex f/7.7 Anastigmat lens indicates the age of the camera. Kodak used a series of different lenses on the same basic camera model, and they were using these lenses in the mid-1920s. (Anastigmat indicates that a certain lens distortion has been corrected with advanced optics.) The little lever with a knob at the end of it in about the 8:00 position on the lens is the shutter release.

You can set shutter speeds from permanently open to as fast as 1/100th of a second. The shutter is tripped and timed mechanically, with springs and bearings. With this camera, you’ll never need to replace a battery.

I haven’t tested it, but I suspect the threaded fitting next to the manual shutter release is a receptacle for a cable release, similar to what you’ll find on more recent Kodak models.

The lens is wide open at f/7.7, and it tightens down to f/45.

(That’s focal length ÷ x , for those who aren’t familiar with the terminology. It describes how wide the lens opens—how much light gets in—and determines how forgiving your focus will be. This lens has a 130mm focal length—i.e., the front part of the lens sits 130mm in front of the film—so f/45 means your lens aperture will be a little less than 3mm in diameter. At f/7.7, the opening will be nearly 17mm wide, or .66 inch. More light will get in, but your foreground and background will be less clearly focused than when you use a tighter aperture. With a modern compact camera that uses—let’s say—a 35mm lens, the same f/45 would be less than a millimeter across, but its characteristics, both for focus and exposure length, would be roughly the same as they are for the identical f-stop on any other lens, long or short. A “fast” lens today might open up as wide as f/2.8 or even f/1.4, letting in a lot of light so you can take really fast shots, letting you freeze motion. The great landscape photographers of yesteryear had a little clique they called the f/64 club, because when you shoot with such a tiny aperture, your focus is brilliantly clear. You wanted to know all this, right?)

Remember the doohickey attached to the upper corner of the lens? It took me a while to figure out. It’s the viewfinder, to let you see what the camera is pointed at. Here I’m looking into it at some objects on a table (a toy camera and the case for this camera), with a ceiling light hanging overhead. Everything is left-right reversed, or up-down, depending on how you prefer to understand it.

The round opening lets in light, which bounces off the back of (I presume) the prism at a 90° angle. You look into the +-shaped opening to see the image. It’s not a really exact way to frame your shots, but it’s better than a blind guess.

This is what the film sees.

A distinguishing feature of the Autographic cameras was this stylus and the special film rolls they used. The film itself is standard 116-size film, which you can still buy today, but it was wound in with carbon paper sandwiched between the film and the standard black-paper backer.

After you take a shot, you flip open a little door in the back of the camera and use the stylus to write on the heavy backing paper. That presses the carbon paper against the film, leaving a black mark on the film. When the negatives are printed, those words written in black show up in the prints as white lettering.

For its time, this was a convenient camera to carry on a trip, or to a family outing, or just about anywhere. It’s lightweight and can be carried in one hand, though it’s too big to slip into a pocket. It sets up fast and gives the photographer good control over exposure, but it doesn’t have a lot of fussy settings that will take forever to get right. And compared to making your exposures on eight-inch by ten-inch glass plates coated in light-sensitive gel, shooting on Kodak film is a snap.

(See how I did that?)

The Autographic was replaced later on by other similarly convenient collapsible cameras, like Mom’s Kodak Tourist from the late 1940s, each succeeding generation refining the mechanisms, improving the lenses, tightening up the machining standards. Keep in mind that a large part of Kodak’s mission in producing cameras was to sell lots of rolls of film.

And then in the 1950s Leica released the M3, a revolution in convenience: It used 35mm film, which meant the camera could be about a third the size and weight of one of these bellows-style cameras, and it featured interchangeable lenses to let photographers switch quickly to adapt to different shooting situations.

That pretty much was the end for medium-format cameras like this one, except for a small cadre of “serious” photographers who appreciated the larger frame size with its corresponding higher level of detail and resolution.

Frugal, Wealthy, and Great Beer-Drinkers

2010-04-05T21:43:00.000-07:00

Back in the day—before the Internet, before radio, almost before photography, certainly before air travel—when you went on a trip overseas, you didn’t Tweet about it; you didn’t post a travelogue on Facebook; you didn’t put up a slew of pictures on Flickr or Pixagogo or your personal blog pages. You kept a diary—maybe, if you were diligent—and when you came back, you no doubt would chat about the trip with your friends and family. In your trunk you might have packed some souvenirs from exotic locales. Unless writing was your profession, that was about it for sharing.

For a few, however, there was a more permanent way to record impressions from overseas: If you could afford the cost of publishing your memoir, you could order up a private edition, not for general circulation but to pass around to entertain and edify your friends. It was the equivalent of a latter-day slide show, but more portable.

I come from wordy stock. My father’s middle name was Ormsby. His mother’s grandmother, Mary Amanda Bateman by name, was married to a fellow named Edwin Samuel Ormsby, my grandmother’s grandfather. They lived in Emmetsburg, Iowa, but in 1889 they took a five-month trip to Europe. [E.S. Ormsby, born in 1842, would have been 47 on this trip, a well-established citizen and sometime Mayor of Emmetsburg. I do not know the date of Mary A. Ormsby’s birth, but her eldest child was 26 by the time they took this trip.]

When they got back, she published her blog, to the tune of 113 pages of lively narrative, dotted with details about the places she had seen, the people she ran into along the way, some of the stories that today might be scribbled on the backs of postcards, and the other miscellaneous learning one acquires through travel.

Some of the details of specific places have evolved over time, but the experience is immediately familiar to anyone who has taken a long trip to a foreign land.

The following pages are chosen pretty much at random from her story.

A Little Pocket of Charm

2010-04-04T20:54:00.000-07:00

Angel’s Flight, a charming tiny tramway near the heart of Los Angeles, recently reopened after a hiatus of several years. Looking back on a day when children played in neighborhoods lined with gingerbread houses—when every morning was summer vacation—here’s a book written to memorialize Bunker Hill back when Angel’s Flight closed the first time, in the 1960s.

Many of these illustrations will get richer when you click on them to have a look at the details painted into them by an artist who loved a neighborhood he knew was on the brink of vanishing forever.

Pictures from a Ride

2010-04-03T22:55:00.000-07:00

Last fall, as I got ready for an epic cycling adventure in Sonoma County, I paid a lot of attention to recording the visual grandeur of the ride. It was the most physically challenging course I had ever undertaken, but as it drew near I saw it would also showcase some of the most breathtaking landscape I had been through on two wheels.

This spring, as I work my body into shape for a ride a wee bit longer but with not quite so much climbing, I am focusing more on training the legs, lungs and heart how to get the job done, and less on visual documentation. The ride should look nice enough, but last fall’s scenery set a high bar.

Having said that, I do often have a camera along when I ride, and when the time and framing are right, I can stop and capture a moment. This weekend I rode a 30-mile hunk of the course I’m hoping to cover in late April—the hardest 30 miles—and as I whizzed through the new landscape I grabbed a few impressions.

The picture at the top, and this one, are from Pope Valley, at my turnaround point. My jaunt began in Sonoma Valley, went up over a ridge and down into Napa Valley, across Napa, then up over another ridge and down into Pope Valley. Then I turned around and rode the same course—up, down, across, up, down—back to the car. In April I’ll tackle these roads in only one direction, but a goal for the weekend was to get to know the course, so I rode both ways.

Pond near Conn Creek, from Howell Mountain Road, east of Napa Valley

Looking southwest across Napa Valley near St. Helena

Training for a Breakaway (With a Few Final Updates)

2010-03-14T13:55:00.000-07:00

Here’s a sketch of my training schedule leading up to the April 25 Amgen Breakaway from Cancer ride, which follows the 2010 Tour of California Stage 2 route from Davis to Santa Rosa. Updates since the original post are in green and red and lilac and orange and brown:

Date	Miles	Climb (feet)	Ave mile	Ave mph	HR (ave/max)	Ave slope	Notes
Sat 2/20	33.23	2,185	4:28	13.4	140/174	1.25%	31:15 Old La Honda climb
Sun 2/28	45.6	2,946	4:22	13.64	151/174	1.22%	Palos Verdes
Sat 3/6	50	3,750	4:34	13.12	148/166	1.42%	32:xx 1st OLH climb, 35:xx 2nd
Sat 3/13	61.96	5,577	4:55	12.12	140/168 (est.)	1.70%	31:07 1st OLH climb, 34:xx 2nd (after Kings Mtn Road climb)
Sat 3/20	72.56	5,082	4:22	13.74	140/168 (est.)	1.33%	Palos Verdes. Kept a lot of the climbing but improved speed.
Sun 3/28	85.55	5,548	4:31	13.27	135/166 (est.)	1.23%	Palos Verdes. Still working on speed. An hour faster than same route 6 months ago (9/19/09, 5:20 mile, different bike). Had great speed on weekday rides, but this felt like an off day. Watching for burnout.
Sat 4/3	66.35	6,699	5:10	11.62	141/168	1.91%	Recon actual hills for 4/25 climbs. Focus on climbing. Descents getting better too. Only a couple of sections go past brutal into a special place. Most of the climbs are tough but doable. Nice little ride.
Fri 4/9	27.42	1,460	4:19	13.86	144/173	1.01%	Had a longer ride in mind, but when a 3-year-old nephew says doughnuts are on the line, you cut it short and get home early. Hit a good couple of climbs; strength good, speed fair.
4/17-18	rest week	-	-	-	-	-	Maybe a light spin somewhere, but mostly let legs save up for next week. Rode 14 mostly flat miles (except one sheer wall I had to try for fun), to the bike store and back. Held to a very easy pace, on purpose.
Sun 4/25	109	5,751	4:22	13.75	145/185	0.99%	Amgen Breakaway Ride 2010
Sat 5/1	62.5	3,881	4:04	14.66	151/179 (est.)	1.17%	Hated to waste all that training and let the legs atrophy, so I jumped in the car and headed for the Avenue of the Oaks Metric Century (100K) in Fallbrook, California. A lovely day in swooping hills under spring skies. And it turned out that yeah, those legs of mine were turning just fine.

So far I’m probably ahead of myself for the hill attack; yesterday I climbed nearly as much as I expect to in the final ride. Legs get tired, but when I hit the actual course, I will bring some confidence, knowing I’ve done as much in a single day and more.

I need to extend my endurance, which is mostly a matter of putting the miles (and hours) into my legs, and I hope to ramp up my speed. Right now, with a lot of uphill miles, my overall speeds on long rides have been fairly low. I’d like to go uphill faster, and I can beef up my speed on flat roads too. Part of this is boosting heart-rate endurance. Some of it is making sure I refuel right.

On the day of the ride, more than half the climbing—both major climbs, plus some smaller hills—will come more than 50 miles into the route. That means I’ll be hitting the first really steep slope after my legs have already had a good workout. My training so far has simulated the steep parts of the route, so I know I can make it up those hills . . . when I’m fresh. Now my job is to get used to getting tired first, then hitting the climbs.

I’ve been paying attention to heart rate, since that’s a major factor in how much energy I have and how fast I can go or how hard I can climb. It’s not so hard to get good burst energy in the first part of a long ride, but sustaining that energy over several hours is a different thing. Part of it is learning how much you need to refuel along the way. No matter how much you train, if you don’t add calories after burning through whatever you had for breakfast, you’re going to end up crawling along.

My overall average heart rate tells me how well I refueled along the way. My maximum heart rate is a yardstick for how fresh I was when I started the ride. Generally after a travel day, or after a lot of training, I’m not in peak form. In April, it’s a given that I’ll be traveling to the ride, staying in an unfamiliar place, then getting up too early to get to the start line. Knowing that, I’ll still do what I can to make sure I start with a full tank. The adrenaline of an event day makes up for some shortfall.

So with a fair amount of climbing in my legs from the past few weeks, I now look forward to spending the next couple of weeks holding onto my mad mountain-goat skillz but spending my energy and focus on pushing up heart rate and overall speed, especially on the flats. Having both of those in better shape will also help me drive up hills faster.

Then I expect to return to a major climbing workout one more time before ride day, when I’ll scout the two major hills on the actual route, riding them first from back to front, then front to back, showing my legs what’s in store, probably taking my time and stopping to take pictures.

The table above doesn’t show all the riding I do; it leaves out shorter sprint work during the week and indoor trainer cycling in the garage after dark. But it sets out the major steps along the way. Part of the challenge is making sure that I give myself enough time between the major attacks to rest and refresh myself, so I won’t still be working through fatigue when I start the next ride. Every week I stretch my capacity.

As the weather gets warmer and less drizzly, each successive training ride gets to be more of a pleasure. The closer I get to the end of April, the more this Breakaway Ride looks like a mountain of fun.

In the Snow, Man

2010-02-22T20:46:00.000-08:00

I learned to drive in a 1962 Ford Falcon station wagon with a straight-six engine that got swapped for a rebuilt block a while after the car had passed 100,000 miles.

The Falcon, for those who don’t know the car, was a predecessor to the more famous Mustang. The Falcon was a great family car. We even had two seatbelts—one for the driver, one for the shotgun seat.

The Falcon I grew up in got a new home this weekend, hitching a ride north to my sister’s house.

Our particular Falcon got its start on the East Coast, as did I and two of my sisters. Dad was transferred to New York for four years mid-career, with the promise that he could return to the West Coast office when Mom had her fill of historical tours in New England. This is Gertie’s old parking sticker from Berkeley Heights, New Jersey, where we lived when Mom and Dad bought the car.

I was not the only one who learned to drive in this car.

It came with all the features. The radio had five presets for stations you really liked. Once it warmed up, it had excellent sound. Some stations had news. Others had music. Some had classical music. On the weekend you might pick up a ball game. All bases were covered.

Nowadays in cars that have fuel injection systems there’s no such thing as a choke. I learned to drive with a manual choke on an engine where fuel mixed with air in the carburetor before being delivered to the firing cylinders. And I learned that I could almost always set the choke better than any of the automatic chokes on later model cars. This was great in situations like starting the car at any great elevation, or in cold weather.

Note the defrost knob, next to the choke.

To get the defrost working—to keep condensation from fogging the inside of your windshield—you pull out the defrost knob, and you also pull out the knob marked “PULL FOR TEMP.” That brings in hot air from the engine block and routes it up to the vent below the windshield.

For heat for the passengers, you pull out the next knob over, and then you reach under the dash and open up the boxes that serve as vents into the cabin. If you turn this knob, a fan will go on to blow the hot air in a little faster. This was a warm car on a cold, rainy day. Five high-schoolers in wet clothes were enough to overpower the windshield defroster, but you could usually roll down a window and solve that problem.

Rounding out the instrument cluster were a cigarette lighter, designed to light cigarettes, and an add-on Dad installed: a genuine moo-cow horn. We always had a great time driving in farm country.

Factory air.

We put the car on a trailer headed north, and a day later my sister drove north to catch it at the other end.

Gertie in her new home.

Room With a View

2010-02-10T08:33:00.000-08:00

Monday afternoon I was cooped up in a very small office (not even enough room to stand upright), but the view out the window made it livable.

There’s no cell reception here.

After dark, the stars are incredible.

So’s Your Grammar

2010-02-07T08:20:00.000-08:00

Yup, grammar can be fun. Or it can kill you. The picture of a dead guy on the cover yells fun.

(signed in person!)

There’s a fine line between being able to draw simple, witty pictures that will appeal to children and not being able to draw at all.

Actually, I’m lying. It’s not a fine line at all. It’s a big, wide gulf.

Are so.

Bobble heads are cool.

Yeah, I’d totally rather look like one of the pencil necks. Except maybe the one on the left. He’s got kinda a ska sensibility to him.

Yeah. Just yeah.

(Cultural sensitivity teaching moment #1)

Did I mention yet the attention and detail that went into the illustrations here? When you consider the entire book, I bet the drawings took at least 15 minutes to complete.

Extra points for G’s goatee.

I get it that May is a little girl with a scary vacant eyes and a flaming red fright wig.

But is Can facing forward or backward?

In other words, I can see that Can is an ass. But are we looking at Can’s can?

You will probably get what you want more quickly if you are a cheerleader named Wanna, but I’m skipping back to an earlier lesson. Let’s keep moving forward.

(Cultural sensitivity teaching moment #2)

I am concerned that we are about to cross into a section of the book that may not be appropriate for children.

Oh. Never mind. I misunderstood.

Notice that phrase that gets used here? The phrase is “mixed up.” Remember that for a moment. We’ll use it further down.

I say I hope his singing is better than his drawing.

Or “Water got drunk.”

Who’s arithmetic?

There’s that “mixed up” phrase again. Keep watching.

Did I mention my concerns that some of this grammar could be too risqué for some younger minds?

Hey! What happened to “up” in the phrase “mixed up”? You mean that if the phrase comes at the end of the sentence, you can’t include that tiny little two-letter word? Just because it would be the last word in the sentence? Because, even though it’s not a preposition, it looks just like a word that is?

As Winston Churchill said, “This is the kind of nonsense up with which I will not put.”

Getting mixed is what happens to cake batter.

(Incidentally, nice mnemonic for helping us all remember the difference between “lie” and “lay.” To remember the difference, all you have to remember is: the difference.)

How about “I feel self-righteous”? Or “I feel sanctimonious”?

My mother never made any mistakes.

The Longer Way

2010-01-23T20:42:00.000-08:00

Instead of heading north in the dead of night as I often do, I rambled up by daylight through Central California’s wine country, under the clouds of a clearing storm.

Is There a Support Group for This?

2010-01-17T11:19:00.000-08:00

Hi. My name is MrJumbo, and I have a cycling problem.

I run down the checklist of questions designed to help me decide whether I’m a social cyclist or a problem cyclist, and my heart sinks. Have I ever wanted to go on a bike ride again the next morning? Yes. Do I frequently cycle alone? Yes. Have I ever been to a hospital as a result of my cycling? Yes.

Does cycling affect my family relations?

Have I ever spent more on cycling than I did on groceries in a month?

On rent/mortgage?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

But how can you turn down a companion with such a perfect fleck in its red paint? Not a flashy, showy, bragging flake, but no demure wallflower either.

I may be the one here with the cyling problem, but I’ll tell you this too: Those hills had better watch out this summer. Because MrJumbo’s not gonna be kidding around.

Before Twitter (V)

2010-01-01T15:31:00.000-08:00

By mid-1933, my grandmother and grandfather had settled into a life of domestic bliss in Los Angeles. At some point he left Certainteed and after a few false starts fired up the company I work for today. Domestic bliss? I’m sure I’m oversimplifying. Times were hard; the Depression was on. But I was there for their 50th anniversary, so clearly something went right.

It’s interesting to see this telegram from my grandfather to my grandmother around that time. It’s sent from Yermo at 5:35 a.m., and he says his bus will be in at 11:45 that morning. That tells me he’s traveling on a bus, but it tells me a little more about what travel must have been like. On today’s road, that’s about a two-hour drive. Grandfather expected it to take six.

I have more notes, letters, telegrams and cards, not to mention pictures. Every one tells a story. This is just one box. Today I peeked at about a half-dozen items that were near the top of the box.

We have lots of boxes.

Before Twitter (IV)

2010-01-01T15:01:00.001-08:00

By December 1926, my grandfather was clearly smitten with the woman who would become my grandmother. The air was thick with wedding plans. He traveled from Laramie, where they had met, back home to New Jersey for Christmas with his family. (His sister Mary had returned from India, and one of his aunts was in the hospital.) Grandmother and her mother traveled to Indiana.

Grandmother’s mother was from New Bedford, Indiana. Grandmother and her sister had gone to college at St. Mary’s, in South Bend, Indiana. I don’t know why my great-grandmother was in the hospital, and I don’t know why she decided to have an operation in Indiana instead of Laramie, where she lived and had raised her daughters. But as Christmas drew near, there they were, at a hotel across the street from what is now Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis.

The plan was for Grandfather to join Grandmother and her mother in Indianapolis right after Christmas, and for them to be married there. They were making plans as the day drew near. Grandmother was far from all her Laramie friends and family, but her mother’s family would have been close by. Grandfather was sending note after note to Grandmother, answering (or not answering) her questions about wedding preparations, encouraging her plans. Here’s one he sent shortly before Christmas, undated—maybe on December 22?

Helen dearest,

Mother just reminded me of another thing that of name—and Father’s name is Reverend John Ten Eyck DeWitt and not just John T.E.D.

Thought perhaps you would like to know this so in haste I am dropping this note at once.

Have been wrapping Christmas gifts and doing things around home all day. Tonight dear, we all trim the tree and it will be a very pleasant evening at home.

In a few minutes now I am going to the Hospital to see Auntie who is much better. Mary is also better and is home. It was so nice of you dear to think of them and wish them well. Mary has told me how nice it was and Auntie soon will tell me.

Even though dearest our Christmas together will be a little late it will be such fun, won’t it dearest, and we will be so very happy, but then dear think of next Christmas at our home dear and so many more to come. Our happy days together will soon be here.

I love you very awfully much dear and soon will be with my precious Helen

Your Douglas

P.S.
Helen, dearest I was just talking to Mother about what might be said about me as to family and there is so very much, but we here at home have clear records of our family on both sides back to 1656 in this country and record on Mother’s side back in Holland to William the 4th, family. Dearest, perhaps you will want copies of these records and I shall see about getting them if you wish. Both Mother’s and Father’s folks were all very much straight Holland Dutch. I tell you this dear as you might wish it.

I love you so much my sweetheart

Douglas

On the afternoon before Christmas, Grandfather sent this final handwritten note before the holiday:

Oradell Fri Dec 24 1926, addressed to Miss Helen E. Holliday, Hotel Wesley 16th & Capitol, Indianapolis, Indiana (Google shows this near Methodist Hospital, but no obvious Hotel Wesley standing there today). Postmark shows received Indianapolis Dec. 25.

Dearest dear Helen,

Your two precious letters of Wednesday are here this morning and I am very happy to have them, and dear it is so hard to be away from you at this time, when there is such much to do and talk over. But dearest Helen your plans are my plans and that is the reason I [warned? worried?] as I did before just saying when I would be with you, which will be on Monday Morning [the 27th]. So far away and not knowing how all is with you and your Mother and what are your plans, it is hard to say anything definitely. If we could be married on Monday it would be so wonderful, but then if not as we would have so much to do, it would be Tuesday and dearest, you will know how it seems to you and the date on the announcements will be the one you pick, and I would like very much to pick them with you, but time is so short and it takes time to have them made up, that you will go right ahead dearest. There are so many things, not as we could wish, but dearest it is just that I would always feel that I had not helped Mother any, if I were not here for Christmas, as I am here so near it. But precious Helen, I will be thinking only of you dearest and want you and wish I were with you. And dearest we will have our Christmas together on Monday, dearest Helen my dear, and I will have two rings for you, one you will wear immediately, and the other as soon as we are married and dear the engraving is not done as we don’t yet know the date. I have had the two rings for days and each night and also many other times I look at them and wish I was seeing them on my dearest Helen’s finger. And dearest, I hope so that you will like them, but really dear, I am not worrying for I got them just for my sweet Helen and when I picked them out all my thoughts were of how you would like them. Dearest it will be very wonderful when you are wearing my rings to you my sweetheart and my dear wife. And this will [?] mean that you love me dearly and that I love my sweet Helen with all the love there is. Precious I love you always.

Helen it is so nice of you to ask me about myself for Mr. Burrage, but dear you know all don’t you and my precious, you are the important person and all should be about you, but dearest anything that you and your Mother say will of course be all fine with me. If there was anything special to tell you, I would dear, but always I have told you all about myself that has come to me, but please dearest your Mother should remember that my sweet Helen is the important person.

Honey dear about the number of announcements, it will be about 150 for my old friends, but dear that is lots so perhaps it will be less, but then it could be so many more, but it won't be. Dearest about where we will be married, it is hard for me to say not knowing your plans and your Mother’s plans, and then dearest I will like whatever you plan. As things are it will be impossible for me to have anyone with me that is an old friend of mine, for having nothing planned definitely ourselves, I can’t very well make plans for anyone else. But dearest I think you understand just as well and it just seems that it will have to be that way. As soon as I am with you, we can talk of so many things and you will tell me your thoughts and your plans, which of course are our plans. We will first get our license, which, you will know where to get, and then soon my sweet Helen will be my wonderful wife.

It is so terrible not to be with you my dear tomorrow on Christmas Day, and all day my thoughts will be especially of my sweet Helen.

Last night I had such a pleasant evening at the home of Charles Livingston Bull, the artist of whom so often I have spoken. His new studio, which I had not seen before is wonderful and soon I can be telling you all about our evening. Mr. & Mrs. Bull are both so extremely pleasant and exceptionally kind people, that you would love to know them, I am sure. This summer they are going to try to get out to Laramie to see us, and then we will be entertaining celebrities as, there is no doubt but what Mr. Bull is the best artist today, who draws of the wild animal life. So much have I to tell you of my pleasant evening with them, and also so much of all things here, that it is hard to write about.

Lately dearest I have been wondering very much what you have been doing yourself. From last Thursday to this Tuesday, there were no letters, and only your dear [voice?] of Monday. But you will tell me all when I am with you, won’t you dearest, for so much do I always want to know what you are doing. Each of those days with no letter are lost for me until you tell me all.

You are so good to tell me all the news dearest and we will have much to talk about. Especially good news was the oil well, and even though it does not amount to much, for I did not have much faith in Mike Lund, and I am glad I was mistaken. I happened to know quite a little about the Theater situation, when I was in Laramie, but of course I did not say anything, so your news did not at all surprise me.

Honey dear this letter may not reach you until Sunday morning, but I am hoping you will get it Christmas night, but mails are so funny. And dearest I love you, and love you and soon we will both be most very happy. My sweet precious, I will mail this at once and tonight I shall write you again. There is so very much to tell you I can't half do it in a letter.

Your Douglas who loves most dearly his Helen.

Finally Christmas was over, and Douglas could rush to the side of his fair Helen, no doubt by fast train. By Wednesday the 29th they were man and wife.

I remember, 50 years later, driving a few hundred miles with my family to help celebrate the golden anniversary of that happy day.

Before Twitter (III)

2010-01-01T14:36:00.001-08:00

By 1925, my grandfather, working in Laramie, was courting the young lady who became my grandmother. In April 1925, while she was off on a trip through the Southwest and he stayed home working, he wrote her this note:

Laramie postmark (Thu) Apr 30 1925, ? PM
on letterhead & envelope from Certain-Teed Products Corporation, Laramie, Wyo.
Addressed to Miss Helen E. Holliday, % DeVargas Hotel, Santa Fe, New Mexico, with a Please Forward note; forwarded to Albuquerque, 119 N. Walter St., with new (Santa Fe) postmark May 2, 1925

(Google shows 119 Walter St. NE today as vacant lot at corner of Historic Route 66 [Central Ave], near downtown)

Thursday afternoon

To My own little Helen,

Your card from Las Vegas is here telling me that you have just passed thru. Of course that is Wednesday afternoon and this is one day later so I know that now you are at Santa Fe all safe and sound. When I look along the map each day I know just where you might be. Such towns as [?], Las Vegas, [?] etc mean so much when I know that you have been thru them. Suppose that you will be so sunburned that we all back here will be just ‘plain’ pale faces. Helen, dear it will be so fine when you get back.

Rather amusing affair happened yesterday afternoon. Sometime ago I wrote a letter to a man (business) and then answer is here. He gives me all I asked for because there was no way out I guess, but he ends up by saying that “he considers my letter an insult but will be able to bear it.” The affair doesn’t amount to a row of pins, but as my letter to him was extremely courteous, his answer is most amusing. Can quite stop laughing about it, for really I don’t care whether he can bear it or not.

Meant to go to the show last night but instead [?] returned early and am glad I did for this morning found myself feeling pretty fit.

Today is beautiful with neither wind, snow or rain, and also it is very warm. Just a wonderful day as far as weather is concerned.

Had a letter from Mother last night, which is always so welcome. Someday dear Helen you will know my Mother and I know you will like her as Mother will like you—which will be just lots. Just think of introducing Mother to my wife, but someday soon dearest, you will be my own dear wife and of course Mother should know you.

I hope dear Helen that you are taking lots of pictures so that we can see the places together when you get back, for that will be so much fun. It will be better than seeing them [also?] to have you dear sit on my lap and tell me all about the different places and what you did at each place and then Helen my sweetheart it will be so wonderful when you are back that, that day when it will be has been set for a day of real celebration.

Helen dear you know I love you, but I love you so much I just must keep telling you, for my own little Helen I do love you so dearly.

Your own Douglas

Before Twitter (II)

2010-01-01T14:25:00.001-08:00

My mother’s Aunt Mary, born four years before my grandfather, became the family’s historian. Before that, though, she spent time in India. In September 1925, she wrote this note to my grandfather, who was still in Laramie:

Envelope printed Girls’ High School, Dehra Dun, U.P., with handwriting “M. DeWitt” above and “India” below, addressed to Mr. Douglas H. De Witt, Certain-Teed Products Corporation, Laramie, Wyoming U.S.A.

Girls’ High School
Dehra Dun, U.P., India

Sept. 1, 1925

Dear Dud,

Hold your breath, remember you’re an uncle now and must be able to rise to most any occasion and stand most any shock, and may be you won’t have to send for the smelling salts when you realize this is a letter from the worst correspondent you have! Nowadays all my friends have given me up as hopeless and stopped writing to me so I’m making a grand splurge and getting all my letters answered. But, honest Injun, Dud, I’ve thought of you a lot, and besides I rather like writing letters, but I’ve been so horribly busy and my eyes have been the limit so I’ve really not been able to write for I had to use my eyes for school work and [that] was enough of a strain and too much most of the time. I happen to have a very easy schedule this term (for the first time in the history of India) so I’m getting some Urdu books read for an exam and also am writing letters.

How do you like the mountains? It must be fairly cool in Laramie at this time of year. Lansdowne, the hill-station a few miles from Dehra, is about the altitude of your town but is not quite as cold, I imagine. The highest I’ve ever been was something over 12,000 feet. That was this June when Shirin and I went over the snow mts. from Pahalgam in the Lid[d]ar Valley of Kashmir to Sonamarg in the Sindh Valley. Plenty of thrills on that trip. It surely was glorious, though, that day up in the snow peaks—dazzling whiteness as far as one could see, breathtaking heights—blinding sunshine. We saw the shepherd folk with their large hers of sheep and goats crossing seemingly impossible heights over trackless wastes of snow. We took off our hats to that brave crowd. I like mountain climbing, especially in Kashmir where one takes risks, rather, but sees such wonderful places.

Dehra is a little valley shut in by the Himalayas and the S[i]waliks. At this time of year it is green and luxurious as to vegetation but frightfully hot and steamy as to weather. It rains continually and in such torrents that umbrellas and raincoats are useless and one just has to stay indoors. Of course it doesn’t rain every minute but it seems as thought it always rains at recreation hour. Last night, wonder of wonders, was a perfect moonlight night. Someone had been optimist enough to plan a moonlight drive for the whole staff and we surely enjoyed it. We went in “fituns” (phaetons) and drove out to cantonments where there are few houses and the air is cooler than in the city.

Will you be home next year? I don’t know when I’ll be coming—sometime within a year. I can hardly wait to see the small namesake of yours in Oradell. Do you feel the same way?

Please don’t take as long to answer as I did, Dud. At this rate we’ll be strangers. I’d awfully much like to know about life in Laramie and the Oradell folks write so little about you as of course I suppose they think we have a wireless or something. Thanks for the checque that came with your letter for my 1924 birthday. You must have thought I didn’t appreciate it but I surely did and am ashamed of myself for not writing to thank you. I care more for the thought than the gift anyway. That silly Albany bank wouldn’t cash it, I don’t know why. I forgot to write you about it.

Well, the breakfast bell rang about five minutes ago so I’d better present myself at the table. We have tea or milk and toast at six and breakfast at eleven. Isn’t that a hilarious plan? I’m usually starved by eleven o’clock.

Lots of love to you,

Mary

Before Twitter (I)

2010-01-01T14:08:00.000-08:00

My mother’s father was born in Oradell, New Jersey, July 1, 1899. He had a twin sister, Dot. After my grandfather finished school at Rutgers, he headed west to Laramie, Wyoming, in the employ of the Certainteed Corporation, which is still around. Dot stayed home and was courted by a fellow named Gwynne Lewis, whom she eventually married.

In December 1924, Gwynne wrote this letter to my grandfather in Laramie:

Postmarked “Hud Term. Sta. N.Y. 7 Dec 6 4 PM 1924”
Addressed to Mr. Douglas H. De Witt % Certainteed Products Corp., Laramie Wyoming Box 614
On letterhead: Gwynne T. Lewis, 99 John Street, New York City

December 6 1924

Dear Doug,

The rush continues. Judge Hooker got hooked for jury duty last Monday and yours truly has been doing double duty ever since. I won his department for the time he’s gone as well as my own, so it leaves me up to my ears.

Hope the set goes good. Have had no news, so take it that no news is good news. Finished up the set for home last week and it goes pretty good. Used most of the stuff that John had and while it hasn't got the kick I like, it’s because the transformers are both low ratio and can be remedied by putting a high ratio in the first stage. I used the coil I had originally planned to put in your set. Never could figure out why it didn’t work in there, but it wouldn’t. Still you have a much better coil in the Bruno, so I’m just as well satisfied it didn’t work for your set. Don Day made a set for Brown using the Globe coil and one for himself using a Bruno coil and the Bruno set is way ahead of Brown’s. Still he wants to make a four tube set now and is willing to part with it for just what it cost him. He’s a great guy. Wants me to go fishing up in Walton Lake with him tomorrow. And there was skating in Oradell yesterday. None today—it rained. I don’t mind mosquitos but I do draw the line on freezing to death. I’m no eskimo.

We sort of got a hunch you’ll be drifting along this way soon. Hope you do make it Xmas, it’ld be good to see you again.

Suppose you have the cross-word puzzle game out there. It’s raging terribly here. Here’s one for you. Give me a six-letter word meaning “Ball bearing mouse trap” The answer will be published at the end of this letter. Try this on Ben and see if he gets it. Oh, yes, I’ve been looking for more Red Pepper for him but so far haven’t run across any. Guess they are getting too hot for the press or else all grabbed as soon as they come out. I’ll do my best to send him one for Christmas though. It should be something extra hot for Christmas if they run true to form.

I’ve been dubbing around trying to get some hot advice on your set but so far there isn’t a thought. It’s been an hour and twenty minutes since I started this and the few intervals when I’ve been let alone have been devoted to writing like hell. Just a thought. Try various B battery voltages on your detector tube, say from 16 1/2 up to 45. You will probably choke her up with 45, but then again your tube may take it without a murmur. Lots of them do.

12:30 I got yanked out again, so will put on the lid. Below is the answer. Ponder well before trying it out on your landlady. Regards to Mrs. Ross when you see her.

Gwynne.

Answer to X word puzzle—Tomcat.

Curds and Whey

2009-12-31T23:41:00.000-08:00

I noticed a dead spider and thought this would be a good time to take some tight close-ups.

It was a good plan until I noticed that the spider was moving its legs as I was setting up shots.

The spider’s natural arch is like a VW Beetle or a taut bow.

Forty-five minutes after I took these pictures, I went back to have another look, and the spider was nowhere to be found.

Does It?

2009-12-05T12:48:00.001-08:00

(Picture from http://redmondpie.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/VerizonWedgedAdsWarAgainstApple_12B2B/verizonad_610x457.jpg)

Doesn’t include “doesn’t” in its dictionary? Doesn’t?

Do tell.

Washington Stops

2009-12-05T11:11:00.001-08:00

Going through some old rolls of pictures (Mom’s pictures, that is), I found these of some happy tourists in 2002 at the other other Washington.

I recognize some of the grownups, but I have no idea who those cute little kids are. All my nieces and nephews are either much older or much younger.

In case there’s any confusion over where Washington really is, this monument should help locate it.

Gathering Family III

2009-11-28T21:01:00.000-08:00

With 10 people staying in the house, we had a lot of warmth, but when the radiant heat started leaking, we fixed it anyhow. First step is to break up the concrete to find the leak.

The last step in any project is to sign your name. (Neither of these is my handprint.)

The kids visit their grandparents.

It’s all part of saying thanks.

Somewhere in the world a cousin’s feet are wearing a perfectly matched mismatch.

Even before the last leaf falls, the buds for next year’s shoots are already in place.

I had my youngest nephew tell me where to point the camera. Kid’s got a good eye.

The leftovers dinner after Thanksgiving is in some ways a better meal.

Nobody’s worried about whether the whole meal will come together on time.

The flavors in the food have commingled and cured.

Nobody has to be on their best behavior.

And, as a result, everybody is.

“Hi, Papa. I look sweet, don’t I? Keep on dandling me on your lap. Do you think for one second I’m not going to belt out a big Italian aria the minute you try to strap me into that dumb old plastic car seat?”

The hard part of saying hello is knowing it’ll turn into goodbye too soon.

When no more fits, it’s time to quit.

Folding their tents, like Arabs, before they quietly steal away.

Gathering Family II

2009-11-26T23:29:00.000-08:00

I saw Chuck Mangione live in concert once, but my niece totally gets to go to all the good shows.

Patience is teaching a child to ride a two-wheeler. Our dad taught six of us. My brother is now teaching his own son on the same bike we all learned on.

3B is already an avid watcher of the Tour de France, the Tour of California, the Giro d’Italia, and other great cycling contests. “Who are you?” my brother asked as they moved together around the cul-de-sac. “I’m Lance Armstrong!” the kid announced.

The rider’s sister watches from the sidelines, too young still to reach the pedals.

Ready for a night out.

Thanksgiving 2009

Gathering Family

2009-11-22T21:57:00.000-08:00

Dude’s gonna be in a band one day. He’s already wearing the right hat.

It was all good fun last night until Cal started scoring touchdowns.

Mama (my brother’s wife) holds the latest addition to the family.

As soon as he saw himself on the camera monitor, he knew exactly what face he wanted for the record. (See Calvin and Hobbes.)

Sleeping Beauty joins us for morning coffee and . . . is that butter she’s eating straight from the tub?

Nothing matches the innocence of a sleeping baby.

Proud aunt.

Scent of Humor

2009-11-15T21:34:00.000-08:00

I don’t have the cents I was born with, but lucky for me, the U.S. Mint has been issuing new ones lately. On the lower one, check out the engraved letters (as against raised), a relative rarity on U.S. coinage in recent years.

Tonopah, Goldfield, Road, Ranch

2009-11-04T19:46:00.000-08:00

A Trick of the Tail

2009-10-27T09:03:00.000-07:00

Think you’ve got the tiger by the tail?

(See PapaBradstein’s blog for further de-tails.)

Feathered Silhouettes

2009-10-17T23:16:00.000-07:00

A Pressing Engagement

2009-10-10T22:05:00.000-07:00

I stepped out my front door to chuck something into the recycling bin, and my neighbor called out and asked if I wanted to help press some wine.

I’m no vintner, so I told him I’d take my shoes off and come right over. No, he said, the crushing was done already. Now we were going to press the juice out of the crushed grapes.

Oh.

You pour the crushed mix of grapes and grape juice into the drum, which has slotted sides that let the juice run out but not the peels and pulp and seeds and stems.

Then you put a lid on top of the mash and press down hard.

Even the littlest one gets to help press.

It was a great pre-Hallowe’en project, because all that red juice looks very, very much like blood. We sent it coursing through pumps and clear hoses and into a big vat. It looked like a hospital transfusion, except it was in the driveway.

As with any creative project, a critical part of winemaking is mastering what to leave behind.

After the vintage was properly trampled out, we retired indoors and had pizza and dessert crêpes, all the more tasty for the hard work we had accomplished.

Bad Day to Be a Pigeon

2009-10-08T08:43:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in my bedroom tapping away at my computer when I saw a flurry of action outside.

A bird flew by with prey still fighting in its claws and landed on the roof across the alley.

Its mate swept down to land on the telephone wire right across from my balcony and glare in at me, in case I might get it in my head to try something.

I had just downloaded some pictures, so I had my camera right next to me.

I very seldom see raptors in my alley, and it's even more rare to see them with breakfast.

Two minutes later, they were gone, back to whatever haven they retreat to after a quick morning sortie, to pick over the spoils.

Hardly Strictly 2009

2009-10-04T20:54:00.000-07:00

Todd Snider enjoys a moment with the mando player from Great American Taxi.

Hardly Strictly Bluegrass is put on each year by Warren Hellman, a free public musical festival for anyone who wants to come enjoy it. It features players from MC Hammer to Lyle Lovett, from Little Feat to Robert Plant, from Odetta to Allison Moorer, from Boz Scaggs to the Chieftains.

The atmosphere in Golden Gate Park is relaxed, and a lot of performers seem to look forward to coming back year after year.

At Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, each of the half-dozen stages has a name and an icon to go with it: Arrow, Banjo, Rooster, Star, and so on. Lest you forget where you are, each stage is prominently marked, up high where everyone can see it.

Golden Gate Park’s eucalyptus trees make a great backdrop for Del McCoury and his band.

Warren Hellman likes Emmylou Harris well enough that he always asks her to be the closer for the three-day show, in the final time slot on Sunday. I had never had the chance to see her at the show, because by Sunday night I’m usually hightailing it back home to Southern California to get to work on Monday. This year, I had business in the Bay Area on Monday morning, so I got to stick around and see the final act.

And this year, Emmylou Harris was presented with an honorary doctorate from Berklee College of Music (in Boston), a kind of lifetime achievement award for everything she’s done in a long, rich musical career. She was joined on stage by Warren Hellman, Linda Ronstadt, and Earl Scruggs, as well as Roger Brown, Berklee’s president, who made the presentation. Linda is an old friend of Emmylou’s, and Earl had played earlier at the festival; both are previous Berklee honorees.

After getting her doctorate, Emmylou traded the robe in for her playing clothes and dug into a great set of older and newer favorites that took us from early evening through the rise of the full moon.

Her final words to the audience that night, after giving her thanks to the band, the audience, and Warren Hellman, were “Yup, there’s a doctor in the house!”

The Other Half

2009-10-04T20:08:00.000-07:00

In Golden Gate Park, what happens up on the stage is only half the show.
You want to remember to turn around and not miss the rest.

I am a little jealous of the bird flying into the sunset.

Moonrise, stage lights.

I used to live in a city.

Just One More

2009-10-02T19:41:00.000-07:00

Night and Day

2009-09-25T22:12:00.000-07:00

I took a drive yesterday to a place some might call the middle of nowhere, but to me it’s somewhere in particular.

After I got out of the car, I had a chance to study my cousin’s collection of critters. She has quite a hand with the farmyard.

(Here you can just about hear me humming “Turkey in the Straw.”)

These honkers were mighty noisy. Maybe they thought I had come to feed them. No such luck.

To get a group of Americans to smile, you tell them, “Say ‘Cheese’!” To get this expression from a goose, you tell it, “Say ‘Foie gras’!”

I was in town for a meeting. After the meeting, I took a side road to have a look at stars. One advantage of being nowhere near anything in particular is that the night sky is clear and dark.

The moon’s buddy here is Antares, a red giant. It genuinely looked red up there.

The lights over the ridge are Las Vegas, about 100 miles from where I took this. To the naked eye, the glow is plainly visible. The camera wasn’t so sensitive to it, but as you can see, it did pick it up.

Red Hot Chili aficionados will be pleased to spot the Pleiades here, the little bunch of stars near the upper right corner. I tried to get a better shot of them, but I couldn't line them up in the camera’s viewfinder, which showed only the very brightest stars.

(On all of these pictures, if you click on the picture itself, you’ll get to see a bigger version with richer detail.)

Jupiter hung up there fat and red and sassy, in the middle of Capricorn. Off to his left is Deneb. If you had an exceptional telescope, you could have seen Neptune in the same neighborhood. (Pluto wasn’t too far off either.)

I was pretty pleased with how these pictures came out, for a first stab. I had a tripod mount, but not a cable release. On most of the pictures I exposed for 10+ seconds at full lens extension, the results revealed a visible drift. This picture was taken at a 1-second exposure length, with the lens at a wide-angle setting (35mm equivalent about 28mm).

Galileo spotted the moons of Jupiter using a 20x telescope. With a very steady tripod, and a good lens, and the right exposure, a halfway decent photographer today ought to be able to pick up something interesting out there. I was shooting in the dark, not sure whether I’d get any decent results, but having seen what I did get, I’m tempted to try again, refining my technique as I go.

Star map courtesy of AstroViewer

No photograph, on film or in pixels, can really capture the depth and majesty of the night sky itself. You can take a picture that shows where the stars are; you can even take a picture that shows how many stars there are. But no reproduction really catches the texture and illumination of the original experience.

Tashlich

2009-09-20T21:18:00.000-07:00

It being a new year, an old friend and I wandered down to the continent’s edge to turn our pockets inside out and throw the missteps of the old year out into the flowing water.

While we were there, we did a little tidepooling.

John Steinbeck’s old friend Ed Ricketts loved the rich intertidal zone, a fertile area of constant turmoil, washed with fresh nutrients at every high tide, left to warm and interact as the water draws back out, creating a steady stream of surplus energy for the next several links in the food chain.

My old friend Susan loves the tidepools, where you can poke sea anemones and watch them squirt.

Different forms of life seem to cling in every crevice here, some hunkering down and hiding in the dry time until the water comes back, others lurking in the water most of the day but darting up onto land for the air they need to survive. Nothing here survives by being all wet or all dry.

All sorts of life blossom and intertwine in this microhabitat, rife with diversity, adaptation, and specialization.

Shorebirds love the band along the coast too, where chum fish school and forage on the tasty nutrients in the shallows.

We saw a couple of different flocks of pelicans swirling over shoals of unseen fish near the shore, diving past each other and splashing often two at a time, feeding as fast as they could drop, surface, and climb back up into the air to dive again.

Much of the abundant life in the intertidal zone is literally neither fish nor fowl, invertebrates of various colors and stripes getting on with life in what modest ways they know.

Having unloaded our misdemeanors from the past year, we headed back to a higher-cultured forage: We heard there was frozen yogurt waiting for us once we got back to the top of the bluffs.

Roadside Distractions

2009-09-06T23:52:00.000-07:00

I spent about four hours riding, and about two hours stopped.

I only stopped twice because a hill was fighting back. The rest of my stops were to take pictures, except once when I had to adjust my front derailleur.

I have it on good authority from someone who knows the names of things that this is a California turkey vulture, not to be confused with a turkey buzzard in a pork pie hat. The turkey vulture is one of California’s largest native birds. The bright red face caught my eye as the bird turned. When you spend your mealtimes poking your head into carcasses, you don’t want lots of feathers on your face to catch loose bits.

I was hoping to catch more shots of raptors on the fly, but the few I saw overhead quickly glided away when I stopped and took out my camera. I came upon one big bird getting started on a fresh piece of roadside skunk, but he took off before I could tell whether he was one of these guys or just a big corvid.

One of my goals on this trip was to scout out the roads I’ll be riding in early October. No two hills are quite alike: One has better pavement, another more wind; one climbs in shallow terraces and steep rises, another in a long, slow, steady grind. So it’s good to know what you’re up against. Another goal was to get lots of my picture taking done, so that next time I can ride more or less straight through.

I took all the major hills from the October ride and broke them up into two large chunks, one to ride Saturday and one Sunday.

The next picture is taken from the road just above this tree, looking back down at the spot where I was standing when I took this picture.

I was happy with the hills. Make no mistake: Work is involved here. But the climbs are a rewarding challenge, and I made it over. I’ve got more training to do before I come back ready to take them all in a single day. For now, though, I know that day will be filled with golden vistas and a few screaming downhills.

Fog Rolls Like a Cyclist

2009-09-06T23:45:00.000-07:00

I took a short detour to have a look at the fog gathering up on the ocean below me.

If I had followed this road to its end, I would have found myself at Russia’s southernmost outpost in North America, from back in the 1800s.

When you’re over this hill, you don’t plan on coming back up from the other side. You might find yourself building up speed on the way down. The only way out is through.

Return to the Sea

2009-09-06T23:42:00.000-07:00

The light was getting better and better for pictures, which meant the sun was going down.

I couldn’t resist stopping for frequent pictures in this great light, especially since I knew I had climbed my last hard hill for the day, but I knew I’d better keep scooting along to get back to my car before daylight ran out.

As I came to the top of the steepest, longest grade of the day, the ocean unfolded in all its magnificence.

Sun Down, Moon Up

2009-09-06T23:32:00.000-07:00

As I rode my last downhill mile back to the car, I passed about a hundred tourists standing with cameras poised on the bluffs outside of Jenner, at the mouth of the Russian River, to capture the vision of the sun going down over the scenic rocks scattered off in the water.

I was done riding and had no desire to join them, but the light at that hour is magical, and I stood at the car and froze in time the little things I saw.

In Northern California, the moon has more trouble pushing up through shaggy trees. In Southern California, mostly it goes up between palm trees and very seldom gets entangled.

The Reward Comes at the End

2009-09-05T23:09:00.000-07:00

These stones offshore in the fog were incredible; I could have watched them for days if I didn’t have to keep moving. The soundtrack was something from Myst, distant washing waves and an occasional gull’s scree. I shot video too, to try to capture the sound, but it was too subtle for the camera and mostly sounded like a dull hiss, except when cars whoosh by. In three dimensions, the lopsided rhythm of rushing surge and then silence, now over here, now far over there, created an intriguing aural space to go with these looming giant teeth, abstract shapes half shrouded at the outer edge of what can be seen.

Water, Air, Earth (no Fire)

2009-08-30T22:43:00.000-07:00

Meanwhile, when it wasn’t burning somewhere, today was a nice day for a bike ride. I’m still focusing on hills; I climbed 3,770 feet today in 55 miles. Up, down, over, up again, down again, back over, and like that. One advantage of this plan is that you get to enjoy many great vistas.

When I started out, the air was baking hot, but by the time I got back, some less hot air had started moving in from offshore. Not cool air, maybe, but less hot. I refilled my bottles a few times along the way.

Shot these last weekend from below. This time I took a matching picture from above.

Catalina Island lies 26 miles offshore, shrouded in mist.

A cruise ship slowly steams away from San Pedro; a container ship unloads.

The Catalina ferry returns past Angels Gate.

The Gerald Desmond Bridge leads to Long Beach’s downtown, near my home.

The Fire This Time

2009-08-30T22:11:00.001-07:00

A lot of energy is being released in the mountains north of Los Angeles.

These pictures were taken from the top of the Palos Verdes Peninsula, about 30 miles south of the fires. The big fire in these shots is the “Station” fire, which started a few days ago in the canyons behind La Cañada-Flintridge. It has spread considerably beyond that by now, both east and west, and to some degree north and south. These pictures are looking almost straight north.

As of tonight, total area burned is more than 65 square miles, and with hot dry weather forecast through at least tomorrow, the multiple firelines show no sign of showing down.

Downtown Los Angeles is safely separated from the burning mountains, but it’s not far enough away to avoid the pall of smoke and flying ash.

The cloud over the city makes even the mightiest skyscraper look tiny and inconsequential.

(Keep in mind that the towering smoke is twice as far away as the skyscrapers.)

Last night I finished reading a novel centered on a (fictional) event that took place during the six-day riot that scorched Watts and neighboring communities in 1965. I wasn’t around to see that smoke cloud, but I have a feeling the one towering over Los Angeles this week is of a whole different order of magnitude.

Small Fires

2009-08-30T21:46:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I deliberately didn’t ride hard, and didn’t take this road around the perimeter of the Palos Verdes Peninsula, because there had been a fire back here. I didn’t want to be working my lungs too hard if there was going to be a lot of smoke, and I wanted to stay out of the way of emergency crews.

It turned out I could have headed back here after all; the fire was out already by yesterday, and smoke was light, if there was any.

The fire consumed about 235 acres. (A square mile is 640 acres.) It damaged six homes and destroyed a couple of “outbuildings,” as they call structures that aren’t homes. It’s pretty easy to imagine it being worse.

As you can see, the fire burned right up next to a few homes, and it wasn’t far below some others. That had to make for some nervous hours for homeowners.

The headline-grabbing fires have been in the San Gabriel mountains; the biggest right now has scorched 42,500 acres, and is only 5% contained. Homes have been destroyed; more are threatened; families have had to evacuate; the fire may knock out broadcast television in the Los Angeles area when it crests Mount Wilson, where many antennas are located.

(When I got home tonight, my cell phone inexplicably dropped service. I live far from the area that’s burning, so I know my local cell tower hasn’t burned. But it may rely on relay transmissions from up there. Or it could have been completely unrelated.)

I’m relieved for friends who live on Palos Verdes Peninsula that damage here was so light, and that the fire is out.

Summer on the Run

2009-08-30T11:13:00.000-07:00

Tiny Footprints

2009-08-30T11:07:00.001-07:00

Never eat anything bigger than your head.

SCAQMD

2009-08-27T23:21:00.000-07:00

Over the past couple of weeks, we have spent considerable time and money getting one of our (relatively small) boilers retuned and recertified to ensure it puts out less than 30 ppm NOx and 400 ppm CO when it’s running, to keep our Los Angeles air clear and pristine.

In the distance you see a sample of Los Angeles’s natural high air quality.

Our plant sits right under a flight path into LAX. The gorgeous colors in the sunset are courtesy of the annual wildfires (as of tonight, four) in the hills surrounding Los Angeles.

This one in particular was acting lively tonight as I left work around 7 p.m. This is the “Station” fire, north of La Cañada, at the point where the Angeles Crest Highway comes out of the hills and into the open San Gabriel Valley. Note the smaller smoke plumes to the left of the main column, where smaller branch fires are burning.

The fire is burning right about where the Tour of California has been routed for at least the past two years.

Note that the air is fairly clear, except where the smoke plume hangs. The evening wind was blowing the plume to the west, out to sea (and toward the airport). Overnight, the wind may well shift. On the horizon, behind the leftmost electric pole, is the skyline of downtown Los Angeles.

As I watched, I saw fire come up over a ridge, about 20 miles from where I was standing. At a moment like this, my thoughts go to one of our tenants, a second-generation Los Angeles County firefighter, who may be up in these hills right now.

I’m equally concerned tonight about a new fire, on Palos Verdes Peninsula, where I have often taken my bike, and where I had planned to ride this weekend. As it is, with all the smoke in the air, any kind of exercise is a proposition of dubious wisdom. As long as the fires were located in hills so far north of here, I hoped I could ride down by the coast and take advantage of the cool sea breeze.

I have friends whose families live within a few miles of the new fire, which has already burned homes. I hope they get it put out quickly, before it causes more damage.

Day by Day

2009-08-27T23:07:00.001-07:00

August 25, 2009

August 26, 2009

August 27, 2009

This smoke is in the hills behind Azusa, from the “Morris” fire.

And So It Begins

2009-08-25T20:51:00.001-07:00

On a clear hot day, when you can see every bush and patch of rock in hills thirty miles away, a spark catches a tuft of grass afire, and the wind puffs it up into a conflagration that belches up a pillar of smoke.

Because the day is so clear, you can see the smoke from everywhere, a looming, three-dimensional reminder that all this paradisiacal weather comes at a high cost for some.

By this time tomorrow, the wind will have switched a few times, and this well-defined totem of destruction will have been transformed into a dun smear blown all across the northern skyline, obscuring shapes that today stood clear and distinct.

Fire season has begun.

Radomes

2009-08-25T20:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I saw this radome from a distance on the other side, and then from up closer (and I do mean up). This is to complete the set of pictures. This is what it looks like from my balcony.

While we’re at it, this is what it looks like from the beach, as the sun goes down.

Same scene, but a little more zoomed out.

If you zoom in really close, this is what it looks like. (You have to get the light just so to show off the radome’s fine texture.)

Climbing

2009-08-23T21:27:00.000-07:00

Since earlier this year, I have been climbing this hill every so often on my bicycle. It’s a chore. But the other side is steeper. Yesterday, for the first time, I clambered up the other side instead and came down this side. I’d never had the pleasure of seeing it from this angle.

Today I did it again.

(The hill is Hawthorne Blvd. on Palos Verdes Peninsula.)

I won’t pretend to look anywhere near as cool as this guy (note shaved legs), but this gives you some sense of the uphillness of it all.

Once you get down to the bottom, there’s a mighty scenic road all along the south rim of the peninsula. Birds, bluffs, boats: You name it, you can watch it.

I rode 70 miles yesterday, with 2,200 feet of climbing in it. Today I rode 50 miles, with 3,300 feet of climbing. A lot of times I ride right past all this scenery, too much in a hurry to stop and take a picture. I do enjoy it. Today was I stopping because I decided finally to capture these vistas while the light was perfect? Sure, that’s it. I wasn’t taking pictures just to give my legs a rest after some long hauls in the saddle. No, sir.

Hey, those look kinda interesting! Let’s go see them.

This is how far away they are.

(At home, which is on the far side of that ridge, I can see them from my balcony. That’s from more than 10 miles away. This is maybe five miles away, probably a bit less. Where I’m standing is more than 1,000 feet below the radomes.)

This section of Palos Verdes Peninsula is slowly, inexorably, sliding into the sea, even as the bulk of the peninsula shoves itself further inland. The big scar marks a major shear line, but the soil above there is eventually going to slide downhill too.

Normally I see these signs on my way downhill. This was the second time I had taken the back way up. Some climbing is involved.

Ah. So that’s what a radome looks like.

This one has an intriguing tesselation. The other one is a more recognizable geodesic sphere. But yes, now I’m close enough to see the rivets.

1,447 feet above sea level. This was the high point of the ride. The other climb was steeper but didn’t come so high.

From here, on a clear day, you can see the famous Hollywood sign in Griffith Park. No such luck today. It was also too hazy to see Catalina from most points onshore today, though when I got this high I did see the backbone of the island sticking up above the mists.

Angel’s Gate light marks the entrance to Los Angeles harbor.

As I came back down Palos Verdes Drive East, the light and clouds had shifted. Fog was starting to blow in.

As I climbed back up and over Hawthorne Hill, the setting sun splashed everything in gold.

If you’re paying attention, you can see the radomes in this picture too.

That was three decent climbs in one afternoon, after a longish ride yesterday, and I was content with what I’d done. If the light had lasted, I was ready to take on one more biggish hill, an old familiar, but with the sun dropping I decided to make the best of it and call it a day.

I’m building toward riding 100 miles in a day with 6,500 feet of climbing, and this was a good step in that direction, but I don’t want to peak too early either. No point being all primed to do the big ride three weeks before it happens and then watching your fitness drop before the event itself.