Spring Rain

The constant and continuous flow of intelligent prose is difficult for newspapers with one-hundred years experience, and far more overwhelming for a human with half that life, and a tenth of the journalistic experience. So yeah, it's been a while since I've updated.
When I rode every day, for every trip, I had tales. When I combined that with a full-time job in the 'industry' I had more tales. Now I'm a guy that's been off my bike for too long, with a real job, working one day a week at a shop. There will be tales, they'll just be further apart. Like last weekend when I had the keys to the shop...
But that's a different tale.

Lately, my life has been focused on the fact that I don't smoke cigarettes anymore. That has led to several epiphanies dealing with personal health. While these moments of auspicious glory are intense in their own right, they all help me come full-circle to the fact that my bike is the best thing that ever happened to me. A large part of my smoking history was 'on my bike'. I actually had a smoke at the top of climbs, during rest stops. It took me years to realize why my legs turned to stone after.
Now I have to relive some of those rides, do them (albeit weaker) without that chemical, shred the crap in my lungs. And enjoy some simple things; like a barbecue with fam this Saturday, a massage this Sunday, and a free Cowboy Junkies show next Sunday. At the Lensic, no less.
Now, if a certain little pvnp frame-builder would get her butt back home, life would improve exponentially.

As for future alley-cats; there is a map at Mellow Velo to stick pins into. The theory is "only in Santa Fe" and local weirdness is requested. Like an escalator that only goes up...

Barter, in the first.

Being a wrench has its advantages if you live in anything resembling "barter town". It's a service that is good for beer, groceries, couch. It will win friends and influence people much better that the 'hearts and minds' theory*. Today it garnered me a most unusual trade; tenor drum lessons.

Now, I didn't really know that I wanted to learn to play percussion, and hadn't planned on it. I had stepped in to listen to the practice of an interesting local phenomenon, and through a whirlwind moment of somewhat intentional miscommunication, I find myself in line to play in a band.
A marching band.
A Scottish Pipe and Drum Band.

Ah, well, any excuse to wear a kilt.


25 days without the nails!

*If you are unfamiliar with this US policy, ask. I'll give you the line.