Summer's Fruit

Goodbye to the days of peaches, breezes, and inspired, warm mornings. Hello to layers, snot on your cheeks, and seeing the snow and going back to bed. Hello to long, hot showers, lounging in sweats, and a shot of Jameson at the bottom of your cup of French press as you snore on the couch. Oh, sure. There is some in-between time for crisp mornings, leaves caught in your hair, and steaming apple cider. For seeing your breath in the air as you wait at the line, and sunny game days in long-sleeves - no coats needed. But the clock is ticking down on this wonderful, beautiful, breathtaking, groundbreaking - and heartbreaking- summer.

A summer in which we became men and women. In which we found new loves, new friends, and learned to laugh and cry and scream with all of them. Those seeds were planted in the gold of early sunrise, and their tall, full stalks -packed with juice and life - reaped on the hot rivers of steamy blacktop in humid afternoons. Now we bring them inside, to age and mature, to bring to life their full aroma and flavor.

You will always tend the fields, as you have every summer. But as each September passes and the sun sets earlier and earlier, you'll look back on each harvest as though it were the only one you ever reaped. And it was. Every single blossom was unique, every juicy bite was a one-of-a-kind experience.

Let them enliven your winter. Let them spread light to take away the darkness. And take nothing of them for granted. For they will get you through the icy mornings, the long days at work, and that cold walk home from the bus stop. Laugh with them at happy hour, and have them over for dinner. Give them the same care and love you gave as when they first sprouted out of that tender, new soil. For they will give you so much more in return. They are what made this summer what it was, and the person whom you became while laboring through it's heat.

The Family Label

Stop lights, your job, and your favorite TV shows may change, but your beer and your family are forever. The Conrad Reunion (otherwise known as Cheese and Crackers 2007) comes but once a year, and the chance to have a cold one with my Uncle Jack and cousin Rick at the Trivial Pursuit game is the penultimate. Nothing gets in the way.

Not even the training. The family force is unstoppable. We arrived at my Aunt Judy's new condo in the Southwest Milwaukee 'burbs on Friday night. It seemed serendipitous at first: awaiting Rick and I were giant plates of linguine, homemade-homegrown pasta sauce, crusty loaves of the fresh baked bread and bowls of homemade-homegrown pesto to smear on it. Friendly faces to greet us, wine glasses to tempt us, and the ice cold Old Style sang my name from inside the fridge.

It was almost useless from the start to resist.

I was planning on being up for a training ride at 6:15 to make one of either two training rides in Milwaukee the next morning. There was the Transition Cycles ride out of Pewaukee, but I knew I had to bike 13 miles one of the city's busiest state highways to get there, so I was already rationalizing not making that on my ride up with my parents, just in from Alaska, that afternoon. I had also made a call to Rainbow Jersey Cycles earlier that day and heard about a ride that left from Atwater Park, just north of the city along the lake, possibly at 9am(ish).

"You have to get up at 6am to do what?"

We, us cyclists who hang out with mostly non-cyclists, have heard this reaction many times. And if you are musician - or engage in any other extra curricular that requires late night and weekend action - you know the marginalized feeling of explaining why you're about to head to bed on a Friday night. Riding 70 miles on a Saturday morning to the average person definitely does not seem like something which to sacrifice a Friday night out with friends.

But we know differently. Hitting your stride at 8:30, 20 miles in, pulling 12 teammates up a long false flat, your bike computer in for repairs, and the pain your legs and no one attacking past is the only feedback you have. Nothing feels better as you move off and they come past, each thanking you for taking them up.

Don't get me wrong, there is a balance. My friends mean a lot to me, and I will make room. Those of us who struggle to find this balance got into this sport pretty late in life, hence the mostly non-cycling friends. You certainly don't want to come home from a team ride some fine Saturday afternoon and find out they've all given up on you. But we still fight the fight so that we can reach for everything we want. Because there's nothing worse that regret. No matter how much it sucks to get up at 6am to ride, or how nervous you get at the starting line, what keeps you going is the knowledge of how good you are going to feel at the end. Or, pulling your teammates and friends up a long hill.

But family brings a different weight to bear. You just can't get up from a conversation with your mother whom you see only once a year to go leave for bed. And sitting on a back porch, reminiscing about years and reunions past as the sun sets, another beer and handful of the cheese and crackers seem to be just the perfect thing in all the world. You only see them once a year, and cycling is such a cumulative sport. The family wins. You will ride the day after. I won't see many of these family members again for months.

So I woke up at 6:15 to turn off the alarm, and finally got up around 7:30. I filled my bottles with water and my jersey pockets with gear, and rolled out around 8:15. I'd mapmyride but when I tried earlier, the satellite pics were out of date and much of the second part was out of date. I headed east to the lake on Center, and turned north once I reach Humboldt Boulevard. After a mile or so I found Milwaukee's great Oak Leaf trail and rode that to Santa Monica, then west on Silver Spring, to Green Bay Road.

I got in several tempo intervals heading through Milwaukee's north side and the north 'burbs. Traffic was very light, and I at one point I past a pack of older cyclists geared up and heading south. Heart still pounding, I shouted across the highway, "Where you headed?"

"Alterra Coffee!" was the reply.

Then I decided they looked to be moving slower, and they had several (married?) couples off the back, and as much as the temptation for conversation was, I opted to continue drilling it north. That is, until I reached a merge with Highway 100 and the traffic load got considerably sketchier. There I had to ease my way past a set of entrance/exit ramps so I turned around at the next mall parking lot and headed back south along the same route.

I actually passed Silver Spring this time and caught another section of the Oak Leaf trail as well as the group of coffee riders I passed earlier. I rode behind them, but soon stopped to check my map. I got my bearings and remembered a coffee shop at the corner of Humboldt and Center and made that my immediate goal. I pulled up to Fuel Cafe and gave the counter girl a look that said, "OK if I bring this in here?" I got the nod and came in for a couple espressos, a cookie, and the remaining Clif Bar in my pocket.

It was as hipster-friendly as any Humboldt Park or Pilsen coffee shop here in Chicago. Even more so because smoking was allowed. It was wooden, worn, and weary looking, yet clean, save for the tobacco haze. 20 minutes later I pulled up and rolled out, heading south and then east to the Lake on North Avenue, picking up the bike trail again at Oakland. I went past the lakefront grounds, then in the midst of Irishfest, down around the harbor entrance, and through the third ward, in search of the Hank Aaron State Trail. The wind was blowing out of the Southeast, and it was a grey slate sky that matched the water.

I eventually found my coffee seeking friends at Alterra Coffee, Milwaukee's answer to Intelligentsia. I got some directions and another double espresso, and took off. A left, two rights, and another left, and I was heading west through the Menominee River Valley, winding my way to Miller Park and beyond. I finished my on the Menominee River Parkway, back to Burleigh Road and back to Rick's house just a bit after 11am. And there was the feeling. Of not one ounce of regret, and so glad, solo or not, that I rode. Especially noting the rain just beginning to fall and 2200 calories my computer said I burned during.

Two hours later we headed off to Uncle Bob's and the official reunion and platefuls of bratwurst and a cooler full of Old Style. The reunion went on, and everyone asked me how the ride was. I was much happier to be able to answer that question than to talk about my job for the 5th time that night. Trapped inside as the rain came down made it a little harder to escape the idle chitchat and the awkward conversations, but for the most part it was wonderful to see everyone, and satisfied weariness settled in like the sunset, aging with the evening.

A fun moment came when my mom's cousin Kathy put me on the phone after I responded to a conversation about her son's reading assignment that The Grapes of Wrath was one of my favorite books of all time.

"It's not about his writing ability, and get over the crappy metaphors," I told him. "You are reading the words of a person who experienced the Westward Migration and the Great Depression first hand. A lot of people get the same enjoyment out of Hemingway as well. They don't like his terse, perfunctory style, but his prose is history alive of the American expatriates of the early 20th Century."

That sums up my family reunions, whether it's a simple weekend with Rick and Uncle Bob, or the entire living tree shows up to fill an entire backyard, or kitchen, weather prohibiting. Lively conversation, huge laughs, awkward moments and lost tempers alike. It supersedes everything. And that's how the weekend worked out so perfectly. That a great ride was able to fit so neatly in between, it all seemed meant to be.

5 Things

Five things I learned this weekend:

1. Chiropractors are not quacks. Apparently. At least the one I began seeing on Friday, when I found out that my insurance covers the treatment. I went in and had my neck - which has been stiff and painful since high school football, but much more so since the car-hit, and shoulders looked at. The numbness in my right hand hasn't entirely gone away, and I've aggravated the left shoulder pain by crashing head-over-heels during the Evanston Criterium last Sunday. He did all those "chiro-type" things - spine twisting, neck jerking, shoulder popping, pressure point massaging. Then followed that up with electro-stimulation and ice-pack therapy (the electro-stim was eerily cool - it felt as though my shoulder blade muscles were being scrubbed pleasantly with a wire brush, and they kinda spazzed out, contracting gently). And maybe it's just psychosomatic but my neck has more maneuverability than it has in years and the numbness is a little bit less. Maybe?

2. Sleep is a good thing. I don't know why I resist going to bed at a reasonable time. Actually, I do know why, and it's because I have to little time to myself during the day. I'm up and out the door to work by 8, and Sunday through Wednesday I'm in rehearsal until 10pm. Then Saturday and Sunday I am usually riding by 7am. So by time I get home from rehearsal, I need to wind down with a glass of wine and some TV. Do some stretching, catch up on emails, and wha?!...it's midnight. "D'oh!" This was a full-on rest week, however, as I was trying to heal up as best as possible from Sunday's crash. And even though I didn't make it to sleep before 1am either Friday or Saturday (more on that below), I did get to sleep in, and last night I made sure I was in bed at 10:30, drifting away to dreamland on the whispery tones of Harry Shearer's voice.

3. Ted Nugent is completely insane. Or a bigot. Or maybe he's just the most open minded person on the entire planet. In one performance at Ridgefest, the man played a song called "The Immigration Dance," sprinkled liberally with words like, "Mamacita" and "Aye aye aye!", told the audience he grew up in Detroit as a black kid, waved two machine guns in the air while screaming, "Guns for Kids!" "Kill and Grill Bambi!" "Fuck Mayor Daley!" and finished his set wearing a full Native American headdress and shot a flaming arrow into a fireworks rigged guitar after performing a song called, "Home of the Buffalo." But no matter. Just as Daniel Baremboim told Tel Aviv to get over it, your views on gun control or immigration should have no bearing on the realization that The Motor City Madman is one of the best musicians alive. That he could pull off a song as monumentally awful as one "Girl Scout Cookie" and then melt our faces off with "Stranglehold" (the solo was note for note off the album, I might add) and that we could love each equally is a testament to the man's conviction, character, and musicianship. And all this was in the setting of one of the bigger collections of white trash and biker culture South Chicagoland has to offer. We actually ended the night at a Midget Bar, for Christ's sake. The Nuge in Chicago Ridge, baby. It doesn't get any better.

4. The Simspons is still funny. On the way down to Ridgefest we stopped at the 7-Eleven "Kwik-E Mart" at 63rd and Harlem. I ate a pink donut with sprinkles and had a Buzz Cola. We saw the movie yesterday. It was kinda surreal, witnessing the penultimate moment of arguably one of the top cultural icons of the '90s. I've been watching that show since my junior year of high school. And people forget that at the time, it was pretty groundbreaking. I haven't watched many episodes in the last 3 years as the show has been sagging. But this movie brought out the best in it's creators and it was fully worth the wait.

5. That nothing is better than good friends. Went to a bar-b-q on Saturday night in Logan Square and was able to indulge like I haven't in months and months. And by indulge I mean more than just beer and spinach dip and pot. Floating from conversation to conversation, kissing JB on the cheek and saying "I love you!" and realizing how much all of your friendships have grown in the past year is far more fulfilling than any 6-pack of Old Style. Rudy and Loren (and Mat, and Loe, and Joe - who were not there but should've been): I will go to the end of the Earth with you two.

A New Ride

Finding a new route was about as good as it got today. I left work around 2 (summer Fridays. Yes!) and just as I was crossing the road that takes you to the Planetarium, I hear a cocky voice behind me say,

"You ain't riding for Milram! Who do you think you are?!"

Rick Dearworth pulled up alongside me in his blue and yellow Airborne kit (required if you are a xXx-er with a quick tongue and annoyed easily by lakefront crowds) and it was good to see him. I wanted to get three hours on the bike today at least, but I was just planning on doing tempo work along the path.

But somebody to talk to on a bike ride always wins out, and Rick said he wasn't gonna be out that long, so I figured an hour or so warm up and conversation would be perfect. We headed south along the path, and then down South Shore Blvd, to 95th Street. Through the shipping channels we went, waiting for the draw bridge, past the Schlitz bar that's down there, and apparently still open, I have just realized. It was a gorgeous, sunny day. Not too hot, and the only complaint was the wind, although not at the moment, with it pushing gently at our backs, like generous stronger rider, coming up behind us.

We chatted about the season, our recent races. How crazy everyone was riding at Blue Island. How much we were enjoying the summer, and what to look forward to next year. We rode easy, no more that 60 per cent.

He showed me Calumet Park, a huge expanse of green space at 95th and South Shore. We saw maybe 3 cars driving out on its roads with us. The beaches were clean and uncrowded. Trees were everywhere. What a great place for a race, he said. I agreed.

We came back out of the park, and headed west on 95th, and onto South Chicago Blvd. It was all new for me until we reached MLK. Had I been on my own, I might have just continued on to the Burnham Greenway from South Shore, past the Skyway, and done nothing new, and not had any inspiration for the rest of my ride. But by the time Rick and I parted ways at Cermak, I felt ready to go hard.

I made a stop back at the Museum Campus, to piss and eat a shot, and then took off hard, back south again. Three tempo runs occupied my time until 5:30 or so. With the wind at my back I reached 52nd in about 10 minutes, riding just below my threshhold, or a little less. Coming back was more of a time trial. The wind was heavy in my face, and I was much slower, but I smiled to myself the whole way. Back in April I was riding with Luke and Chris on our Wednesday morning ride, the Hump Day Hump - in very similar conditions, save the heat, and was barely able to draft on those two at 18mph. But today, I still managed to keep that pace, and fairly easy, never really getting my heart rate much above 150. I went back south one more time, stopping at the point for water and glance at the afternoon skyline, glinting silver and sharp in the sun.

I headed back easy, keeping it low. I stopped back at work to pick up my bag at the security desk, and then headed home on a nerve wracking ride. There's just something scary about riding on city streets at rush hour on Friday. Everybody's had a long week and is impatient, and not paying attention. I am low on energy, close to bonking, so I kept my speed low and tried to stay as alert as possible.

Finally home, I could relax, and took a quick nap and headed to the grocery store for some ice cream.

A Fool in the Rain

It was day full of epic weather.

Chris and I drove to Matteson for the Tuesday night races with fingers crossed, hoping that the band of storms stretching across the Midwest like pulled taffy would hold off long enough for us to squeeze in at least one heat. The nice old man who administrates the races sat there with sort of a nervous grin on his face, wordlessly telling us not to expect too much. Another clue should have been all the A racers waiting it out in their cars.

We did a few laps, and watched as the blue sky fell behind the tumultuous gray cotton blanket, lighting flashing, touching down in the distance. Drops of rain teased us, yet held off. With the heat and humidity beating us all down over the past week, it was almost halfway between torture and foreplay. We saw its dark gossamer feathers to the west us, yet dry we stayed.

Then, in an instant: a wall of water. Like a lukewarm beach shower on a hot day, it didn't chill, didn't warm. We were soaked instantly, and made a beeline for the shelter on the home stretch of the course. In my haste to make it out of the rain, I took the corner too fast and before I knew what had happened, there was sharp pain as my hip struck pavement and my bike was sliding in front of Jared's line. He dodged it safely, and I was up quickly, only my pride hurt. The South Chicago Wheelmen were already gone as we finally realized our race day was over. Our $7 would go towards another evening at Matteson. Chris and I loaded up the car and headed back to town.

The streets were already dry upon returning home, and I immediate re-donned my kit and headed out to the lake front path. Tonight's ride was far more enjoyable than Sunday night, as the recent rain kept most of the clueless and dangerous away. I rode hard, following Chris' advice earlier to hammer when ever possible. No need to get caught up in timing your intervals every time, he reasoned. Slow when you need to, bring the pain when you can.

I reached Northerly Island in just under 30 minutes, not bad for 10 miles in a head wind, and was about to start my sprint drills, but I was stopped cold by the sight that greeted me as I scoped out the traffic and obstacle hazards.

It was about the most beautiful sunset I'd seen in my life. Downtown Chicago at that perfect moment, bathed and drowning in orange light. And I didn't have my camera. So I will close tonight's entry with the next best thing:

The diamonds on your fingers sparkled and snapped,
Gathering and throwing the light of the fire behind you
Like water on your naked body, rolling down your skin.

The flames threw their heat past you, radiating love.
The halo around you aroused a desire in me
I haven't felt in the eons since I first met you.

Your eyes blinked, yet stared confidently,
Knowing that my love for you can hurt til I cry.
And that your kiss, such as tonight, heals my pain.

The Weekend - in bullet points

Good: My first bottle of Accelerade, Fruit Punch flavor. Not that I really feel the difference of the "patented 4 to 1 carb/protein ratio" but I did feel very strong at the end of my 65 mile ride, the drink had some weight to it...

Bad: Not going long. I wanted to get more miles in this weekend (see Judson, below) but I also had a friend coming over to watch the Tour Prologue at 11 - so I needed to do the Old School Route (again) and get home. After my only pull with the main group I yelled, "Old School!" and only Alberto pulled off...I wanted to keep going, but I couldn't leave him by himself.

Good: So Alberto and I had a great ride together, and I'm certainly glad I got to know him better. Strong rider.

Bad: The Goddamn heat. I just read something this weekend about it being more humid, sticky, and muggy because the warmer air allows it to retain more moisture. Ironically, this makes the ground much dryer, via the evaporation increasing - look at all the fires out west and in the Southeast (?!?) this year. I must've sweat off 15 pounds this weekend. I look like one of the victims from that cheesy 1985 sci-fi thriller, "Lifeforce."

Good: Le Tour De France so far this year. Fabian Cancellara absolutely blew Andreas Kloden's time away - by 13 seconds. And that it happened so late in the day really added to the suspense of seeing if Andreas' time would hold up. Cancellara was f***ing flying. So fast, fact, he nearly ran into the motorcycles in front of him as he approached Buckingham Palace. Sunday's first mass start was even better. Robbie McEwan, one of the world's fastest riders, came from out of nowhere after getting caught up in a crash and fell of the back. His entire team stayed behind to tow him back into the group just before the sprint, and unbelievably, he worked his way through nearly 150 riders to blow past the leaders with about 200 meters to go. It was just amazing to watch as the leader completely deflated as he saw Robbie come flying past him...he just bailed off like he was leading a train, and the 10 or so guys behind him flew past as well.

Bad: Having my cyclocomputer break again for the second time in about 6 weeks. Sent it off to Michigan, and again I have no data with which to track my progress.

Good: Having my cyclocomputer break. Pain is my speedometer. It gave me a great moment on the team ride this weekend, pulling the pace line up the hill on St. Mary's toward the railroad tracks before the turn off for Old School. I knew I couldn't bail out on the middle of the climb, and if I'd been looking at my speed I'd have lost concentration on my spin. I knew if I was feeling the pain increasing, then everyone else was too, and I was keeping my speed up.

Bad: Missing the Judson ride. Just didn't get enough sleep and was a bit dehydrated when I woke up...I knew it was gonna be a hot, humid and windy day so I cut my losses, knowing I'd get my needed 3 remaining hours on the bike when the sun went down.

Good: At least I didn't miss Judson in vain. Cheap Trick put on an awesome show down at the Taste. Those guys should've been the one's selling out Wrigley Field, not the Police. The Police can barely stand being on the stage with one another. They're a novelty and people will pay any price to say, "I was there, man!" Cheap Trick have always brought to every single show for the past 30 years, and it should count for more than that. But even better, they don't think they're entitled to anything, and they gave the hometown fans a great performance. The best part, however, was heading to Piece, Rick Neilson's stellar pizza joint in Wicker Park, for a couple beers and a bite to eat afterwards. Mat went to the men's room, and who was he standing next to at the urinal? The Man himself. Not one to chat up at the pisser, he waited until they were both washing their hands. "Hey, big fan. Great show tonight." Rick belched his thanks, and then said, "It was hotter than shit up there!"

Bad: Riding the path at night. I don't know which was worse: the gnats in my teeth, or the beach crowd crossing and standing in the path as though it were their driveway. And when they give you that look as if to say "what the hell is bike doing here?" when you yell out, "on your left!".....grrrrrrrrrr. But definitely worse than both of those was hitting that pipe stave in the middle of the path straight on, unable to see it, causing both wheels to flat.

Good: Erik Didriken coming to pick me up in his car.

Bad: Having to do my remaining 90 minutes on the trainer.

Good: I was watching Something About Mary.

Bad: Haven't yet put my window units in.

Good: Transformers completely kicked ass. Which was a huge bonus since I would've paid $10 to see License to Wed, as long as the A/C was on.

Stormy Weather

Storm is coming. I give it another 30 minutes. This is first really big one I think we've had this summer. I'm gonna head out to the back porch and crack a beer, for old time's sake, when it starts raining.



Speaking of summer, I know it doesn't start until tomorrow (or was it today?) but it feels half over already. Yet looking at my calendar, I know this isn't true.

I have only started to race, started to write, started to sing. Although I must be anxious for some reason. I've been having this recurring dream where I in college, and am failing this really hard history class because I keep forgetting to go to class. Right before I wake up I am staring at my calendar realizing I have the final exam and I haven't been to class in weeks. I start to freak out and try to cram. Once I tried to make an appointment to see the professor but he refused to let me in during his office hours. Think this is work related?

My shoulder is almost back to normal. I started riding hard again yesterday, with a great lunchtime session on the south lake shore path. This morning was 6 reps of spin drills on my way to work, and a set of under/over intervals on the trainer when I got home. I'm feeling the quickness and suppleness return to my legs. I just got the Trek back from the shop. They had it for a week, thoroughly inspected the frame, and gave it an amazing clean bill of health. If I'd been going any faster this probably wouldn't be the case.

I'll be participating in my first Alley Cat race tomorrow, a specialty of the messengers. A scavenger hunt of sorts, we race to several checkpoints and collect signatures to prove we were there, then it's back to the finish. I will be going just for fun, and I'm sure I will get passed by many at all the stop lights. I am just not ready to play Chicken with the Chicago taxi cabs, so soon removed from my beat down Thursday.

Early Saturday I am driving out with teammate Chris to Kankakee (can you see it on the map? it just about to get hammered.) to race a couple heats in the Cobb Park Criterium. It's a beautiful flat course along the river. I was going to do the Fox River Grove Criterium on Sunday, but I've changed my mind. I would pretty much need to turn around on getting home on Saturday and head out on the Metra to my buddy Chris' place out in the Northwest 'burbs. I just have too many buddies playing gigs, friends in town for not-a-long-while, and I just need to spend a bit more time nurturing my social life before I wake up to find out I no longer have one. There will be plenty of races this summer.

Superweek is approaching. 10 solid days of racing, and I've taken 3 days off of work to race in 5 of them. It's going to be amazing. The camaraderie, the new friends, the sprints, and the finishes. The pain and the experience. It's all waiting, as potential, growing stronger and storing more momentum with each day closer.

I had to cancel a gig this past weekend as well, because of the crash, but I am playing again. It's a little difficult because the bass on the shoulder brings out what pain remains, and not all the feeling has come back into my right hand. Another is coming this next weekend, however; at the Note, with the soul band, The Midnight Shows. We have a street fest gig this summer, among others and will hopefully get into the studio soon. Shrieking Violet, too. Definitely the most talented band I've ever played in. Please come see us. You won't be disappointed.

I can't think of another way to bring in the summer than with a banging symphony of thunder, a cacophony of roiled air and pelting rain. It's starting. Gotta go.

Sturm und Drang (Lightning and Natural Light)

It was hot.

The dog met us out front as we got out of the van. His usual full body wag was clamped down and muted to a few lethargic tail circles, his energy mostly concentrated on panting. It was the kind of hot, where when the wind blows, it burns your skin. He looked up at us, putting on as pathetic a face as possible in hopes this might be one of the rare afternoons we breech flea protocol and let him into the air conditioning.

The parched grass crunched under my feet as I walked toward the porch with a bag of groceries in one hand, and Styrofoam soda cup in my hand - long since drained, it's last drops among the quickly melting ice slurped noisily, like ants, up the straw. The dog followed close on my heels, his eyes never leaving the sliding glass door within the screened porch.

I set the cup down, and slid the door open. The air conditioning meeting my wet skin was like falling down, naked, into the snow. The dog stood with me at the icy threshold, front paws up on the linoleum, his rears still on the concrete step, enjoying it with me. He held his chest high, closed his eyes, and sniffed. He immediately came back to life, turning a couple of circles between our legs, tail wagging. I looked at my dad over my shoulder.

"Can he?"

"Yeah, let him in. Make sure he stays on the blanket." A southern dog needs to stay outdoors, no matter how many times he gets a bath. Fleas and ticks are a way of life.

"Come on, Le Mutt!" and the French Bouvier/Labrador mix happily bounded into the kitchen. He laid down straight away on the blanket, eschewing the unfamiliarity of the rest of the house and opting to make the most of his time in the AC.

After putting the groceries away, we settled into the afternoon. At my dad's house, those North Carolina summers were spent on the back porch. On the wicker furniture, scratching the dog's ears, and watching the horses mill about, twitching away the painful bites of the horseflies (I swear to God, lying dead behind the plastic cover of the fluorescent light above the tack room in the barn is a mummified green-eyed monster at least an inch long. I could feel the searing heat of it's sting between my shoulder blades, out of my reach as I ran around in circles, screaming and trying in vain to stretch my arm behind me to scrape it off, every time I looked at it). But with the heat outside, it looked to be a day indoors watching Tour De France coverage or Oprah, or maybe a video if we'd stopped at the rental place.

As my dad stood in the kitchen opening his first of many Natural Lights that afternoon, he noticed a breeze hitting the trees, and dark clouds building up from the west. "Storm's comin'. That'll cool things. C'mon, turn that thing off. Its porch time."

I stepped back outside through the sliding door and definitely felt the new breeze stealing away the heat from the back of my neck. It had a heavy dampness to it. I breathed in and felt, I knew, the sky was about to let loose like a soaked sponge being squeezed by a large hand. The leaves were rustling steady now, and though there was plenty of sunlight coming through them on our side of the house, the tobacco field across the road was quickly being covered by a gray blanket of shadow. The wind picked up and with it the spirits of everything around us. The cats came scampering back to the porch door, and meowed to be let in. The horses out in the pasture galloped and then walked, galloped and then walked, their manes waving like flags along with the trees. The new life in the air felt as good to them as it did me, stealing a sip of my dad's beer, it's salty, yeasty foam breaking the heat as much as the breeze did and I watched him scratch his shirtless, hairy chest, waiting for the show.

The first crack of thunder came like a car crash as soon as the last of the sunlight was blotted out, and it sent the horses into a full out run. Huge, sloppy, boulders of rain began to fall, hitting with a visible splash and spreading out within the dry blades of grass like thick ink on newspaper. Faster and faster until I could no longer make out the individual drops, until it was a curtain of water, until it was swirling down from the banging clouds, riding the wind to the ground.

I sat in safety on the porch in my tank top and shorts, and shivered almost sexually when a cool gust hit my skin. I laughed over the thunder, along with my dad, at the horses running, zig-zagging in the field, nipping at each othe,r as they made their way back to the barn. I laughed harder as he dared my 11 year-old brother, Duffy, for 50 cents to take off all his clothes and streak out into the field, touch the second closest horse jump and run back. "Tim! He'll get hookworm!" my stepmother warned as my dad howled while my brother's pink bare ass bobbed up and down as he made his way out to the jump. I could feel the splash of the rain through the screen and it was just warm enough. It must have felt like going for a swim out there.

It stormed until just before dinner, I took a few more sips of dad's beer, and when the sun came back out, it felt as though the entire outdoors were now freshly clean and hanging out to dry on the line. I took the dog out to play fetch and stretch my toes in the wet grass. Summer evenings in Central Carolina are about the closest thing to heaven I know. As the sun dropped toward the horizon, the pine trees began to whisper and seem to glow golden as the thunder faded away to nothing.

Dad finished his beer, and went inside to start making the hamburgers for dinner.

The Smells of Spring

One of the great paradoxical things I love about spring is the welcome return of some very foul smells that announce loudly the arrival of warmer weather.

For example, from November to Late March my hometown of Anchorage, Alaska lies frozen under as much as 3 feet of tightly packed snow. Through the winter, layers of dog shit deposited by Man's Best Friend on morning walks accumulate within the snow and lay undisturbed, their odor locked away in winters ice-cold lock box.

But come April as the snow retreats and exposes the brown little seed pods to the warming sunlight, they bloom to life along with the tree buds and dandelions, and it is not uncommon to hear an Anchorage-ite, standing on his front porch and breathing deeply of the morning air, exclaim:

"Dog shit! Ah, spring is here!"

Such was the feeling this morning as a Waste Management truck pulled in front of me on my morning ride and the smell of the rancid slurry sloshing about in the back, newly-freed from it's winter state as a greasy ice-slick, wafted back to me.

"Hot garbage! Ah, spring is here!"

It sure doesn't look it...

...but the summer is here. Stay inside tonight kids. Drink it up. The beer and the wine. Stay close to your friends. Or not and meet somebody new. Listen up. The music is electric, the lights are dancing, the soul is real. But save your energy.

For tomorrow you will want to run and spin in circles until you fall down, giggling, the grass tickling your toes and that grinning Labrador licks at your face.

You'll play with the hose.

Maybe you'll catch a foul ball, and you'll definitely get that second hot dog.

You'll find the perfect painting for your living room at the art fair, or that one pair of jeans you've had the yen for at the thrift store.

You might see somebody famous, or somebody will see you. Look good and be playing hard.

And if the kiss could happen, make sure that it does.

The War is Over!

Today is going to be 65 F.

Tomorrow and Sunday could even reach the 70s.

I'm looking about my window at the golden sunlight spilling westward like God has tossed a bucket of juicy, ripe, nutritious fruit rolling and bouncing down my street.

No more full-leg tights. No more neoprene gloves. No more loading up with baselayers and rainshells. No more breaking plastic, followed by my exasperated sighs. BikeWinter is over. It was badge of honor, to be sure. But a badge now frayed with age and wear. No longer relevant to the throngs spilling out onto the streets to the strains of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony on shiny new rides and creaking, rusty deathtraps alike. Pedaling off to barbecues, the beach, and baggo games in the park.

The joy is growing to an unrestrained feverish pitch!

Turn up the heat. Bring on the rolling rivers of sweat and hot, black pavement. Bring on the paceline chatter, the impromtu King of the Mountain contests, the races and all the new friends.

Bring on the casual evening ride into the sunset to meet at the bar. Wearing nothing but your t-shirt and jeans.