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Maad and I did a day trip up to Prescott to ride The Dells, both of us needing a little reward injected into our worldviews. We were guided by friends Enel, Chris, Helimech and Jayem.  These Ptown locals are pretty much the best riders on this system, and combined with neither James nor I riding a whole lotta tech down here in The ‘Nix in summer, we were thoroughly humbled.  We still had a great time riding just 7 exhausting miles in 2 hrs over terrain that is unique compared to anything else in AZ.  Rolling 100 yards without getting off was a rarity, next time I’m going with the flat pedals.

The ups and downs, steeps and drops, narrows and turns left me flummoxed and struggling to establish rhythm.  But the terrain was an everchanging playground, and my buds were supportive even if constantly waiting for me and Maad to catch up, so I never got down.

Jayem made this look easy

*skeeeeeeeeeeeeetched*

nutting up, albeit an easier line

Eric was the master of track stands

its my O-Face!

Maad stepping up

Helimech on a new stretch by the lake

Eric nailed this on his first try ever on this brand new section

in the bottoms by the damn

Eric cleaning a very hard up-out-down sequence

this pic does not do the exit justice

this one does, even if the exit was all i could manage

excellent times! followed by our new tradition of post-Dells Indian Buffet. woot woot!

I really missed the girls after they were out of town for a week.  With a day of vacation costing as much as the discount from a complete week out of daycare, spending Friday with them was a no-brainer.  Beckie fluffed for me, and G couldn’t wait for our Special Day.  We started with the Zoo (Alana’s first time as a bipedalist), then to the El Dorado Pool for some new water features, and finally lunch at Lolo’s.  Lolo’s was a heart attack waiting to happen, but other than 16 incredibly sticky greasy fingers and 4 incredibly sticky greasy thungs, we had a great time.

Saturday we had a birthday party at Pump It Up, followed by the pool, then a 2-bike ride.  Sunday was pool and *another* party at Pump It up, on the heels of a 55 mile beatdown on the roadie through Phoenix and Paradise Valley courtesy of Doug. After that I got pretty drunk and passed out with exhaustion, but i think there was more playing and a bbq.

Each punishment for DUI is its own unique slice of shit and sodomizing; the interlock is wiping your ass with a tender hemorrhoid. A several-times daily pinprick of impassioned annoyance, which mostly faded after 2 months, followed by a long numbness and resignation. On busy days with many errands, it was a stomach bug with nonstop ass-pissing on the tender hemorrhoid. After spending a year in the car with it, you’d think i’d have characterized it or nicknamed it or bonded with it in some Helsinki way. Nope. Fuck no. Never was anything more than an object. Refused to take a picture. Used the same mouthpiece for 12 months, covered it for a year with the same shirt in the floor of the car, which I subsequently will give to Goodwill and erase all memories of it. I refused to waste a single extra calorie on it - my silent protest. Around the 4th month, they upgraded the unit’s firmware and shaved 20 seconds off the startup time. I could not confirm this other than by noting the version on the splash-screen. There are no usenet forums for Intoxalock. This was the closest i allowed myself to get to it; the rest was strictly business.

Every month or so I make a visit to the Interlock SuperStore for recalibration. Calibration = status reporting to the DMV. The employees service you quickly, quietly, doing their jobs as invisibly and sans chit-chat as possible, not wanting to deal with your frustrations or excuses or sob stories. I heard plenty of them waiting in the lobby. A lot of people don’t take the thing seriously enough, or their situation seriously enough, or the thing sneaks up on you with its extremely imperfect accuracy.  I took the interlock very seriously, but i still had a few agonizing brushes with the rules and bullshit fines due to its imperfections.

The interlock’s boundary is .03 - blow over and you can’t start the car, blow over while driving and you get hit with an $85 fine.  Blow over 5 times in a 1-2 month calibration period and you get hit with another year at $80/month. I had about 8 overblows the whole year.  The first was the day after Memorial Day when i woke up and blew .06, then went back to bed and went to work 4 hrs later. Nothing wrong with a good drunken bbq, i didn’t drive, and i learned what buzzed the next morning feels like.  The next 3 overblows came in one 5 minute period of disbelief when I blew .32 15 minutes after starting the car at .29 and having finished my 3rd beer in 3 hrs 30 minutes prior to driving (that cost me $85 in fines).  2 came when the thing was so heated up in June it registered .15 on half a beer and immediately went into its own reboot cycle.  3 minutes later it registered .037, 3 minutes later it registered .018 and let me start the car.  That made me late for daycare and cost $25, and terrified I’d get another year sentence I begged Beckie to believe how little I’d had.

1 overblow came after the Squealer - I had a shot and a beer after the race, rode my bike 10 miles and with .012 bac (half a beer, given my body weight) drove the car to the awards ceremony where i nursed a 20 oz beer for 1.5 hrs and then blew .035.  Even though it was probably a legitimate reading, it really pissed me off . I was following all the rules - out with my friends after a great day, but drinking responsibly, with a plan for getting home legally, safely, having suffered with the interlock for 8 months. i was over .03 by about 2 sips of beer and my bac was coming down, fer crissakes!! I’VE LEARNED MY LESSON, LET ME GO HOME ALREADY! I stood around the bar for another 15 minutes til i got under the line - picking my ass in the parking lot, organizing my trunk, cleaning garbage and cheerios out of the backseat, too embarrassed to go back inside. I wanted to to yank the damn thing out of the car, but that anger lasted about 10 seconds til i forced the numbness back over me. Much better than looking at the calender and chafing. this is how niggaz do hard time.

The final overblow came driving home from the 12 Hrs at Night in Prescott, 10 days before my sentence ended.  I had blown 0.0 for an hour and a half when suddenly it registered .037 on a rolling retest.  I pulled over and restarted it in 5 minutes and it read 0.0 again. This was a physiological impossibility that would cost me another $85, despite it being 100% the machine’s fault! Best i can figure there was a splash of leftover beer in a waterbottle that i drained before refilling it with water a few minutes before the sample, and the thing’s accuracy goes to shit in the heat.  Maybe it was aided by the grapes I’d been eating, the garbage in the trunk, my disgusting teeth having ridden bikes all night, mine and Kila’s b.o… Even though 1 oz of beer could not possibly affect me, even though there were 10 people who knew i drove up and drove home alone, even though i printed my race results and took them to the Interlock Superstore to prove where i was, even though I printed a copy of Beckie’s plane ticket showing she was out of town and took a video showing I was alone in the car, even though the employees knew me by then and looked me in the eye and told me they believed i was telling the truth: there was no leeway.  The policy of the Interlock company is that a violation is your fault, period.  You have no grounds to appeal, guilty without a chance to prove innocence.  The only consolation is a rolling retest failure over .03 but not over .08 does not impact you with the DMV.  I finally just paid the fine and gave up arguing.  It was the final ass-raping, just 1 week before I got the thing removed; the crowning reminder that you are a fuck-up and a criminal if you get a DUI, and your relationship with the car and the law is all uphill for the next 7 years.

An interlock is not really there to keep you under .03, its there to punish you for having anything to drink at all.  If you press them, the employees at the Interlock Superstore acknowledge that the thing is frightfully inaccurate and that any alcohol can register a .03 reading, that your reading can swing wildly over 2 immediately consecutive samples, that food and sports drinks and mouthwash can set it off.  I saw all of this randomness first hand, and it made me seethe with anger and shake with fear.  If .03 is the limit, gawdammit that is what I should be allowed!  A true .03 limit, when tested accurately, I had very little trouble obeying.  Amidst the self-loathing and self-doubt I’ve been struggling with since getting arrested, going a whole year with safe driving and no impairment has been very empowering.  The absolute undeniable benefit of the interlock is teaching me to plan ahead, know how much i’ve had, and make good decisions about having a drink. In that regard, its been an excellent experience. All but one of those overblows were, fundamentally, situations where I had some drinks responsibly before getting back in the car - the fines and inconveniences were the extra negative reinforcement, the catholic nun with a ruler, just to be sure you were listening.  I’m going to buy a breathalyzer for my own usage, its far cheaper than a dui. I’ll say, yet again, that I shouldn’t be 40 with 2 kids and have gotten myself into this situation. I have used this time to reform, I’ve gotten stupid good at knowing my bac at any given time, I’m relaxed and confident that I won’t make this mistake again, and that I can enjoy a social drink and still obey the law.  For all the rest, there is taking turns driving with my wife, or riding my bike.

The hardest part, the most depressing part, is facing the daily reminder of the might of the State and seeing the system stacked against you. Over by .002 - guilty! Interlock misreads your sample - guilty! How can something that has such consequence be so unreliable?  With thousands of them in use every year, how can this wantonness be allowed to continue?  The answer is no one in the legislature gives a shit whatsoever.  Once labeled a criminal, you simply don’t have the same rights as others. This is something most blacks or hispanics have learned at an early age, and it certainly changed my outlook on the patterns of power in our society.  Get into an accident - the cop is gonna be looking for my dirty laundry long before the next guy. Run into AZ’s “Zero Tolerance Per Se” DUID law, i’m going to jail for a month. The corresponding teaching moment is i have become a much calmer driver, more conservative, less confrontational, less obvious, wanting to go 72 and just blend in, like a mexican-american in AZ under the cloud of SB1070.  The car is a big fat probable cause, and alcohol aside, the smartest thing to do is realize you are the cat’s plaything when driving it.

Things can always happen to me, but it won’t be me making it happen. I am reformed, and a much-improved citizen of the road, despite all those evil ex-addicts in Shame Training saying it was impossible. Now I just want to rejoin society, stop over-thinking every time I start the car. I want to drive my F150 on a road trip with my buds, having had it for only a month before my foolishness made it off-limits to me everywhere but Mexico. I want to park the Prius in the hybrid spot at Fresh & Easy. I want to take the Acura for an oil change and a car wash; I’ve avoided both due to the risk of the mechanic missing the rolling retest and screwing me with the DMV. Then I will change the registration to Beckie’s name only, so cops scanning plates won’t profile me.

The last few weeks with the thing are coming when its over 100 degrees outside, but I am placid and numb enough to look past 30 seconds of roasting in the car til it lets me turn on the AC. At least the Acura could roll its windows down via the remote control, a feature none of my other cars have, or the kids would have cooked and I’d be going to Child Services along with Justice Services. The responsible parent alternative — ironic, given how i got into this situation — would be to leave the doors open while I blew my sample. This would have given the world an even better view of my shame: at work, in front of daycare, in my driveway. I don’t think anyone who mattered saw me all year long. Hunching down like doing a one-hit on a ski lift looks almost normal when you are starting a car. You could be checking your messages, finding something for the kids, getting a drink of coffee. By the end of the sentence I just didn’t care anymore. You see me, you don’t, i made a mistake, i’ve learned from it, fuck it, whatever, I’m moving on.

and here’s some backstory. I struggled for months over publishing these or not. There is a downside if any potential employer searches my blog, but other than e-paranoia i found that unconvincing. I desperately need there to be a positive upside to all this, for my friends to learn from this, for my story to be public so I’m reminded never to do it again. Maybe the increased sensitivity i will feel in being outed will keep this experience painfully close to me, and bring me some meaning and some closure.   If nothing positive comes out of this, I am the loser all those miserable motherfuckers in Shame Training and MAAD say I am.  But I’m not.  So here it is…

• An Evening of Hospitality with Sheriff Joe
• Consequences
• Shame Training

Fuck it, whatever, I’m moving on.

Last weekend I did this race.  It was a very fun, very chill, small-scale event in Pioneer Park in Ptown.  Beckie was headed to Nashville that weekend with the girls, and before her plane ticket’s confirmation arrived via email I registered for Solo, in more ways than one.

The race ran from 8pm to 8am, and riding for 9 hrs through the night til daybreak at 5 was weird and wild, but not trippy like some long night rides can get.  Intent on performing, and with little stimuli but the track right under me and my execution on it,  i dialed in tight to my game plan, and was amazed at how well I did.  No beer, no music, 13 laps, 106 miles, 11,500 vf, 10.5 hrs spin time.  I went hard bell-to-bell, every moment not on the course was spent on my gear, my lights, filling my water bottles, scratching Kila, and stuffing my pie-hole.  I was extremely tired and fatigued by the end, but not blown up like at the Crazy88 last August.  It felt really good to have such a solid ride.  Yeah me!!!

Kila and I rolled into Prescott about 5pm and set up just a few yards from the finishing chute, which let me get dog-kisses between every lap. A few times i grabbed overcooked leftover hotdogs off the grill next to the timing station and carried them in my jersey for a lap before rewarding Kila at the end. We were next to friends Walt and Deanna, and hung with many other friends - Nardo, Ry-Daddy, Young Dave, MyBikesBroken, BrianC, Jayem, Enel, Fixedgeardan and the Geoman (who I recommend wholeheartedly if you are looking for a set of MagicShine lights).  Good vibes and kindness were in the air at this low-key race. The only bummer all night was Maadjurguer had to bail at the last minute due to a personal conflict. wah. Was thinking of you bro (thinking of not letting you kick my ass, were you in attendance) when i pushed out on laps 12 and 13!

my pit crew

I strapped a pump to my downtube, a tube to my seatpost, and carried everything else in my jersey pockets, not too worried about disaster on the 8 mile, mostly cactus-and-rock-free course.  I looked downright goofy holding my hands to my back so nothing would bounce out running the 1/4 mile Le Mans start, but setup worked great and kept me as light and fast as possible.  I even skipped the baggies.  The only downside of being so aerated was I got major nipple rash in the chill mountain air, and after lap 2 has to shmear some butt-cream on my teats. No one likes Bloody-Nipple Man.

end of the race, the photo doesn’t properly capture the layer of dirt and stank all over me

The course was not hard, but with 900 vf every 8 miles including a couple short steeps, it took its toll.  I’ve never done a race like this, mile after mile of going in circles.  I had a goal of 10 laps or die trying, 12 if things were going well, and 13 just to break 100 miles and get myself a dirty century.  But thinking and doing are entirely different things when units are marked off in 1 hour intervals of sweat and weariness.  “Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever.” I think Nike paid Lance Armstrong to say that; when my body hurts bad my mental fortitude follows it right into the shitter.

I knocked out the first lap in about 40 min, the next few almost as fast.  Then I settled in to 50 minute turns for the rest of the night. My fast start had me completing 5 laps in the first 4 hours, but I was frenetic, uneven, fighting the course and my gear and my nutrition routine. I had no real endurance rhythm, fought off a bonk during lap 5 , and struggled to believe i could climb the course’s 4 hills 8 more times each.  1/3 through the race and i thought i might be bottoming out.  I took 15 minutes off after #5 to inhale as much pasta, scrambled eggs and water as i could, and soberly faced the clock as i pushed out at 12:20am.  I needed to make up 20 minutes to be on schedule for 8 laps in the next 8 hours.  Closing that gap was the first big test of the rest of the night, along with finding a zone that would carry me for 8 more hours.  The challenge was as much mental as physical, cause I knew I wasn’t going to cut that time on the course, nor was i going to lose much time.  Most of the time I was losing was in between laps - once you get off the bike, minutes slip away quickly.   Each lap required some planning and smooth execution of the logistics of riding at night for 100 miles - water bottles, food, batteries, bike - and lap 5 became the resupply & mindset lap.

The next 8 hrs broke down into 8 little races of surprisingly not-monotonous milestones; too much focus on splits and pace and efficient to-do lists kept them from being dull.  6 & 7 were the quick-stop laps - hug the dog, swap bottles, go!  Starting #8 at 2:05am was the 1-past-1-past-halfway lap where I would take stock and decide if I really had 6 more in me.  The problem with such decisions is you are never sure if you actually can reach your goal, but you damn well know if you don’t keep going then you surely won’t make it.  The only choice is to keep going and hope you don’t come up short.  Being a winner in sports is about the courage to expose yourself to failure. It really doesn’t matter what level you are at, just that you are taking a chance on going beyond your comfort zone.

Lap 8 was on pace, but my hips and calves were starting to spasm, and my drivetrain was cacophonous. While i applied fresh chainlube, Deanna hooked me up with 800mg of ibu that muzzled the pain, and #9 became the invigoration lap. 10 was the 1 before sunrise where i started to feel the end, and knew I could make it if i could just hang on.  After the 2nd climb called The Grind, I started counting down the climbs for the rest of the night: 14, 12,10… Lap 11 at 5am was the dawn, where i shed half of my lights, finally saw the course as more than a line in the dirt in the dark, got nice views of the rolling hills backed up against The Dells, and rejoiced in the fields of white, purple and pink flowers that stood in sharp contrast to the months of brown down in Phoenix.  #12 came and went in a blur of numbness and willpower - I was feeling superstitious of disaster and reflection.

I paused briefly before #13 to get one last review of my body and gear, just in case an unforeseen disaster might ruin my night.  I felt very very tired on each of the final climbs, but by now the necessary gears and cautions for each part of the course were rote.  1 mile from the end I got passed by friend and single-speed winner Fixedgeardan and had a few good words with him. I hadn’t really talked to anyone much all night on the course, and hardly any conversation even with my friends during the breaks.  It was nothing special, but for some reason having a little camaraderie with another rider pushing himself just as hard to end the race helped me celebrate the finish.  That and winning a giant tub of HEED during the post-race raffle were my only exaltations.  The rest was solitary and nocturnal, a personal challenge against my own expectations.  I passed.

I cruised up the street to Rage again after work, for my second go on the pump track.  I sure suck compared to the guys in the vid, but still saw some improvements over last week.  What a fun time, with a great group of laid-back and supportive people! The course takes about 10 seconds a lap, but seems longer since you are working and focusing every moment, and brushing right up against (and sometimes, into) the walls.  I resisted pump-tracking for a while, not that it wouldn’t be fun, but i figured it would not be a workout. I simply don’t have the time to be on the bike away from the family and not burn calories.  I could not have been more wrong!  Its not the same workout as pedaling, but you aggressively utilize your whole body to propel the bike via body english and momentum. After 4 or 5 laps i feel an intense anaerobic burn as my arms and hips and calves start to shake.  The crossover skills pay immediate dividends on the mtb. Can’t wait to go again, can’t wait to carve a turn and shoot out of it faster than i entered, can’t wait to to manual jumps one after another and clear a tabletop.

I’ve been religiously trying to get G and Alana to the pool 2x a week after work.   Its only for about an hour since the pool closes at 6, but its the best i can do.  Kids in AZ need to get wet and cool regularly or they go insane, and though its a ton of work going 2:1 with Monsters who are in entirely different places in the water, its vital for me too.

I’ve got our pre-game ritual down: grab em out of class and into the bathroom, make a pile of clothes to swap with a pile of swimwear, slather on sunscreen and surfshirt and shoes, potty and swim diaper, then jet into the car.  They too have figured out the routine, so we can go 25 min from the time i walk in to the time we hit the water.  This is probably the most difficult part, especially when i commute home and continue to slow-roast until we finally get wet.

Each day is a new adventure, some days they get better and some days they get shy and scared.  Some days I deal with tinyMeltdowns.  Most days are very good and very inspiring.  I bought G some brightly-colored rubber squids that sink to the bottom and waggle at her, and within 1 session she mastered kicking her legs to propel herself downward to fetch them.  She can pick up all 4 at once, she keeps going deeper and holding her breath longer, learning to use her arms and legs to swim underwater.  She jumped off the low board and swam to the side. She swam with me 6 feet to the bottom of the lap pool, and let me lifeguard-carry her across the 25 meter length and back.  She taught herself to dive by following up on her natural instincts to throw herself headlong into whatever she is doing. And she’s started recognizing the other little boys and girls and playing with them.

Last time at the pool, Alana waltzed down the zero-depth entry up to her neck, smiling and holding the squids. Only after falling under when the ripples in the water knocked her off-balance did she get scared. Some days she is afraid of the water and of me, other days she can’t wait to get swung around and tossed in the air.  I wish she had the benefit of our old backyard pool to ride in wings and floaties and lose any fear of the water like G did, but romping and stomping 20 yards at a time has its own benefits.  She hangs on the side and pulls herseff up with remarkable motivation, and just started flopping over the  edge and in on her own.  I’m surprised she does not seem to freak when she actually goes under, maybe its ignorance instead of fear, maybe I should give her more credit.

finally put it all together.  Up the 98th St. wash, into the Preserve, Gateway Loop to Paradise to Natural Wash to Taliesen to Westworld, no-name paths along the canal to the Res to Camelback Walk to coyote roads to Westworld, a diversion up to Taliesen, to the unnamed trails along Bell, up to 104th and done.  33 miles, a surprising 2700 vf, 3.25 hrs.

I rode the the first half with my roadie neighbor, and was stoked to find we are very compatible on that type of terrain. Good guy, with a 2 yr old girl who hopefully will hit it off with Alana soon, and wife who is a runner\rider that we’re eager to meet once she rebounds from preggers.

just before crossing the canal

interesting landscaping in a yard near the equestrian park

The path along the res was full of small jumps and skinnies, which kept it fun for flat straight and sandy.  The route had quite a few urban challenges if you kept your eyes open, including a 50 yard wall ride where you first enter the Preserve near DC Ranch.

i hit this big with lots of speed, after eyeing it impotently for months on the cx bike

a more interesting way to get from 92nd to 96th Street, which avoided trespassing. Two baby coyotes jumped in front of me just when i jumped into the wash.  A sign of successful navigation.  The no-name path eastward to Taliesen West had lots of berms, wash drops and long low tunnels to roll through hunched over the handlebars.

i showed my appreciation for fine architecture by soaking my headband in Mr. Wright’s fountain, then wadding up exiting a 3ft wall ride near His front gate. Howard Roark would have shunned my lack of commitment.

Alana has become extremely loquacious. EXTREMELY. LOQUACIOUS.

it takes a little while to figure out her accent. actually her accent is pretty impossible to figure out. Its like a conference call with an Indian programmer who is mildly deaf, and possibly has Downs Syndrome. There is a lot of mumbling, slurring, shouting, blabbering, blathering, blithering, chitchatting, driveling, gabbling, gibbering, jabbering, prattling, chuckling, clucking, squealing, cackling and some running on at the mouth for good measure. I understand it all perfectly.

She says mommy, daddy, kila, shoes, genevieve, alana, and NO. The NO can be so clear is quite emphatic. Out of this miasma of baby-noise come an extremely willful “NO“. NO fuck NO i do not want to get in the pool. NO fuck you motherfucker there is NO fucking way i am eating this broccoli.

Surprisingly she does not seem to be saying too much more yet. Her use of her small vocabulary is so ritualistic i keep expecting to hear a short Shakespearean sonnet purr naturally forth from her. I guess its cause these few things are most important to her. She is very emotive about lots of other stuff, mostly cheese and her blanky, but does not talk about them. It cant be long.

We took the 2-bike and the trailer up the hill, and after a few false starts and some fussing from G, we settled down on an APS transformer at 108th St.  Very ghetto. that’s how we roll.  We saw at least 10 displays out across the Valley.  G came around and had a great time, Alana had no clue but she’s a joiner. Then we had chorizo-stuffed peppers.