Is it drafty in here?

In 1974, the Pittsburgh Steelers had the best draft class in history: Four Hall of Famers - Jack Lambert, Lynn Swann, John Stallworth, and Mike Webster. The next best draft in history (the 1969 Steeler draft) only had two.

The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette wrote of the draft:"The Steelers seem to have come out of the first five rounds of the draft appreciably strengthened at wide receiver but nowhere else. They didn’t get a tight end, and the ones remaining are more suspect than prospect. They didn’t get a punter, although none of the nation’s best collegiate punters went in the first five rounds. They didn’t get an offensive tackle that might’ve shored up what could well become a weakness. What they did get was Swann, who seems to be a sure-pop to help; Lambert, who figures to be the No. 5 linebacker if he pans out; and three question marks."

I'm not writing this because I'm thrilled with the draft. Instead, I'm recalling it because I realize the need to temper my comments - that time might make a fool of me, saying that this is a terrible draft class.

I will say this: the Steelers need offensive lineman like the Olsen twins need doughnuts. There were FANTASTIC lineman in the draft, and they didn't get them.

They needed cornerbacks like Eli needs supervision. They got none.

Instead, they followed the lead of 1930's France and put up the Maginot line at running back, wide receiver, and linebacker. Don't worry that the offensive line is as hole-y as Kwame Kilpatrick's alibi. Don't worry that the cornerbacks could make the Naval Academy's offense look like USC.

The Steelers have a long, long history of building through the draft. With the new administration in place, one has to wonder about their ability to see the long-term impact of these players.

I'm cautiously pessimistic.

Engineer jokes are the funniest.

First (real) race of the season

Willow Time Trial.

Strong wind, about 55 degrees or so. My legs never felt really bad, but I know I left everything out on the course, because my eyes wouldn't focus for the last few minutes.

Finished fourth, with a 25.5 MPH average. Needed about 27 MPH for the win. Didn't win anything. Time trials are stingy that way.

Beware the Penguins.

Prank calls...

Engineers

Sure are weird.

Another boring day in paradise...

I had a bunch of mundane things to do today.



That should be a hint. As in, "I'm going to share the painstaking details - emphasis on the pain - with you." I'd suggest going elsewhere on the web. Check out ESPN.com. Or yahoo. Do some original research on Wikipedia.

Your time will be better spent.

So anyway, Friday night was a party hosted by one of our sponsors. A good time was had by all; the bar was open, the catered food tasted great, and there was a multitude of entertainment possibilities.

Do I sound like an important-bike-racer-man yet? Good. Then I won't mention the words 'pizza' and 'bowling'.


Mmmm. Pizza.


Anyway, got home about 12:30 last night, got up at 7:00 or so. Ate my first breakfast, some Muesli, and got to work. I ended up doing laundry, dishes, replacing bearings in my 420 wheels with new ones, replacing bearings in my pedals, putting the old 420 bearings in my 350's, taking a nap, gluing on the Vittoria's to my Zipps...

And, of course, made myself second breakfast, first lunch, and second lunch. I don't remember if I ate dinner or not. I think I'll be OK anyway... but I'm a little hungry now.

Epilogue: UPS

So I had a bunch of comp-time coming, and I needed to take care of some stuff at home anyway, so I took off Friday... and waited for the UPS man to show up.

About 2:00 I heard the doorbell ring. I ran to the door, as I know from experience that I have about five seconds before UPS runs out of patience.

I opened the door. The package was there. No signature was recorded.


I hate UPS.

United Parcel Service

UPS is the most incompetent company that I have the displeasure to deal with.

The general protocol is as follows:

1. UPS attempts delivery at 1:00 PM in a residential area.
2. UPS leaves note for package. Says to call them.
3. I get pissed because I hate talking on the phone to idiots.
4. I call UPS.
5. Press 0 as many times as possible until I speak to a human.
6. Realize that said human is an idiot.
7. Idio... I mean, employee says they will try to schedule a redelivery that same day; as they recognize the futility of delivering to a residential area in the early afternoon.
8. Hang up the phone, feeling optimistic.
9. Wait 30 minutes.
10. UPS calls me back, saying that they aren't going to try too hard to redeliver. In fact, they aren't going to try at all.
11. I decide that UPS is incompetent, and I do WHAT I PAID THEM TO DO FOR ME - drive to THEM and pick up MY package.

Words cannot express how much I hate UPS.

Since I'm expecting a package, I tried to avoid this calamity. So I called BEFORE they attempted delivery.

'We're sorry. We refuse to work on that now. Please try again after we attempt delivery at 1:00 PM'.

Random Day in the life

You know, there are many, many subscribers to this blog. I can't quantify exactly how many, but I'm almost certain you couldn't count them on one hand.

Almost.


Two of you - (this quite possibly represents a 'majority' of my readers) have talked to me about my 'cycling' blog.

Cycling?

That really wasn't the intent when I started. But, the majority of my time these days is spent at work... and we're under dodectuple-secret-clearance for all of that information. So I really can't share that top-secret confidential information on my blog; no one would read it here. So what's the point?

Once again, I digress. But the point is - not much, eventful-wise, goes on in my day-to-day life.

And I'm going to prove it, by forcing you, at gunpoint, to read what happened to me this week. You might, very astutely, point out that you aren't "at gunpoint". That's where you're wrong. I'm in your house right now (unless you're at work). In fact, I'm in the closet right beside you with the barrel pointed at you. If you try to open the door, or - even worse - close the web browser, I'll let loose.

You've been warned.

Monday, March 31st.

At work, I've been trying to get a lot of things done. We have about two or three days to complete some tests; and we're struggling to fit everything in. Of course, things are being complicated by a myriad of other problems. Fighting them one at a time...

Finally about 4:30 or so, I leave the Erik, the afternoon-shift tech, with a gameplan, and head out....

...because I had an appointment, you see. My hair was so long, people were confusing me with a hippie (that must be the reason; I completely dismiss the claims of others who say things like 'try some deodorant' or 'you smell really, really bad').

Anyway, realizing that Mondays aren't really days that barbers usually work, and yet also recognizing that Monday evening was really my free evening for the week, I called D-Barber around lunchtime. Sure, he says, I'll be here until 5:15 or so. Odd time, I think, but set off on my way at about 4:45 or so.

I get there, and, as per the norm, there's a sign saying - "At Howell's Bar Next Door - Please come get me". I've been through this saga before; I go in, and I find out why he's over there - it's opening day for the Detroit Tigers, and, in fact, it was the bottom of the 11th with the Tigers down one run.

Anyway, he asks if we can wait until the end of the inning; I figure it's no big deal (it isn't) and watch the end of the game. Suffice it to say the Tigers lost.

And I go get my hair cut. Highlight of the day; exciting, I know.

Korea

So, as many of you know, my Father is stationed in Korea for a year; he's about halfway through now. My Mother has been there for the past week and a half, visiting.

If you click on the picture, you can see a larger version.

A park. I believe this is where they bury the Kimchi.





A Folk Village?


Mom and Dad. Smiles indicate that no Kimchi had been consumed yet that day.


Ceremonial Garb. No Kimchi relation.





I believe this is the DMZ.

Mom and Dad indicate that the DMZ was very odd... North Korean guards are 8 meters (about 25 feet, or across the room) from you, staring back.


Mom at a folk village.


Seoul Tower. It's like the Space Needle, but at the restaurant at the top, they serve Kimchi.

Museum.

Palace. It's like the Forbidden City, except they serve Kimchi at the top.


Ceremonial Kimchi Urn.





A temple in Korea...







A statue. Korea is blessedly pigeon free, apparently.


My Parents interacting with the Indigineous Peoples. Apparently they didn't make any smart-ass Kimchi remarks.

Virgle.

Mission to Mars questionnaire.

Congratulations -- you are ideally suited to be a Virgle Pioneer; so ideally so, in fact, that one wonders why you aren't already living on a remote South Pacific island, serving as a biosphere test subject, washing dishes at a North Pole research station during the depths of winter or writing a highly intelligent, articulate political blog. At any rate, we want you for one of our upcoming Virgle launches. You'll love it -- the pay is great, the view from the spaceport should be spectacular, and we're told that algae and spirulina actually start to taste good after the hundredth consecutive day. Anyway, if you want to give Virgle a try, you can submit your video here.

"Racing is easy. *Training* is hard." -Frankie Andreau (Boring stories)

Boring stories, sans humor, and with no real conclusion...



I raced today.


They call me the yellow-armed bandit.


OK, I raced yesterday at Waterford Hills (a car-road-race course), too, but the results were rather poor - the person in front of me let a gap open up. Of course, this is a major faux pas, as getting out of the draft in road biking is roughly equivalent to 'getting hung out to dry' in Nascar - but without being able to catch back on at the end.

Now, by the end of last year, these gaps were the kind of thing that I could close. No problem, no anxiety, thirty seconds of time-trialing caught me back on.

Not so much yesterday. I don't know if it was the cold weather, general malaise, or (heaven forfend) just a lack of fitness, but I couldn't close the gap. Despite a half-hour of trying.


So I was a little anxious about my performance coming into "the" race today. I put "the" in quotation marks, because, as luck would have it, I could race three times today. I decided to try all three.



Race Level: C (26 riders)

The first race was really something I would've avoided, had I not had a bunch of teammates in it. It's really for beginners, and although the definition of 'beginner' is somewhat vague, I probably should not qualify. Still, the only person on our team who'd raced this event before recommended it, and I figured, that, at a minimum, I could chase some breaks down and lead-out my teammates for the final sprint.

We did well. I chased down several breaks, although I probably went to hard; at the end, I wasn't able to lead out my teammate well. He ended up coming around me much earlier than he should've had to in order to compensate, but he still sprinted up the final hill for the win. Another teammate sprinted past me for second. Although I was content to just coast to the line, the other competitors seemed to be dying, while I was soft-pedaling... so I put in a few good kicks, no real effort, and managed third.

So we got 1-2-3. And I think I'm kicked out of that race.





Race Level: B (~20 riders?)


This is where I really should've been racing. Same theory - chase down breaks, lead out teammate. Drastically different results, as I was on the nose of the peloton for much of the race, attempting to chase down a strong four-man break. I failed. Then, in the last lap, I was looking for my teammates to get them on my wheel - they were on the right side of the peloton; I was on the left. I went past the front, and slowed down the right side, looking to let them grab my wheel; but no luck. I ended up 11th in the 'ton, with, I believe, 3 men still in the break, so ~14th overall.

One of the benefits of keeping my nose in the wind for most of the race: I accidentally won a preme.

To the victors... wait a minute... To the preme winners...


Race Level: A (~40 riders)


I was hoping to race this just for experience and training. I was impressed with the pack - usually, in C's, people keep their handlebars two or three feet apart. B's, might be one or two. A's were more like six inches, and, more importantly, no one was panicking.

While I was marvelling at this, someone put in a big acceleration. A teammate said that someone in front of me let another gap open up. All I (vaguely) recall is chasing... and chasing... and failing.



So, today I worked as hard as I could. I failed. But tomorrow... I'll be stronger.











(Actually tomorrow I'm taking a rest day, but I thought that was a good quote).

Russell Younkins

Over Easter, I learned two stories about my Grandfather that I'd never heard before.

Prologue:

After World War I, the British, French, and Russians secretly agreed to partition the former Ottoman Empire - basically the entire middle-east. Out of this agreement, Britain gained control of the territory that was to eventually become Iraq; they theoretically relinquished most control in 1932, but after a coup in 1941 they re-instituted their own regime.

Which provides a background as to where our story begins. During World War II, my grandfather was in the middle of circumnavigating the globe, stopping off at various pseudo-British (Australia, Iraq, etc) ports-of-call to support the War effort. Iraq, then as now, was in political and economic upheaval, and when he disembarked, he was met by legions of malnourished beggars.

Of course, there was actually food to be had in Iraq. So he, along with two of his compatriots, went into the local Bakery.

And bought everything they had. Then gave it away.

Or, at least, he tried to give it away. The beggars were overcome by "irrational exuberance" (to steal an Alan Greenspan term); so irrational, in fact, that it gradually evolved into somewhat-massive rioting.

The authorities were not amused; and Mr. Younkins was declared "persona-non-grata", which was intriguing, because you would've expected them to say "he's not welcome" in Arabic, not Spanish.

Try to do something nice, right?





Which brings us to our second anecdote of the day (the "Try to do something nice" was the segue, in case you weren't paying attention).


My father's - and grandfather's, (ad-almost-infinitum) family live to the Northeast of Pittsburgh, in a fairly sparsely populated area. Although my father claims otherwise, I secretly believe that every family within a ten-mile radius is related to me in some manner or another (which also conveniently explains why he went to Ligonier to find a girlfriend).

In any case, in about 1939 or 1940 or so, one of these not-incredibly-close-on-the-family-tree relations of mine was stricken by Polio. He was ten years old at the time. Of course, in those years, your primary means of entertainment were playing with the other kids outside - so imagine being sick, inside, ten years old, no television, no video games, no internet, no yo-yo (o.k., I'm making up the part about no yo-yo, but the point is, it'd be boring for a thirty year old, so it had to be terrible for a ten year old).

My grandfather was eighteen at the time. He was going to the movies with a local girl; but he had another thought at the same time. He went to pick up the Polio-stricken child, to take him to the movie as well.

And of course, when I say 'pick-up', I mean it quite literally. He carried the ten-year-old into the theatre and sat him down, so he could enjoy being out of the house for once.







Growing up, when I was visiting my grandparents, there was a certain quote, framed above the refrigerator. I remember as a child, barely being able to see it; I could make out some of the scripted-letters, but not all. Time passed, and I could make out all of the letters, but didn't understand all the words - the word 'Serenity', in particular, was beyond my limited vocabulary.

Eventually I understood what the entire quote said. And then, a while later, I understood what it meant.




God grant me the
Serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can; and
Wisdom to know the difference.

Most of my favorite quotes are of a completely different style - they're quotes that embrace constant action; constant attack; constant achievements. This prayer, this quote, acknowledges imperfection, but inspires a person to counter that imperfection; to challenge yourself to consider what the best course of action every time a problem is encountered.

Since I could read and understand those words, it's been one of my favorites, and in my mind, it will forever be linked to my Grandparents' house. Believe it or not, that prayer reminds me of them more than anything else in the world, and I've shared it with several others during tumultuous times in their lives.







Last Saturday, I was cycling up a steep road, less than a half a mile from my parents house. I spotted a trinket on the side of the road, and dismissed investigating it further - this spot on the road is particularly steep, I was going uphill, and losing my momentum would mean I'd have a difficult time resuming going uphill.

Ten seconds or so afterwards, I changed my mind, and turned around, riding the brakes going the wrong way down the street. I stopped, and picked up this:



After 85 years on this Earth, my Grandfather relinquished his grasp this past Friday. He left behind a loving wife of 60 years, four children, all married, ten grandchildren, and nine great-grandchildren. May he leave a lasting legacy.


Russell C. Younkins
July 20, 1922 - March 21, 2008

How many did you count?

I counted correctly.

Weather

Hallelujah


Wow. There's a high pressure zone coming; and thankfully it's going to be above 40 degrees pretty much every day this week. I'm not saying that I'm sick of winter weather, but I'd rather watch daytime television than spend another day in the cold.

Could this be the end of winter? Tune in next week to find out!

Day 7. General Grant.

The next morning at the hotel, the theme of the day was: I'm going at whatever pace I damn well feel like, thank you very much. I turn on the television, lay around a bit, do some e-mail, and leave, maybe 8:30 or so. Maybe 9:00 - I'm not paying much attention to what I'm doing.

Even after the seven tacos the night before, I'm still hungry. My rate of calorie expenditure is exceeding the rate I can eat. So I stop when I pass the only store in town, a drugstore. I figure I'll grab some protein bars or something. I get five.

As I'm finishing the first protein bar, I vaguely recall something.

I've already eaten, at the hotel.

Hmm. In fact, less than an hour prior, I had eaten four danishes, three muffins, two bagels, two bananas, two glasses of orange juice, a hard boiled egg, and a partridge in a pear tree (OK, I'm making that last part up, the feathers got stuck in my teeth and I never finished it).

I reluctantly decide that perhaps I should only eat one more protein bar.

Since today was a sightseeing day, I drove up to about 7,000 feet to take some pictures of a tree called 'General Grant'; the second largest tree in the world. I take my time, take some pictures.

I saw a bigger tree yesterday.
Tiny? Miniscule? I would be embarassed to call this tree 'big'.



And then I decide to go on a bike ride.

Already being at 7,000 feet, I abandon my car, set up my bike, and start down the hill. Since I haven't been sweating, it's much, much less frigid. I'm almost comfortable. After an hour or so of descending the mountain, I stop at 1500 feet.


Right beside this tree, next to a farm.

The theme of the day: go at my own pace. Right now the pace is slow. I take off all of my ultra-winter gear that I've used for the descent, and pack it into my pockets. My jacket sleeves unzip, my extra wool jersey comes off. I take off my hat and roll it into a cylinder. I have a Clif bar, drink some Cytomax, and begin to head up the mountain.

At my own pace.

Which is now as hard as I can ride.

2000.

After a week of riding, I may not be physically 100%, but mentally, I'm fully recovered. I don't stop to take pictures - all the ones you see here (save the General Grant) are from the saddle, grinding up the mountainside.

3000.

For my last ride, I'm going out with a bang. My previous days were about five hours each, slow, endurance rides. This one's going to be a hair less than three - and I'm going to get my three hour's worth, if it's the last thing I do (on my trip to California, that is).



Whew, almost didn't have the camera ready in time.

When I push past 4000 feet, I look over my shoulder. I'm a sucker for the road-snaking-up-the-mountain picture.




5000. Some snow.
6000. Quite a bit of snow.

I make it to the top, I take a few more pictures. I load the bike into the car for the last time, and call Gary.




That night we went out for Pizza. He ordered a slice. I ordered a pizza. He ate his slice and one of mine. I ate the rest.

And left hungry.

Day 6, Part 3. Why am I in this basket?

One of the nice things about the trip was that my rental car was equipped with Hertz Neverlost, a GPS system. I could ask it where the closest hotels and/or restaurants were.

And I was hungry. In the middle of nowhere.

I was basically in the middle of pretty rural farms, that just happened to be abutting majestic mountains. This wasn't tourism USA. I liked it that way.

But still, I was hungry. And exhausted. And I needed a shower. Badly. So I asked the GPS where the closest hotels and restaurants were. I just needed to get into a town.

But this was all I see.


No can do, the GPS replied. You're 60 miles from anywhere. $#%%^$. OK, I'm going to be on the road for a bit first.

Perhaps it's pick your own dinner?

Orange groves and grape vines dominate the landscape. Every mile or so I see a building. It's late, dark, and I'm sick of driving. I finally pull into 'town'. And pull up to the town restaurant.


Hmmm.

Now, normally, what language other people speak is a political question I'm pretty liberal about. I figure I have no business telling others what language they should speak, just like they have no business telling me to do anything.

Now all I want is some food. I've spent over 30 hours in the saddle so far this week, I'm hungry, my everything hurts, and I'm grumpy.

I go into the local restaurant, and after a few minutes. Manage to order some tacos (if by 'some' you mean 'seven'). As I'm eating a local girl - her back to me the whole time - gets up and walks toward me for some unknown reason. She stares at me, I smile at her.

She recoils in horror. I wonder what's wrong.

In any case, perhaps that's enough effort for this week. I tell myself I'll get up tomorrow, do some sight-seeing. Maybe I'll ride. We'll see.

Day 6, Part 2. Seqouia.

After a rather trying Day 5, I decided to take it easy on Day 6. Only about thirty miles, one mountain. I headed North to the twin parks of Sequoia and Kings Canyon.

You're all bored with my cycling stories, so I'll let the pictures tell most of the tale.

Beginning the Ascent.

Random shot on the way up.

Switchback... you can see the road cutting into the hillside on the right.


The trees frame the mountain.







Check out the road snaking and cutting through the side of the mountain (about 1/3 of the way up).

It took me about two hours to do the climb. At the top there was a ranger station, explaining how difficult it is for a Sequoia to grow into a mature tree. There was a roulette wheel describing the various perils of each new seed.

Mine was eaten by a rodent.

A mid-sized redwood.

Check out the walkway on the left for some scale of size.

At the top, a ranger stopped me (people stopping to talk with me is pretty routine, provided there are actually people there). He seemed surprised when I told him where I started from... 'This is the first time I've seen someone come up here'.

Well, maybe if you didn't have three feet of snow, more people would visit!


Same mid-size tree, with bike for scale.




The bark is over two feet thick.


Yet another picture of a tree. How many more are you going to look at?




At least one more, methinks. There was a reason I chose this particular mountain - on its slopes rests the largest tree in the world, a Giant Sequoia known colloquially as the 'General Sherman'.

Eh, I've seen bigger.



General Sherman, from across a meadow.

Usually I hate to have people in my pictures; it's a pet peeve. Here, though, they provide a great sense of scale. See the woman in the red jacket? She's about halfway across the meadow, headed towards the tree.

What's that white thing on her head?

Let's zoom in.


That's another person.


Let's look at the total picture again.

The largest tree in the world.

With some terrible photo-shopping... OK, I haven't even tried yet...




Just two more descents to go...