Back to the grind

     Well. There have been a few things that have transpired since my last blog. The whole Saudi gig. Had a great job offer, which was contingent on my ability get a Kingdom of Saudi (KSA) visa. The company knew the rules had changed (HR related positions can only be filled by KSA nationals) but I still got the offer, then oil tanked KSA actually started enforcing the rules. Curse crown prince Mohammed bin Salman, the evil person behind this rule.
      I've cycled through just about every part of DC you can imagine. I've photobombed more pictures around the National Mall than you can conceive. Imagine me riding back and forth in front of the Lincoln Memorial, with a big goofy grin and flashing the peace sign. Better yet, go and check your pictures if you've been in DC in the last year. A betting man would say I'm in one of your pictures. Photo bombing is fun, but after a year, even that wears thin, so I'm going to take a quick trip down to Aruba to windsurf and lick that salt off my lips again. I've been to Aruba once before, visiting brother Ed, Sabine and their two kids.

     And this is what happened the last time I went there.

How ceiling fans became train sets...

     I cleared immigration and waited impatiently to pick up my two pieces of luggage in Aruba's international airport.  Customs was next. I had a a nondescript grey suitcase and a large cardboard box which contained two ceiling fans, wrapped as Christmas presents. Using this very rudimentary ruse, I had hoped to avoid duties of 22% placed on new goods brought in to Aruba. 

     All of the other tourists were going through customs without being checked, but as I nudged my box along the floor, I saw one of the officers motion with his eyes towards me. A very large man took the cue from his colleague and asked me to step into one of the inspection cubicles. I cheerfully obliged, this was the first time I had ever been checked when traveling with my 5 year old daughter.  The pinnacle of respectfulness, a father traveling with his daughter, who could be more trustworthy, less likely to smuggle goods into the country?

     The customs officers, however, did not see it this way. They were like bulls, the box I had brought in, a red cape waved in front of them. It screamed out, "Inspect me, inspect me!" But still I thought, "Who would open a Christmas present, a train set for two cute nephews?" "What's in de box mon?" intoned the customs officer, in a deep baritone voice with a beautiful Caribbean accent. "That," I began confidently, "is a train set. A Christmas present for my nephews. I'm bringing it in myself so I won't have to pay for the postage later." The two promised nephews were right outside, waving excitedly and adding legitimacy to my story. Confidence builds. "I'll have to open it," he said." Oh go ahead," I said airily, implying I had absolutely nothing to hide. After all, he wouldn't disturb the wrapping paper on the boxes, would he? Of course not. Those ceiling fans, to me, to me at least, looked exactly Christmas presents. "How many boxes inside?" He asked.  "Oh there's just one," I lied. There were two, but they fit so neatly into one box that if he didn't look under the other box, it would appear as if there was only one. As he lifted the first one out of the box, he saw the second underneath it. He looked at me and said, "You said there was only one." "Inside, yes, there's two boxes but it is all packaged inside one box. That's what I thought you were asking." At this point, I was thinking of that old adage, oh what a tangled web when we weave when we first deceive. That was me all right. Sinking deeper and deeper into the dark hole that I was digging for myself, each lie becoming more and more ridiculous and me becoming more and more entangled in my web of lies. I felt like a fish thrashing around in a net, the more I thrashed, the more I was caught. 

     I know what you're thinking, "Cut your losses short! Tell the truth before it's too late you fool!" And I must admit, the thought did cross my mind, albeit briefly enough for me to remember that it had come and gone. "I'll have to open them," he said sternly. It was said in a manner as to imply the same thing you were thinking. But I didn't stop there. Oh no, I was in too deep at that point. He tore off a little bit of the wrapping paper and looked at me. I said, "I packed the in different boxes - ceiling fan boxes." Then he opened the boxes. Surprisingly enough, there were no train sets in the boxes. Just brand new ceiling fans. He looked at me, and with a slight smile on his face, said, "You said these were train sets." All hope lost, I began with a new lie.  "My brother told me to sat they were train sets," I blurted out. "He didn't want to pay the duty. Well almost true.

     You see, the night before I had come to Aruba, I called and asked my brother about the ceiling fans that he wanted me to bring. He had instructed me to take out all of the pieces and scuff up the blades a little to make them appear as if they were used. Too much work, I thought and a bold faced lie at that. And I'm not a liar, now am I? Aruba, you see, imposes duty only on new items, not used items. I would get around this little barrier by disguising the ceiling fans as Christmas presents saving myself a great deal of work and saving my brother the 22% duty on the ceiling fans in the process.

     But the customs officer was like a drift netter, and I was caught in the his net, drowning in my pitiful lies. So, when he asked me how much the ceiling fans were, I told him, for the first time that day, the truth. "They were fifty dollars each." I even had the receipt in my pocket to prove it, but I felt a little bit embarrassed to produce it. I felt like it would make me look even more dishonest than I really was.  In the end, he charged me double duty, assessing the fans at $100. Each. I paid, and finally made my way out of the airport to greet my brother, sister in-law and their two kids. As I left, I passed by the custom officer and said, "Hey, sorry about the train set story." He just laughed, a deep booming laugh and said, "Wecome to Aruba mon!"

     This story was told to two of my brother's colleagues, and a few nights later, at dinner, someone else said to my brother,  "Hey, how are those new train sets working?" All of the 8 people at the restaurant had heard the story, some had heard it more than once. It was quite amusing, after all. Many people at the International School of Aruba now refer to ceiling fans as train sets. And I can just imagine the customs officer going home and telling his wife and family about the ridiculous pack of lies that he heard that day at work. This story, so ludicrous, spreads through the island of Aruba. 

     Like I said, I'm going back to Aruba for a few days of windsurfing. I'll be checking the papers to see if there are any houses for rent that have train sets in every room.

     Aruba is windy. I went there to visit family, but also to windsurf. In November. Which is the least windy month in Aruba. This was before the Google machine. So the windsurfing sucked.

     This is how much it sucked. That's me and my daughter in Aruba. And for those not versed in windsurfing, you don't windsurf without a harness or with a child on the nose of your board, even if she's cute. Unless you're really not windsurfing. And yes, there is some windsurfing snobbery there. Apparently, the wind blows 11 out of 12 months in Aruba. Just not in November. Which is when we were there. That blows.
     And before the Google machine (and cell phones) information, like when is it windy in Aruba, was not so easy to come by. And when I was gone for a month, I tried to call my wife in Saipan. I couldn't get in touch with her. I called her at all hours. all. hours. No answer. When we finally got home, I  asked her, in perhaps not the most gentle manner, where the hell she had been for the past 3 weeks - she replied, in a very gentle manner, they had two typhoons and a tropical storm since I was gone and had no power. Our phone was an answering machine, reliant on power. Ouch. Well. So good to see you and be home again honey and...whoopsie!
     Warren Buffet and John Bogle don't need to work, but they still do. I'm certainly not them, but I'm in the very fortunate position to work only if I want to. And the quick trip to Aruba is because after 1 year, 281 days, 22 hours, 44 minutes and 02 seconds (as of this writing) of yet another failed attempt at retirement, I'm going back to work shortly after I return. Gwyne still works, I might as well avoid the horror of another season of cycling through the rogue groups of 8th grade civics classes touring the National Mall, pushing, poking, prodding and texting each other while ignoring the multiple bell ringings of the retiree cyclists - sometimes politely, sometimes not so much - asking them to pay attention to the world and get the hell out of my way. Yeah, I'd rather go to work than have to deal with another season of that again.

     It's just a few days shy of my one year anniversary from coming home from Afghanistan to retirement.  Yeah, that hasn't worked out that well and it's all Gwyne's fault, so I'm going back to the salt mines.  She still works, so I've been her support, a kept man, if you will, except I still pay my half of the bills.  I cook, I clean, I do laundry and I look good in a sarong while taking care of household responsibilities.  'Cause that's part of my job as well.   I've had a few adventures,  a shortened bicycle trip down the coast of California (until I turned left and hit the mountains and nothingness that lies between CA and TX), reloaded and went a road trip with my bicycle in the back of the rental car.  We sold our house in TX, moved to VA, just outside of DC and there was another road trip from TX to VA.  I took a quasi bicycling trip to Thailand for a month where I discovered, yet again, I like to cycle through urban areas, where things like running water, electricity and mango smoothies exist in abundance.  I found my sweet spot for cycle touring.

     It took me a while to settle on another bicycle (I rented one in Thailand) because it all depended on where I was going and what I was going to be doing, and that's been up and down and back and forth.  Some zig and zagging as well.  Throw in a little hemming and hawing it's almost settled, I'm back in the saddle again, I bought the right bike for where I'm headed.  But all this coalesces just as I'm just getting into my groove in the DC area on a bicycle.  A 10 minute ride down to Arlington National Cemetery, a left hand turn and then you are looking at the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument.  Every museum you could think of.   In a typical two hour ride, I cross the Key Bridge, ride along the C&O Canal in Georgetown, cycle along the Potomac, pass the Kennedy Center for Performing Arts, then up to then Lincoln Memorial, Vietnam Memorial, Korean Memorial, Reflecting Pool, World War II Memorial, say how do you do to the Washington Monument and then pass by all of the museums on my way to the Capitol Building.  Or perhaps a ride to Old Town Alexandria along the Mount Vernon Trail, where I see all the other retirees on weekdays on their fancy rides.
     Yeah, it's all Gwyne's fault.  Because if she were able to retire, I wouldn't be whiling away the hours, waiting for her to come home, keeping house (and working on looking good in a sarong).  We'd be off on adventures, together.  She's still working on saving the pennies needed to not work, so I might as well go back and add a few more riyals to my account.  That's right, riyals, which means I won't be enjoying a beer after a nice ride at my new assignment, in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. It's a dry country.  But it is a fascinating place to live and work in a very exciting time.  That shift just got real...again.

The sweet spot

     I think I've found my sweet spot for bicycle touring.  My formula is going to a city, renting a bicycle, and heading out.  I did a short trip with Spice Roads through Bangkok and then took a day trip to Ayutthaya that was just brilliant.  Elevated sky train, metro and train got me to Auytthaya for $1.96, bicycle rental was $1.65 and I had the day to explore the ruins of one of the old capitals of Thailand.

Ayutthaya 

     Never too far away from cold water, a mango smoothie or a tasty meal and always in the action, it's just what I like.  And if something happened to the bicycle?  I'd flag a truck down, take it back to the rental place and mutter under my breath, "Fix it, bitch."   Sure, the bike you are on may not fit you properly and probably isn't the most reliable steed, but you avoid a number of hassles - packing/unpacking the bicycle, airline fees (both ways) and here's the big selling point for me:  I get to do the kind of cycle touring I like to do.  I'm not interested in slogging out the miles past the water buffalo, roadside snakes and miles and miles of rice paddies.  They're nice to watch from the train, but not quite as interesting in the oppressive heat as you are clocking 18 kph.

     I took the night train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai, where I'm currently posted up, bicycle rental safely locked outside the hotel.  The folks sitting across from me on the sleeper train were from Holland, and like me, in their 50's.  It was their first time to Thailand, and they said they had stayed in the young, hip section of Bangkok.  I told them I knew it well, I used to stay there, back when I was young and hip.  Now I like to stay in the old and crotchety part of the city.  Suits me much better.  And the sleeper is a bargain - $26 gets you a 14 hour train trip, a berth (yes, I do like the turn down service at 2100) and cold, cold, cold ac.

A night on the train

     Chiang Mai is a fairly compact city, the Old City is inside the moat and there is plenty to explore outside the confines of the gates and surrounding water, quite accessible on a bicycle.  I took a trip to the West side of the city today and then circled back to the East where I happened on a lovely market where the bananas weren't Cavendish and the root vegetables still had the dirt on them.  At the end of the market was a woman selling well, I'm not sure.  I saw an organ, a tail, and what looked to be like two bags of blood.  You know, if you happen to know what do do with a few bags of fresh blood.  At least it doesn't look like they're wasting any part of the animal.

I think my oxtail soup may have a hair in it...

    And speaking of food in general, I finally broke the news to Gwyne, who would always helpfully point out the Thai restaurants wherever we lived, perhaps hoping for a meal out.  "Honey.  The Thai restaurants.  You know what I really like?  I like the price of the Thai food in Thailand.  Street food.  A good, healthy meal for under $1."   I do enjoy the food, but I have a Kim Davis like aversion to paying $7 -$10 when I know what the True price should be.  25 - 30 Baht.   Eagle eyed readers may have noticed my wife didn't come with me this time.  We're in the process of looking at potential retirement locations and Chiang Mai is on the short list.  I sold her the idea of this trip by saying that she needed a hero to go forward and explore Chiang Mai more thoroughly.  A hero's hero, that's what she was looking for.  Who fits that job description better than I?   My mission is to hang out, explore the neighborhoods, look at apartments,  examine the +'s and -'s and then report back.  She was lukewarm about the idea of Thailand to start with (we've been there twice before) and a bit cooler about me taking off for an undetermined amount of time on a quasi bike tour through Thailand.   It was a hard sell, and in the end, the deal was closed, and here I am.  We have a 14 point metric on an ideal retirement location, and we know we won't hit all of the bullets, but are looking to fill the majority.  If I come back and tell her that Thailand is the place for us, she won't be a happy camper.  There would be years of selling what she doesn't want to buy.  What about the kids?  Skype.  And you can rustle some aluminum foil in the background when you're done talking with them, and blame the connection.  Bonus! What about the language?  Google translate.  Works like a champ.  I thought I had all the answers, but after this trip, I'm going to come back to a hero's welcome when I tell her that Thailand just won't fit the bill.  Win, win, win.  Just how I like it.

David

     David was an odd fellow.  I met him on the beach in Koh Samui, Thailand, way back in once upon a time time, when there was no airport and you had to take a boat to get there.  In the dark days of travel, prior to credit cards, hotel reservations, the internet, e-mail, Facebook, a variety of apps, the distraction of a constant screen in front of you and the even more alienating earbuds, we talked to each other back then, which is how I came to know him.
     He worked 6 months out of the year in the U.S. as a waiter and spent the other 6 months on Koh Samui.  Back then, you could get your own cottage on the beach for $1/day.  Sure, you had to bring your own towel, toiletries, there was no hot water, electricity was spotty and the mosquitoes were plentiful, but you had your own cottage on a beach in Thailand.  We all thought it was a pretty good deal.  David would always stay in the exact same guest house, in the exact same cottage.  If someone else happened to be staying in 'his' cottage, which was truly beachfront, not set back like some of the others, the proprietors would move them to accommodate David.  After all, he was going to be there for the next six months, and they wanted to ensure their goose continued to lay that golden baht.  A sparse breakfast was included in the $1/day rate, either banana pancakes or a mixed fruit plate, but he always ate dinner in the restaurant attached to the guest house.  There were other options for eating, he knew it, as did the owners of the guest house.  After breakfast, he'd walk the length of Chaweng Beach, 3 miles one way, 3 miles the other and then go for a swim.  Then he'd settle down on the porch of his cottage and read the day away until dinner time, which, because he didn't eat lunch, was at exactly 4:30 pm. He'd amble up to the restaurant, book in hand and sit at his table.  If someone else happened to be eating that early, the owners would ensure they weren't sitting at David's table.  They had a fairly varied menu, but he had the same thing.  Every. day.  Yellow chicken curry and rice. For six months.  Yeah, an odd fellow. He was well read and we swapped books and recommendations. I traveled on with friends to Malaysia and Indonesia, but ran into David about 2 years later.  I was going to graduate school in Hawaii, and took a bike ride down to Magic Island and there was David, walking.  It must have been in between breakfast and dinner time, because that was the time he always took his walk.  In surprise, I yelled out, "David!" His response?  "Oh, hi Alan, how are you?"  He seemed completely unsurprised that we'd bump into each other in Hawaii after being acquainted on an island in Thailand.  It was the 6 month work season for David, and he was staying in some nasty apartment, squirreling away the dollars before he could get back to Koh Samui.
     I thought he was odd because he was so committed to his routine, but as I get older, I tend to live within my own self defined lines.  I was just thinking about David because here I am, back in Thailand.  I went to Bumrungrad Hospital for a thorough check up because it's just good preventative practice when you reach the ripe age of 55.  Shit happens, and I'm not fond of shit, so I like to prevent that shit from happening, if I can.  I've been to Bumrungrad before, and there is a certain reassuring feeling of going through the same process, seeing the same doctors, and them having access to your past records.  Today, I saw the dentist I saw in 2012.  She asked about my front tooth and if I had decided to get it fixed.  Yesterday, I saw the same dermatologist I saw before and we talked about the nevus mole on my face as he did a whole body skin cancer check.

     Okay, it's not exactly having the same GP in the same town, but we move around a lot.  I've been going to the same restaurant every day. Routines. The name of the restaurant is Thai food very good and very cheap, and there's always plenty of Thais eating there.  And how can you argue with that advertising brilliance?  They had me at very cheap.  I mix up what I eat, and have yet to have a yellow chicken curry with rice, but still, same restaurant every day.  I'm not to the point of eating at the same time and sitting at the same table but that's the direction I'm headed.

     I'm getting ready to head to Chiang Mai to settle down for a bit and explore the areas of Chiang Mai I haven't seen before on a bike.  I know the Eastern part of Chiang Mai and the Old City pretty well, it's where I first went back in 1984, and every time I've returned, my lizard brain just takes me right back to the same part of town.  I'll start out in the Eastern section and get on a bike for a few days to look for a longer term rental.  I'll be taking a look see at the Western section this time as you can get a decent apartment for just over $200/month. But the smart money should bet on me ending up somewhere in the Old City or the Eastern side of town.  I'll meet a few travellers while there (if the screens of smartphones and tablets can be penetrated) and someone will likely go home and say, "That  Alan, he was an odd fellow."  

The edger and the bookshelf

     I sold the edger today.  The lawnmower and blower were long gone, as is pretty much everything else in our house, but getting rid of the edger, well that was a feeling of complete liberation.  This is quite a shift.  And 'this' is a move from a 2500 square foot house in TX (with accompanying lawn, that required lots of edging with the long sidewalk on our corner lot) to a 693 square foot apartment in VA.   Gwyne's gone, she's already in VA, toiling away in the salt mines.  She left me here to sell the house, pack what is left and head over to the East Coast.  As I told her, leaving me behind to decide what we need and what we don't need was a very dangerous proposition.  No one who knows me would ever accuse me of being a sentimental old fool.  Old, yes.  Sentimental and a fool, particularly when it came to what we should get rid of, oh no.  Before she left, we took a tour of the house and marked what we were going to keep and what we were going to sell.  I set up Jim Cramer's sell sell sell! soundbite on my iPhone and hit it frequently as we went in each room.  The downsizing from 4 bedrooms, 2 baths and a bonus room (that ended up being a storage room for the kid's crap) to a 1 bedroom 1 bath apartment required some serious sell sell selling!  And I was just the guy to do it.  The link to the soundbite, if you're not familiar with it is, below.

http://www.hark.com/clips/qcwcxwjqxg-sell-sell-sell-button

     There are plenty of things that were no brainers - anything required to lawn care, for example.  Sell sell sell! There were other things that were harder (for some) to let go of.  We kept most of our knickknacks, paddy whacks, geegaws and shiny baubles, but pretty much everything else didn't fit in the I have warm and fuzzy feelings category (sell sell sell!) and I definitely didn't want to keep hauling them around the world.  Like this:

It's a huge, two piece hand carved mahogany bookshelf from Indonesia that I bought in Saipan.  I still remember loading it into the back of my pick up truck with brother Ed and bringing it into our 1 bedroom 1 bath apartment there.  It was subsequently moved to the Marshall Islands, where it resided in a trailer, 400 series housing, new housing and 200 series housing, Colorado Springs, San Antonio and Fort Worth.  And pretty much every place it was moved, the movers looked at it and said, "I don't think it's going to fit."  But somehow, it managed to go through the doors, turn the corners and find a home.  I tried to sell it before, but was persuaded not to (sell sell sell!) by one or more of the people in my life with sensitive feelings.

     In the process of downshifting, I feel as if I've climbed that mountain and am now getting ready to enjoy the exhilarating downhill ride.  No more almost daily visits to Home Depot or Lowes.  No maintenance.  No lawn.  No lawn care, no mowing, no hedge trimming, no aerating, no fertilizing, no weeding and...no more mf edging.  No cars.  2 minutes from the Metro.  2 minutes from Trader Joe's in one direction and 2 minutes from a Whole Foods in the other direction.  

      In addition to the change from suburban to city life, I'm just about to shift gears again too.  It's either back to work in some shape or form or a three month bicycle tour of Thailand and Burma for me.  And no, that bookshelf won't be slowing me down as I pedal along.  That's somebody else's millstone to drag through life now.  You are the weakest link...Goodbye!

The romance and reality

1.  Google maps - the shortest route isn't always the easiest route.  Check the topography before you cycle off.

2.  Google maps again.  On the way from Laguna Niguel to Oceanside, I listened, dutifully took the left hand turn and pedaled up the impossibly steep road, stopping a few times along the way.  Then it took me for a loop and told me to go back down the same road I came up.  I'm pleased that Google dropped their corporate motto, "Don't be evil" because that trick was supremely evil.
3.  I packed too much.  I planned to possibly camp along the way, but I decided to be honest with myself.  I don't want to pitch a tent after a long day in the saddle and I'm too attached to running water and power to schlep it out for a night in the tent, so I sent home the front two panniers and my tent.
4.  Ask the locals questions, particularly about topography, water points and food availability up ahead.  They live there and are mostly extremely helpful.
5.  It's okay to stop, take a rest and then get back on the bicycle.  This is meant to be enjoyable, not painful.
6.  Every hill so far has been painful.  Some way more than others, but every hill has hurt and I've had to stop multiple times on the biggies.  And even after I offloaded 11+ lbs of gear, every hill continued to remind me of the Princess Bride - to the pain.
7.  The trip from Oceanside to El Cajon confirmed my hatred for all things with a grade of 4% or more.  The 1.5 mile climb at Torrey Pines with 6 - 8% grade really sucked.  Pedal, stop, pedal, stop, pedal stop, repeat.  And the last 10 miles into El Cajon were pretty much all uphill, some parts of it steeper than others.  If someone was offering EPO or blood doping in the middle of the hill, I would have been their first customer.

Before the real mountains started, I took two rest days in El Cajon.  There is a large group of Chaldean Iraqis here, and I definitely enjoyed being reacquainted with Middle Eastern fare.  And after the mountains in CA, the high desert, and the vast expanses of nothingness between one hamlet and another burg (which, btw have nothing to do with quiet desperation, their desperation is screaming, yelling and flailing about) and the magnificently crappy shoulders on the roads and the continuing hills, I feel great about my decision.  The hills yesterday and today were no problem at all.  Whenever I came to one, I'd just give that gas pedal a slight push and my rental car responded like a champ.  And the miles of nothingness in the desert - the impossible miles of emptiness that I would have been riding?  They just passed by quite pleasantly with a smug grin on my face.

These folks have about 70+ miles of bleakness to ride through.  

It's okay to shift gears when things don't go according to plan.  I am driving the bicycle route, but I saw no reason to continue to inflict unnecessary pain upon myself or my surgically repaired (twice) knee.  The reality of the trip did not meet the romance, and I'm completely comfortable with my decision.

I'm still on for a trip to Thailand/Burma possibly Malaysia in Sept/Oct/Nov, but I anticipate it will be a rental bicycle trip to explore each city/town on a bike after my overnight sleeper train where somebody turns down my bed rather than an expeditionary cycle touring trip.

                               Do you want these guys to turn your bed down?  Didn't think so.

Rest day?

     Yesterday was going to be kind of a rest day, only 20 miles from Irvine to Laguna Niguel.  I've been starting off at the ass crack of dawn, so it felt decadent to eat breakfast, hang out and talk story about Saipan and Afghanistan, eat lunch and then hit the road at 1330.  This time, my old friend Lothar Cramer wanted to do some of the ride with me, and as an avid cyclist, he is quite familiar with the route and area.  I've been using Google maps for cyclists (yes, I know, it's in beta form) and so far, what I lovingly refer to as my bitch has guided me, turn by turn, to my destination.  The ride was fine until Lothar pointed upwards and said, "That's where we're going."  So, I employed my strategy of stopping when tired, and pedaling on when my heart rate slowed down a bit.
     And to channel a bit of Marshawn Lynch, I'd like to give a shout out to my parents, who endured me for 2 weeks while I put my kit together in Santa Barbara, shout out to Michael and Nikki Blair for their hospitality in Culver City, shout out to South Central L.A. for not jumping this white boy as I rode through the neighborhood on a loaded touring bicycle, shout out to Victoria and Brainard Jones in Irvine for their kindness and a shout out to Lothar and Emily Cramer for opening their home in Laguna Niguel.  Also, a future shout out to Sandee Aga and Rod Hepburn, who have offered an overnight stay at their homes - everyone's generosity and kindness is much appreciated.
     My bitch, so far, has been very good to me, guiding me along some fantastic routes through residential areas and finding lovely bicycle paths.  She even took me past the worlds oldest continuously operating McDonalds, in Downey, CA.

     But when I showed Lothar where my bitch was planning on taking me tomorrow (now today) he said, "Oh, you don't want to go there."  And this is coming from a serious cyclist, one who has a set training schedule, one who races, a real MAMIL (Middle Aged Man In Lycra), the man doesn't even stop on hills.  That's the good news, potential soul crushing hills at the beginning of the ride averted.  The bad news is that at the end of my 50 mile ride tomorrow, I was told yesterday that there was one 'mother of a hill' on the way to my next shelter.  But unlike Lothar, I'm not a racer.  I'm a plodder.  And today, I pedal and plod down towards Oceanside, CA, and that mother of a hill at the end of the ride.

                                  Victoria and Celine, then in Thailand, and Victoria now, all grown up.