Le Tour

The closest I've ever come to riding anything remotely resembling the Tour de France (and bear in mind that "remotely" is the operative word here; "remotely" as in "not even close") was a three-week, 1,000-mile tour I did in 1988. We rode from West Yellowstone to Jasper, Alberta, averaging more than 80 miles a day, riding over Logan Pass in Glacier National Park and up through the Canadian Rockies. Plenty of climbing, plenty of altitude. Throw in the couple of times I rode the Tour of the California Alps (aka the Death Ride) for high mountains under time constraints, and there you have it.

I'm not a fast climber, not even a particularly fast rider. Despite that, and despite my paltry riding experience compared to Tour riders, when I watch the peloton snake through the countryside, or the riders in the breakaway attack on a mountain, I experience it not just visually but viscerally. No matter the discrepancy in age, strength, training, experience between me and Team Astana, my body has a cellular memory of what it felt like to push the pedals over and over and over, grinding over a hill when it's hot, staying in the saddle and on the bike when I've been tired and dehydrated and wishing it were over, but staying the course.

Tomorrow, Mont Ventoux. Bonne route to all!

Goodbye, Walter

Walter Cronkite, 1917-2009
"And that's the way it is."

An exceptional journalist, an honest, dignified, intelligent, decent man, who helped millions of Americans, me included, interpret our world. Gratitude abounds; thank you, Uncle Walter, for sharing it with us.

Confirmation testimony we'd like to hear

Random Republican senator: "Judge Sotomayor, will your ethnicity allow you to be an impartial Supreme Court justice?"

Sonia Sotomayor: "Senator, my ethnicity will not have any more bearing on my decisions than my fellow justices' ethnicity has on theirs."

Independence Day

The 4th of July is my favorite holiday. It's nondenominational, nonsectarian, nonreligious, and, in Davis, it's a community celebration. All day long, there's stuff going on—Little League pancake breakfast, softball tournament, the kiddie parade featuring tiny children riding their crepe paper-decorated trikes, the fireworks in the park, and, downtown, the bike club's annual criterium, where I worked this morning from 6 o'clock until 8. After my corner marshaling shift was done, I went to the farmers' market, where I bought tomatoes, basil, nectarines, blackberries, yellow corn, dino kale, curly parsley and what Jim Eldon at Fiddler's Green Farm dubbed "cosmic" carrots:


The inside is a surprise, too:

Walked back downtown, met Stu and Linda for lunch at Bernardo's where we sat outside and watched the women's race while we ate. Then home to listen to the Giants beat the Astros 9-0 (a nice follow-up to last night's 13-zip Giants win) while kind of more-or-less napping. Don't know what I'll do later on; some bike club friends are hosting a Tour de France watching gathering around 8, so I may head over there. Word has it that the fireworks are visible from the end of their street. Or I may just stay home; sometimes, if they shoot them high enough, I can see the fireworks from my deck.

The power! The passion! The produce!

Robin and I took a road trip to Oroville on Saturday. Stated purpose, to meet with the owners of the fitness center that will be one of the controls on the upcoming Davis Bike Club's Gold Rush Randonnee. Not-so-hidden agenda purpose, all those produce stands along Hwy. 70.

Not much to say about Oroville except that it's original downtown appeared utterly deserted. Storefronts vacant, the only open shops a couple of antique stores, the only lively appearing human a skateboarder taking advantage of the empty streets. The name of the business center kind of says it all . . .

Time to leave. On to . . .

!

!!

!!!

First stop, a smallm open-front stand, where we netted some blackberries, cherries, lemon cukes and cherry tomatoes.

Then we found Tony's, clearly the winner in both produce and ambience . . .

Tomatoes, nectarines (yellow and white), peaches (ditto), cukes, jams, olive oil, berries, potatoes, corn, melons, and Tony's famous sweet red onions . . .

Definitely sweet!

(N.B.: The corn, we were told, is trucked in from Dixon. What this implies about other items at Tony's is anybody's guess, but for sure the tree crops are local; we saw the trees.)

Robin's haul

. . . and mine

Don't buy more than you can carry!

So far, the tasting experience has been as good as the shopping experience. This may have to become a regular road trip.

Stars and stripes

Today is Flag Day. Back in the late '60s and into the '70s, the American flag became hugely politicized, with the left scorning it and the right wrapping itself in it. As someone who has always loved my country's flag, I found myself hesitating to say so, fearing the label of "hawk" or "super-patriot." But several years ago, during George W. Bush's tragic reign, I decided to reclaim my flag. I bought one, and on patriotic holidays, I fly it at the front of my house. I like its crisp red and white stripes, I like the blue field with those white stars, one for each of the 50 states, and as I put it in its holder I think about what my country has given me, what it offered my immigrant grandparents, and the hope this grand experiment holds for my granddaughters and the world. Flawed? Sure. But all I have to do is consider whom this country chose as its president this past November, and I take heart. Three cheers for the red, white and blue.

Reading baseball

I'm reading three books about baseball (while I'm not actually watching, that is). One is OK, one is good (and a keeper) and one is terrific (and also a keeper).


The OK one is Ron Darling's The Complete Game: Reflections on Baseball, Pitching and Life on the Mound. Darling is the former Mets pitcher, now a broadcaster for SportsNet New York. To give the reader the "feel" of the pitching experience, Darling organized his book using specific innings of games in which he was the starting pitcher. So, for instance, Ch. 1 describes the first inning of his first major league start, against the Phillies on Sept. 6, 1983; Ch. 2 is Game 4 of The 1986 World Series, Mets vs. the Red Sox; etc. The intro chapters (before we got to actual games) were so-so, but it's improving, and the descriptions of Darling's game-day preparation (he took a nap just before going out to warm up) are interesting. How these guys handle the pressure is mind-boggling to me.

The second book is called Watching Baseball Smarter, by Zack Hample. (Hample's other claim to fame is having grabbed more than 3,000 baseballs from major league games, including Bonds' 724th home-run baseball; his first book is titled How to Snag Major League Baseballs.) He's played professional ball himself, which gives him street cred to describe various aspects of the game, from the different grips pitchers use and the effect each has on a pitched ball to details about fielding, base running, and the answer to the question all baseball fans ask: Why do those guys grab their crotches all the time? (Ans: Those cups are uncomfortable, dammit!) Hample includes a glossary of terms, which are italicized in the text, so you can look stuff up as you read, or just read the glossary through all at once. It's a good dip-into book while watching a game and some play is a new one on me or Mike Kruko uses a term I haven't heard before. (This book was recommended to me by Heather Hafleigh, with whom I've been having an e-mail conversation about baseball in general and the Giants in particular.)

The best one, though, is As They See 'Em: A Fan's Travels in the Land of Umpires, by Bruce Weber. Weber is a reporter for The New York Times, and he brings the same clear, well-written, literate style of that newspaper to this book. I'd recently become intrigued by the enigmatic nature of the umpire, curious about not only the nuts and bolts of umpiring but what motivates a man (the female umpire is rare beyond rare) to want to be one in the first place. Weber interviewed dozens of current and former umpires, players, managers, and Major League baseball execs, and also trained as an umpire, after which he spent a season working games, from Little League to Spring Training. ("Just about the first thing they teach you at umpire school is ow to yank your mask off without upsetting your hat." Talk about your great lead . . . .) I checked this out from the library, but it's too good to let go of, so I've decided to buy it, to have the time to read it at a slow, delicious pace. Get this book; it's good.

Rubber ducky, you're the one

From the wires of the Associated Press . . .

Woman, 90, is rescued after three days stuck in bathtub

WALNUT CREEK — A 90-year-old Northern California woman too weak to get out of her bathtub was rescued after three days during which she drank water collected in a rubber duck to stay hydrated. Shirley Madsen was found in her Walnut Creek home by her daughter after the family became concerned that she hadn't returned phone calls. . . . Madsen had climbed into the tub May 27 after returning from a seniors group trip to a casino. She had not eaten since breakfast and found she was too weak to get out, authorities said. . . . She was also too weak to cup water in her hands, so she used a rubber duck as a cup. She repeatedly added hot water to the tub to stay warm.

Senior citizen emergency first aid kit

Unit-y

When the Giants signed Randy Johnson this spring, my reaction was to roll my eyes and cry, "Why?!" How was a 45-year-old pitcher supposed to help a team ostensibly focused on shucking the old guys and looking to bring on younger players? Moreover, pitching wasn't exactly where we were lacking in talent.

Well, I can eat crow when it's well prepared, and Randy Johnson is about as well prepared as it's possible to be. The Big Unit got his 300th win yesterday, only the 24th pitcher in the 140-year history of Major League Baseball to do so and one of only a small handful of leftys to do so. But what impressed me most about his achievement is what he had to say about it; better, how he said it. Following the game, in interviews and at a news conference, he was articulate about the game of baseball, the art of pitching and his role in what it takes to win a game. A thoughtful guy, grateful for the chance to be where he is, and gracious in his acknowlegement of his teammates, past and present, whose skill at the plate and in the field made those wins possible. And oh, yeah, one more thing: He didn't come to the Giants to win five games, he signed on to help the team win, maybe even make it to the playoffs.

This morning, on KNBR 680 (THE Sports Leader!), Mike Kruko talked about last night's plane ride down to Florida following the games (yes, there were two games, a double-header due to the rainout Tuesday, and Matt Cain got his 7th win of the year in Game 2. Way to go, Matty!). There was a champagne toast, and somebody brought out a cake. And Randy Johnson was on that plane to accept those tributes. He could have headed to Arizona for four days, spent time with his family, relaxing until the Giants get there next week. Instead, he got on the plane with the rest of the team. When he was asked why, he said it just wouldn't have felt right not to be there.

Thanks, Randy. I am glad you got No. 300 wearing a San Francisco Giants uniform. It's a privilege to watch you pitch, a pleasure to hear you talk about the game. Here's to your next win.

Rockin' robin

For probably the past two weeks (one doesn't notice when things like this begin, only that they've been going on for quite a while), a robin who hangs out in the trees to the south of my house begins singing at first light (I hear him—I assume it's a him—at 5 a.m or earlier). And he continues to sing. All day. Really. All day long. He doesn't stop. It's now just after 9 p.m., and, probably because it's finally dark, he's quit for the day. But he'll start in again tomorrow, just as he has for days. And days.

I mostly like hearing him, especially when I first wake up; much nicer than waking to the sound of trash trucks. But quite honestly, he's beginning to make me twitchy. Why does he sing all day long? Is he trying to entice a mate? Warn other birds away? Obsessive-compulsive? Does he not eat? Or drink? And why isn't he hoarse by now? But I don't really want him to stop; I'd just like to know why he doesn't seem to be able to.

A morning's work

In early spring, the fence in my front yard is a-bloom with a flower called crocosmia. And for about six weeks, from their first budding 'til full flower, they're quite pretty:


The rest of the year, however, they're either dormant or dead. Once they've finished blooming, the leaves turn pale brown and papery and look, well, dead. So every year, I get out there and clean 'em up. This morning's weather felt more Portland than Davis, a good day to do yard work, so I started at 9 o'clock, pulling out crocosmia leaves. Fortunately, they come out easily, so the only drawbacks are a) the dust and b) the fact that the darn things are multiplying like crazy and have spread from the fence into the yard proper. So there are lots more to pull out.

I didn't think to take a "before" picture, but here's the "after":


And here's the proof, awaiting the Davis Waste Removal "claw" to come get it Wednesday morning:

I finished by 12:30, in time to shower and catch the start of the Giants-Mariners game. (Giants lost, 5-4. Sigh . . .)

Last week into this

I'm recovered (I think) from the frenetic activity and corresponding lack of sleep I incurred beginning last Friday evening. The Double Century rider check-in began then, followed closely (and way too soon) by the rider check-in that began at 4:30 a.-of-the-m. on Saturday, then monitoring the action on the course, helping Robin, the director, with whatever needed doing all day long, greeting the thank-god-you're-finally-here riders at 1:30 a.m. (that would be Sunday, folks), and at last getting to bed at 3.

Arising refreshed (NOT!) at 7 Sunday morning, I got myself to the Amtrak station and onto the 9:25 train for Richmond, then caught BART to Berkeley to attend a picnic for my friend Nora, who was receiving her PhD that afternoon. Nora, bless her, still had access to her office on campus and took pity on me, letting me in to zone out for about 40 minutes on the couch, after which I got myself up and back to the BART station, catching the train to SF, then on Muni, down to the ballpark for a 5:05 Giants game against the Mets.

Some anxious-making moments occurred: It was Tim Lincecum bobblehead day, and the game was sold out. Rumors ran wild that since only 20,000 bobbleheads were available, all of them had been given out AND I WOULDN'T GET ONE. Oh, well, I thought, at least I'll see the game. But hooray! When I got to the Willie Mays Gate, the ballpark crew were tearing open carton upon carton of Timmy bobbleheads and handing them out to the throngs pouring through the turnstiles. Score!

Tim "The Franchise" Lincecum

(Some folks didn't get 'em, though, including Heather Hafleigh, a fellow Giants fan I met on BART and with whom I exchanged e-mail addresses. She's a photographer who has spent the last 18 years documenting contemporary ranchers, horsemen and craftsmen in California who are carrying on the Vaquero tradition. Nice work; you can see some of it here.)

Finally made it into the ballyard and found Gishi, who had actually ridden the 200 miles of the DC on Saturday. Grabbed a couple of Stellas, a couple of dogs, and got to our seats. Watched Matt Cain pitch a beauty, and the Giants managed to score some runs to back him up and give us a win, thus avoiding a four-game sweep by the Mets. Home by 10 p.m. via BART and Gishi's car.

Monday I scarcely recall. On Tuesday, I was again up early (though not as early as on Saturday) so I could be at my precinct by 6:30 to be a poll worker for the special election. Our precinct had a total of 256 voters—puny beyond paltry by ordinary election standards, but for this one, we were waaay out ahead of all other Davis precincts, not to mention the rest of the county.

Yesterday, I rearranged the living room furniture, so I could put The Perfect Chair in the spot I originally had intended it to be. The new arrangement opens the room up and gives me much more light on The Chair during daylight hours. It's also the perfect venue for TV watching, and unblocks Phil's painting from behind the table lamp. See for yourself:

Of cantaloupes and cats

I bought my first cantaloupe of the season, and as I sliced into it I thought of how, whenever I'd start cutting up a melon, Ernie would be immediately in the kitchen, meowing his "give me some of that, and make it snappy" meow. He liked all melon, but cantaloupe was his fave.

This was a pretty good melon, as melons go. It would have tasted even better if Ernie had been here to share it with me. Miss that boy.

The road north

In mid-January I began working three mornings a week in Woodland. It's only 13 miles from my house, but the drive has been possibly the job's best feature. Three miles north, five miles west, then north again, past fields and orchards that every day look different than the day before. Sometimes the difference is big (one morning, bare ground, the next day thousands of tomato plants have appeared, seemingly sprouted overnight but actually having been unpacked from the large, white boxes that had been sitting in that field); other times, what I notice is just that a particular field is being irrigated that morning. In January, an entire orchard went in. I noticed the field because it was filled with low, regularly spaced mounds which one day sprouted white tubes, acres and acres of them, so uniformly set that it reminded me of Arlington National Cemetery. There were sticks in those tubes, and as the weeks have passed, those sticks have gotten taller and sprouted leaves. The two established orchards across the road from one another have gone from winter-bareness to pink blossoms to full leaf. The earth beneath the orchard on the east side of the road is clean, brown soil, not a weed or any other vegation to be seen. The orchard on the west, though, has grass and other green plants growing under the trees. Is one an organic orchard, I wonder? Or is it just the personal preference of the orchardists? (is that a word, orchardists?)

Then there are the mountains to the west, always different depending on whether the light on any given day is harsh or mellow, sharp and clear or hazy with windborne dust. I've seen some spectacularly beautiful skies on days when we've had rain showers; the rain stops falling but the clouds stay around, sailing through the vast expanse of Yolo County blue. Hawks, sometimes two or three a morning, each sitting atop his own utility pole. 'Good hunting!" I say to him, "mazel tov!"

When the wind is at its fiercent, blowing from the north, it's difficult to keep the car at 55 mph, it's so strong. And now that it's spring and planting season, no day goes by without encountering a piece of exotic farm equipment trundling up the road. I have no idea what their functions are.

City streets are dynamic with traffic, people, and the cacaphony they create; country roads are quieter but no less dynamic than their city cousins. Friday was my last day at that Woodland job; I shall miss the drive the most.

Rogers & Hammerstein

Went to the Mondavi last night  with Pica to see the UC Davis production of Rogers and Hammerstein's Oklahoma! I saw the movie years ago but had never seen it on stage, and this staging was a good one, with plenty of really excellent dancing and mostly fine singing voices, especially from the guy who played Curly. Watching good dancers always thrills me; I have to restrain myself from bouncing up and down in my seat. In my "yout'" I wanted to be a dancer, but alas, dancing lessons weren't in the financial picture, so despite my best efforts to teach myself ballet from library books and pretending to tap dance, that fantasy never materialized. Still, it's a thrill to watch. And any time I hear a Rogers and Hammerstein score, I remember my high-school friend Janie, who had all the LP recordings of all their musicals—Carousel, Flower Drum Song, South Pacific, and of course Oklahoma! I'd go over to her house and we'd sit in her room and play those records; I knew all the words then, and mostly still do.

It's here! It's here!

The Perfect Chair has arrived! Not even a month since I ordered it, and it's here in my living room, looking as handsome as I'd hoped and sitting just as comfortably as I remembered. It was a bit of a tussle getting up my stairs, especially since Davis Ace sent only one delivery guy (I'd told them emphatically and repeatedly that they'd need two people to do the job), but between the valiant Ed and the determined me, we got it up here. Lucky Ed got double the tip he would have received if he'd brought a buddy, so I think he was happy.

And heeeeere it is!

Baseball is back

The Earth has righted itself on its axis once again with the 2009 baseball season well and truly launched with a grand Opening Day game at AT&T Park and a win for the Giants, who scored 10 runs to the Brewers' 6. The weather forecast was dire—rain, thunderstorms, possibly even hail—and indeed, it rained on our way down to SF, and poured on our way home. But not a drop fell during the game. Rather, we were blessed with beautiful clouds mixed with blue skies and almost no wind, making our bleacher seats very pleasant. The fans were happy, the beer and cha-cha bowl were delicious, and a good time was had by all (except possibly by the Brewers).

The day in pictures . . .

I got a Matt Cain bobblehead in my Mystery Grab Bag!

These two know how to show their love.

The four fan-atics

These guys call themselves the Rat Pack and sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the 7th inning stretch. The one portraying Dino was truly bizarre.

Matty's got his game face on.

March Fools' Tour

Back home from a wonderful, four-plus days of bicycling through Yolo, Solano, Napa, Sonoma and Marin counties, with a brief stay in the city and county of San Francisco last night and this morning before heading home via ferry and Amtrak. The riding was tough, particularly the first two days as we fought a vicious north wind—imagine climbing a steep and endless hill, mile after mile after mile, and you'll have a vague inkling—but by Day 3 we had a tailwind as we rode southwest from Cloverdale toward Bodega Bay, and the climbing along the coast from Bodega to SF was made a lot easier by that same wind. All told, I rode 268 miles; not bad, if I do say so, myself.

It was a terrific trip, with great accommodations, excellent food, congenial companions and outstanding scenery. The wildflowers were at their peak, and now that I have some distance between me and those horrific windy days, all I really recall is how beautiful the route was. Riding amesia: Like giving birth, once it's over, the pain is forgotten as you contemplate the incredibly wonderful outcome. Lifted my spirits immeasurably.

Lupine, Suisun Valley Road, Solano County

March 30, 2009

Behold, the perfect chair

A year or so ago, I test-drove The Perfect Chair at Davis Lumber (aka Davis Ace). It fit me exactly, it glided and swiveled and reclined, and one of its best features was that the back was high enough to keep my head from whiplashing if—make that when—I fell asleep reading. It wasn't cheap, though, and I didn't have the money to buy it. But every time I went into the store, I sat in it again, even showed it to my sister when she was here last year; she concurred that it was, indeed, The Perfect Chair. I have wanted a good reading chair for years. And I vowed that if I ever could afford it, I would order it.

Today, thanks to a story I wrote for UC Davis Magazine, I went to Davis Lumber, plunked down $614.16, and purchased The Perfect Chair. Here's the fabric:
It'll be ready in 5 or 6 weeks, according to Kyle, the very helpful guy at Davis Lumber, who put up with my hovering over the order form to make sure he got it right. I will probably have to rearrange my living room once it arrives. I can't wait.

Kosher ham

The Purim spiel was performed last night, and it was a hoot and a half. Purim commemorates the rescue of the Jews from being annihilated by Haman, the right-hand man (think Dick Cheney) of Ahasuerus, king of Persia, back, oh, a really long time ago. The entire story is recounted in the Book of Esther, which is read in its entirety from a scroll (a megillah) on the 14th day of the Jewish month of Adar. (And now you know where the expression "the whole megillah" comes from.) It's a very festive holiday; people dress up in costume or wear silly hats, and every time Haman's name is mentioned, it's greeted with boos and twirling "groggers," noisemakers that make a "rrrr-rrr-rrr" sound.

Until this year, the only Purim spiels I'd seen were performed by our rabbi with the aid of kids in the congregation—cute, and always corny (the rabbi being an inveterate punster) but mostly for the kids. Not this time. We now have a cantor, and he directed this year's production of The Megillah According to the Beatles—the story of Esther set to tunes from the Sgt. Pepper's album.

I wish I had photos to post here, but I didn't think to take my camera along, and I don't know if anybody in the cast got any pictures taken, either. Oh well; suffice it to say I made a lovely ’60-style serving girl and, following a quick change into black pants, an overlarge dark gray suit jacket, brown shirt, red tie, black hat and black gloves, I made a downright intimidating-looking Mafia hit man, especially if you saw that hammer in my hands. Then it was back to the serving-girl outfit.

I never used to think of myself as someone who enjoys performing, but I always surprise myself with how much I like getting up on stage and hamming it up, particularly in these sorts of "silly" things, where exaggeration is part of the whole idea and it's done before a sympathetic audience who can scarcely complain, particularly as they didn't pay any admission and didn't volunteer, themselves. How I'd be in a "real" play is a whole other question. But I did have a grand time last night.