On the Value of Low Expectations

This spring I had set myself a goal of getting a bit more involved with the "Rhythm Riders," a group of cycling enthusiasts from the Mountain Home area. Back in mid-winter about thirty cyclists and their spouses had met at the home of one of the ringleaders to plot out some preliminary goals for the nascent group. Two activities were discussed: first a 2-3 day training camp in the spring, and then the Tour de Hills, a 58-mile race in Harrison, popularly known as the Jasper Disaster. I decided to get myself in good enough shape to take a crack at each.

The training camp was initially planned as a 3-day 180-mile endurance test in the third week of April. I rode hard in March and early April, culminating with three consecutive 32-mile rides in the week before the camp, but I didn't feel too confident about my fitness, since my 96 miles in three days was little more than half of what Erick planned for the group to do in the same time, so I was secretly pleased when the first day of the camp was cancelled because of rain. One-hundred thirty miles in two days was still apt to be a challenge, but I knew I had survived 150 miles in two days last October so I had hope.

On the first day of the ride, there was a strong wind from the west and, sadly, our route took us west before finally heading south. Six riders started--three men, three women. By the end of the day, the lead group was down to Erick and me--and I was there only because Erick did not especially want to drop me. The rain, which had threatened all afternoon, finally began to fall, and I was quite chilled for the final five miles of the 70-mile ride to Buffalo Point. Our lodgings for the night were somewhat run-down, but serviceable with accommodations for up to 12 people. After a shower, a beer, a glass of wine, some food, and some conversation, I did my best to rest up for day-two on a rock-hard mattress. I might have been better off in my hammock (I had brought my camping gear) except that the weather had turned blustery and cold.

The ride on the second day took us east on Highway 14 with two big climbs up from the river basins before heading north back toward Mountain Home on Push Mountain Road. Only Erick, Dennis, and I suited up for the second day since Laurie and Vivian had other plans and Karla was relegated to driving the support vehicle. We were joined by one other rider who was so fast that I barely got to know his name before he was out of sight for the rest of the day. Once again, Erick and I rode together part of the time and were never far apart until the half-way point when my Achilles tendon started aching and I dropped off the pace.

I survived the day and enjoyed the 132-mile challenge (with over 10,000 feet of climbing), but I may have paid a high price. The training camp ended on Monday. On Wednesday I took my normal 31-mile ride and found myself completely drained for 24 hours afterwards. I took Thursday and Friday off and then headed to Harrison bright and early Saturday morning for my first official road-bike race--the Tour de Hills, popularly known as the Jasper Disaster.

The route leaves Harrison in a series of rolling hills for about 14 miles. Then the fun begins with a 1.2 mile climb at about 6% grade (tough, but bearable for fit cyclists). Five miles further on there is a 3 mile climb at 7.5%. And finally about ten miles after that suffer-fest comes the "piece de resistance," a 4-mile climb at about 8%. That climb is hard enough to make a sane man weep, but I really thought the climbs were easier than the descents.

Streaking down a twisting mountain road at up to 40 miles per hour with only two half-square-inch patches of rubber to keep you from pitching over the guard-rail off the side of a cliff is fun for some. For me, not so much. And for two poor unfortunates, it meant a trip to the hospital in an ambulance to deal with their broken collar bones.

To sum it up, I'm pleased that I survived. My only ailment is a strained Achilles tendon that I hope has been healing up all this week while my road bike collects dust hanging on the wall. I didn't win anything except the nice tee-shirt given to all entrants, but I also didn't break anything.

(NOTE: Clicking on the route map above will bring up a detailed topo map of most of the Jasper Disaster race course.)

Less Is More!

About a year ago, during one of my rambles around the web, I came across a site about how to build up to doing one hundred consecutive push-ups (www.100pushups.info). Sue and I got started, and after a few months I had set an informal goal of trying to manage 60 consecutive pushups by my 60th birthday. I fell a bit short of that goal and was growing vexed by my lack of real progress as I followed the program religiously.

Then I discovered the true secret of growing stronger (at least for aging men): LESS IS MORE! . . . Yippee! There is almost nothing I hate more than doing pushups, and the discovery that I could actually improve by doing less has been a delightful and liberating revelation.

The initial program calls for an every-other-day routine of five sets of pushups with about 60 seconds of rest between sets. I got bogged down at about "Week 7" and couldn't make any more progress until I made two changes: (1) Instead of doing pushups every-other day, I now do them every third or (more often) fourth day. A blissful reprieve. And (2) instead of taking 60 seconds rest between sets, I take as much time as I want--something like three to five minutes, but I don't time it.

To illustrate how successfully less can be more, here is a record of my routine for the past month:

3/10 64/50/48/50/50 -- 262 total
3/14 64/58/50/52/45 -- 269 total
3/18 66/68/54/50/46 -- 289 total
3/23 68/64/54/50/48 -- 289 total
3/29 75/62/54/58/54 -- 303 total
4/3 30/30/30 -- 90 total
4/5 75/60/56/55/44 -- 290 total
4/9 72/70/60/56/50 -- 308 total

Mind you, I don't by any means try to do "perfect form" pushups. I hate 'em. I do 'em fast and dirty. I want to get them finished and go have a beer. I'm no body-builder and never will be, but pushups do provide a quick total-body work-out that can help one avoid the injuries that are otherwise endemic among aging baby boomers.

Baking Bread

I first started baking bread when I was in college. It is an interest that I allowed to rest in dormancy for decades, but lately I've reawakened it. You're looking at a loaf of my boule bread. The particular no-knead recipe that I am using mixes up enough for three or four one-pound loaves in about ten minutes. The dough can be stored in the fridge for over a week and baked as needed. It is crusty and delicious.

Rather than post the recipe, I'll just refer you to my source, Mother Earth News--a magazine that I like at least as much for its name as for the eclectic mix of articles it includes. (As to the name, note the emphasis both on the feminine Mother Earth News and on the masculine MEN.)

On the MEN website (http://www.motherearthnews.com/) check out the article entitled "Five Minutes a Day for Fresh-Baked Bread."

Recycling

All right. I recognize that not everyone finds satisfaction in looking at stacks of wood. But I do. That's next winter's warmth you're looking at. It took hours to cut and hours to split and more hours to stack -- but it will provide heat for several months. What's more, nearly everything you see is recycled or home-grown. The posts grew up on our land. The beams and roofing boards came from the portion of the cabin roof that I replaced a few years ago. Even the shingles were torn off of the cabin and successfully reused on the woodshed.

The wood, too, is recycled "green" energy. Most of it comes from deadfalls or dead trees that are harvested on our four acres. Some of the smaller trees were downed as part of a necessary thinning to maintain the health of those that remain to spread in the greater sunlight. A bit of the wood comes from my civic service in cleaning out the roadside ditches of limbs brought down in January's ice storm.

One can argue about whether heating with wood is environmentally desirable. To be sure, there are fuels that burn more cleanly than wood. But since we grow all of our own wood on our own land, the amount of carbon released annually from the chimney is recaptured annually in the rings of the trees growing for fuel in future years.

It occurs to me that the same argument can be made (over a long, long time scale) for oil and even coal. The carbon in oil and coal was captured from the atmosphere by plants in the very distant past. Trapping it underground has left the atmosphere "carbon deprived" (from the point of view of a dinosaur). If we were to release it all through imprudent combustion, we might make the planet less hospitable for humans, but the dinosaurs might have applauded us for taking corrective enrivonmental measures to recycle trapped carbon.