Climbing up hills and sliding down them also

Eventually, the call of the mountains will reach you. It will reach you and pluck you out of the suburbs of Denver, even if you are a staunch urbanite type who sees outdoor exercise foremost as a vehicle to hipness, but who dains to over-exert themselves and so chooses a bicycle with only one gear. It will reach you, and before you know it you will try fly-fishing, or learn to ski, soddening your jeans and returning home with tales of high adventure. It will reach you, the skateboarding grommet, and see you paying good money for a lift ticket, but nevertheless hiking the halfpipe over and over, unaided by locomotive. Putting aside the question of why we go out to the windy, moist, cold, sunny, blighty places, I am here to regale the invisible audience with a tale of such urban transformation this past weekend.Fourth of July Bowl, on Peak 10 in the Ten Mile Range, Breckenridge, provides an annual pilgrimage for many. In mid-summer, grommets, veterans and "flat-landers" alike will push their All-WDs to the limit getting a head-start on the mountain, and frequently crushing a muffler or two. Hipsters will feel their skinny legs willing them out somewhere grassy. They will drag rusty ski gear from the boot, and plod the few miles final upward to the summit of Peak 10 aided by complex amalgamations of organic oats, agave nectar, electrolytes and caffeine.This past weekend, the glorified granola bar, a blue heeler and four Denverites left civilization and soy dandelion lattes behind to conquer this landmark again. Pictured below, I have sketched in the spirit animals of the young adventurers, perpetually searching for the safe climes of childhood. Above Pendergrass soars the spirit of an eagle, its eye zeroing in on potential photographic opportunities. In the middle, Norkin's protector, the fox, narrows its gaze on a double cheeseburger from high above Breckenridge's Empire Burger. On the right, McAllister's alter-ego, the bear, clubs a propensity for thin-bloodedness from view, and takes in the sights of a punter ascending the mount via an arduous bootpack up the snowfield.Free to let natural instinct rule in such a setting, the team embraced the empowerment of peeing outside, and improvising a mix of technical and rudimentary fabrics as the wind came and went. Pictured high on the Rockies, Coogee's spirit animal looks keenly out across the world in search of nibblets.The almost too-perfect placement of an American flag on the summit, suspended in an outstretched fashion much like a bird soaring the stream above, led us to believe we may have unwittingly walked into a covert Facebook page photoshoot. We also encountered a granola-y couple at the top. The woman, like me, was wearing a dress, but a dress even longer than mine, convincing me that we had either cramponed our way to the ultimate underground hipster hangout - an underground dive bar on a mountain (they were drinking beer) is as subversive as counter-culture gets - or we had just met a nice Mennonite couple.Seen above, the "Iwo Jima" flag photo-op distracts from the very tedious act of hiking part way back down the mountain to the snow patch. There, like Texans in a rental shop, we awkwardly slid about trying to get our ski boots on.
Pendergrass's descent was as epic as incremental glacial attrition conducted across thousands of years, but much faster. I skied unpredictably, as per my animus, the trout, and managed to skin bits of my knuckles on the brute ice crystals as I banked my turns. Not pictured: descent on skis while singing Devendra Banhart's "Little yellow spider" and brewing homemade kombucha from the mother culture.

U.S. statesmen versus Aussie pollies: musical chairs in Parliament

Like a clean set of bed sheets, Australia’s Labor pollies have opted to freshen up the cabinet and air out the House of Reps, voting to pull Kevin Rudd from PM and replace him with Julia Gillard early yesterday morning in a midnight coup. The first question one or two enlightened Yanks have asked me today is “Does this happen very often in Australia?” Bear in mind that by the time a president is elected in the U.S., so much effort has gone into creating t-shirts, buttons, posters, bumper stickers, lawn signs, slogans and marzipan cookies that tossing the boss seems a waste of marketing materials. They’d far rather follow a wayward leader down a rabbit hole “regulated militia”-style than have to go out and buy some white spirits to get the McCain/Palin 2008 bumper sticker off their car. Here in America, ideology is frequently followed off a cliff in the name of the constitution, or into an Applebees armed with a semi-automatic weapon and questionable interpretations of the forefathers’ text, practicality be damned. In contrast, "yes!" Australian leaders are ousted relatively frequently by ambitious underlings. Call it tall poppy syndrome; we are inherently suspicious of anyone with a better job than ourselves, and constantly murmuring under our breath, "Wanker. If I had his job ..."


I will vouch that Australian politics come off as somewhat rowdy, particularly as they are only reported on abroad in the case of racist outbursts, human rights violations, trips to strip clubs, bad jokes by a politician in speech, or the national leader being turfed. Anyone who has ever caught some of “Question Time” knows that politics down under operate as transparently as a fish-slapping dance. Politicians joust, tickle, rib, prank and cajole one another on the floor of the House of Representatives and Senate, all in the name of democracy and lawmaking. Rhetoric is dutch ovened in a thick doona of colloquialism so as to tone down the toffishness of running a country – and therein lies the difference between politics in the U.S. and in Australia.

Where the good citizens (patriots!) of the United States wish to have a leader that will move them, who will issue starchy commencement addresses, and ideally come up with something truly memorable they can one day etch into a Washington D.C. monument in Doric fashion, Australians wish to elect someone who can cut his opponents down either through superior performance in yard-glass drinking, or through a really good insult. “Gong him Red!” We wish to be taken seriously, but also wish not to have anyone too nerdy, tanti-prone or reserved in top office; read: no one too English. Australian politics, gently partisan as they are, allow voters to both hate the PM, but at the same time applaud his sense of humor. To jest, here is an excerpt from Question Time on June 1, where now-PM Julia Gillard invokes the opposition leader’s (Tony Abbott) support of the Work Choices initiative:


“The Leader of the Opposition would get up in the morning, make a cup of coffee, walk over to the fridge to get the milk out and there would be a Work Choices fridge magnet. He would get himself ready for work, he would get into the office and the first thing he would do when he was in the office was pick up his Work Choices pen. And then when he was starting to work on “Battlelines,” having his first preliminary thoughts, they were not very big thoughts so he could have got out his Work Choices pad and written them down. And then, as he was more ready to bring out “Battlelines,” he would have been working away on the computer looking at his mouse pad every day—24/7 indoctrination has obviously got to the Leader of the Opposition. Fortunately, my department apparently rejected his request for Work Choices budgie-smugglers because the thought was too hideous to contemplate. But I have a standing offer to the Leader of the Opposition and I am waiting for his response. I still have five pallets of Work Choices propaganda. I have done my best. They have gone to Ethiopia. They have gone to East Timor. They have gone around the world. I have done my best to get rid of them, but I have five pallets of Work Choices propaganda. I have 34,000 individual items— Work Choices pens, mousepads and all the rest of it— ready to go. I am asking the Leader of the Opposition, so I do not have to table 34,000 items at some point, whether he can take these items off my hands. They will be very good for his next campaign, because we know that his slogan is going to be ‘Work Choices— good for workers’. Tony, you will really need these on the campaign trail.” (emphasis added)

[Parliamentary justice, as portrayed on The Simpsons]

As you may see in the above, Question Time serves to allow members of parliament to take turns noogie-ing and wedgy-ing each other under the premise that serious legislation is being discussed. No underlying political motivation is quite so effective as, “He’s a clown!” cried to the gallery with a guffaw. It’s good fun, no doubt, but I also believe that by mowing down the artifice of political posturing and pretending to respect one another U.S.-style, Australian politics are more honest. If someone back-flips, we don’t need the media to report it. Rather, his or her teammates will jeer or boo them. Anyone claiming to run as a “Maverick” risks being hung up on the nearest flagpole by their underpants.

Periodic rum rebellions also do serve to freshen the halls of parliament, and keep us from diving off too high a platform, lest our soft bellies slap the hard meniscus of a still swimming pool of voter resentment. To wit, the furore around General McChrystal’s comments to Rolling Stone inspired a real dilemma: he had bad-mouthed his superior (a real military no-no), but to fire him would certainly upset diplomacy in Afghanistan, right? Rather, in treating our politicians as ultimately expendable, the court of public opinion can swish against the cliffs of Greater Judgement and, through attrition, a better compromise can be reached. Lost a member of parliament? We've got 225 more. I wonder then, what such a triumphant ousting means for Obama, whose political trajectory has mirrored that of Rudd. Public sentiment for the post-Howard/Bush administrations has indeed sailed.

So! A new day, a new leader – a ginger leader in fact, which should speak volumes about her ability to fight back verbally; we carrots grow a thick skin while we are young. Will Gillard out-perform her predecessor? It doesn’t matter too much, just as long as we keep up the Aussie crawl. Goodbye Kevin 07. Gotta zip!

The centaur speaks

I write today from a higher plane; the kind of plane that has witnessed, endured, and episodically enjoyed a 100 mile cycle - a century, which must make me a centaur.[Note: sinewy sunburnt gopher type who puts your fitness to shame at age 70. Note also, complete lack of fanfare for rolling start.]

At 5:30 a.m. on Sunday, a force of lycra-clad cyclists young and old, mostly old, sped out of Mile High stadium, clustering together for the ride out to Golden like a pant-leg cuff clip clings to the hem of a pair of polyester pants. A very premature aid station at 13 miles thinned the cartel out at the base of Lookout Mountain - I suppose Gatorade and rainbow cookies were in some people's ride plans prior to the climb. My ride plan consisted of: "get over Lookout Mountain to 33-mile aid station ... [insert plan for rest of ride]." Thankfully, I found Lookout Mountain a pleasant ride, and the dogs behaved well during gratuitous sprint stands along the way, performed without knowledge of RPM or heart rate targets - I stood up and pumped because I felt like it. And I sat down and dawdled when I felt like it. The below photo managed to miss the big, snow-covered mountains to the west at the time, and the topography immediately east, which drops into the canyons by Golden, and then flattens into prairie. I have, however, captured a nice photo of the guard rail while on the go.Having reached the famed 33-mile aid station after a mammoth descent of Lookout Mountain, I resolved to generate a ride plan for the remaining 67 miles on the spot: "Enjoy Deer Creek canyon ... [something Highlands Ranch] ... enjoy buzzing down Cherry Creek bike path to finish." Pictured is the view riding south through the foothills - several monoliths and red shards of diagonal rock didn't seem to make the photo, but I have again captured the curiosities of black-top and the shoulder very competently. Deer Creek canyon was, as expected, rather pleasant, but I was somewhat unnerved to hear, upon reaching the 44-mile aid station, that I was the second female to pass through (note: rolling start - this does not mean that I was the second-fastest female by any means, riding as I was at 7-hour pace). My concern, throughout this ill-prepared-for ride, was that I would foolishly incinerate my bodily reserves of energy and motivation, and be left, shriveled, on the side of the road in a latter stage, a victim of poor pacing. Was I trying to be second female? Certainly not. All I was trying to do was get through Highlands Ranch and onto Cherry Creek reservoir.
Speaking of which, Highlands Ranch is the end of the earth. I know. I have been. What I had previously dismissed as horrendous subdivision-and-cookie-cutter exurb cemented in with water-sucking lawn-land turns out to be exactly that, but also a wasteland expanse of nothing else as far as the eye can see. Mile after mile of slow uphill along wide, meandering through-roads named "Buffalo Way" and "Oak Tree Lane" betrayed no sign of a horizon, tree or buffalo: we were, I decided, pedaling to the top and off the edge of the earth. On one of the godless inclines a "Livestrong" jersey, black ride jersey and I were churning over our chains in second gear in relative nearness. Being in first gear on a hill longer than a mile is, as you know, a sign of the apocalypse, as is more than one Applebees sighting.
But lo! Rounding one of what turned out to be the last hills in this section, we were taken from behind by a young beatnik in a bucket helmet, cargos, ironic t-shirt, beard, and buildy-vintage bicycle. Thin as a chapbook, he zoomed by us in a relaxed upright position, pedaling crookedly as if headed to the library. I have tried to recreate the beatnik menace above via a photo of my friend, Mic the Pirate, and a selected helmet and bicycle. For the rest of the race, I did not see him again.

Strangely, having "summited" the Highlands Ranch herd of subdivisions after 20 miles of relentless uphill, the precipitous downhill never materialized. Instead, we wound out and under I-25, truly now in bumfucknowhere, being east even of Highlands Ranch, and headed toward the Centennial Airport. The signage and ample vested-folk directing us around the course vanished at this point, and after a short congressional hearing on a corner with the fellow behind me (another "Livestrong") at a confusing junction, he affirmed that we should continue ahead in a straight line on the road we were on. The chap vanished into the distance, while I waited for the next caucus, who all agreed that we needed to turn right and enter a footpath. Side note: while cycling through the "downs" of Centennial, I was riding close to another "Livestrong," but reluctant to overtake him, lest I be pacing incorrectly, and exhaust my brittle, stout frame. I noticed the jersey making sounds: grunts at first, then full swear words, uttered with Tourettes abandonment. Then I heard a cry: "Just pass! I didn't enter this fucking ride for this." It sounded like Gollum, so I sped by eager to stop offending this tortured individual, my weight dragging on his gaunt psychology. But I wonder: did he think I was drafting him? Drafting him as we pedaled at 5 mph uphill, into the wind? Doesn't the drafting co-efficient vanish when you are metres back and going over the lyrics to Dannii Minogue's "This is it" in your head as you pedal?Above are some of the ladies at the last aid station - that I stopped there only speaks for my enthusiasm toward free snack-size energy bars. After that, it was a very quick 12 miles of slight downhill along the very-familiar Cherry Creek bike path, which I pedal probably five times a week. I threaded the rag-tag scraps of dog-walking, fishing, burley-towing and rollerblading on the path, so designed to make the final 12 miles a gauntlet of urban cycling antipathy for participants. On reaching Mile High stadium, the older fellow who "drafted" behind my rabid cries of "left!!" tried to high five me as we cruised in toward the finish line. We missed twice, he being too far away from me, and so we gave up pathetically.
Otherwise, the only ceremony to finishing 100 miles was seeing the Pringles mascot hand out free samples, and watching the sinewy cycling types clop about the carpark in cleats. I didn't feel the transition from regular citizen to cycling gopher immediately, but I did wake up with a boosted craving for muesli, and I did feel just a tiny bit browner today. Next: cycling stickers and a more obnoxious jersey.

Fruits of the corporate casualty

While cleaning out the offices of the fallen this afternoon, I exhumed a few prize artifacts from the glory days of corporate America. The neat, bright stacks of Post-its have been relocated to my cubicle, as has a luxe plastic pen organization tower. Stress balls and 2004 manuals have been tossed. In any case, while pilfering the nice felt tip pens, I came across an inexplicable stack of printed cards.
I assume that they were portents for some antiquated corporate team-building game. One simply reads: "Abrupt." Another, "Puzzled." Yet another, "Genuinely pleased," which seems a tall order for a bunch of loose-tied managerial lads to act out, if indeed these are dramatic cues of the Strasbergian school. In response to the card asking: "Does this work set the standard you have set for yourself?" Yes. I generally expected to be potting about doing nothing work-related by 4 o'clock on a Friday. Here's one for the infamous to-do list I keep preemptively scribbled on my white board:
You will note also, that after my expedition into the bowels of stationary purgatory, the stapler corral has grown. There is, in fact, quite a mean posse of staplers assembled in the copy room, waiting for a cause.
Of course my favorite relic of a Golden Yesterday is the hole puncher we still make heavy use of: the Rhino-tuff.
Seen here flashing its all-iron durability, the machine must be gently swept with the above brush after usage, to get all the confetti out. Tickly.

Libarians of Babel

"David Foster Wallace? I think he's cataloged under 'post-modernism,' in the hall of mirrors - it's a big section, terribly wordy. And I apologize in advance for the racket."

Staff picks: Vicarious permutations of X, P and F, with cameos from other letters of the alphabet. "Slow to get going, but worth the pay-off as you hit chapter three; visceral, a tour de force." --Jessie

Summer hours: open until 9 p.m.
Children's story time in Hall of Nihilism at 3 p.m. Wednesdays
"Hug a Librarian Day," June 28
No burritos by the self-scanners, please.

Superpowered dry-cleaners fight intergalatic battle

In case any of the office workers in my building find themselves soiled after a day's sedentary cubicle work, there is a veritable buffet of cleaners on our street. Consequently, each spends its days sending overtures to potential customers. First, there is "Gigantic Cleaners Laundry."
While the sign certainly trumps the nearby "Budget Framing," I wish to give Budget Framing the benefit of the doubt where frugality is concerned - let's assume their value proposition is "we don't spend more on a billboard than we must." Back to Gigantic Cleaners Laundry: I am unsure, in the absence of contextual apostrophes, if the title alludes to three separate service offerings, if there is a gigantic (front-load?) laundry inside, or if a gigantic cleaner performs the laundering. Being acquainted as I am with the microbial filth that pervades white shirts and gym wear, I worry that the attention to detail by the gigantic cleaner may not be sufficient to render my clothes clean at the nano-level, and also that he might be a bit rough with the kinds of fabrics vulnerable to all but high-grade chemical treatments. Rather, I would prefer an army of very, very small cleaners to assault the grime and squatter molecules - ideally the grubbiness is tackled by a multiplicity of miniature ...On the next block is the mega-chain, Dependable Cleaners. While not massive in a national franchise sense, they have managed to pin down a few Denver neighborhoods and seem intent on getting their name out, which suggests that, unlike most other cleaners, they are not merely a tax front for something else.

But my favorite cleaner is opposite Dependable Cleaners, and is the no-frills cleaner of the area, being neither gigantic, nor dependable. Instead, at "Cherry Creek Cleaners" good old-fashioned low prices jostle for prominence, and a pictorial sales pitch pulls in superpower businessmen.

Centuries for the chardonnay cyclist

Received my race packet today for the inaugural Denver Century Ride this coming Sunday. The low bar I have set myself is to keep from being the absolute last finisher, and to avoid detachment of labia or other long-distance ailments. Bring such lofty ambition into an event of "citizenletics" means that my eleventh-hour fights-to-the-finish are usually against an 80-year-old man (who is, undeniably, very fit for his age).

The "fight to the finish" is a rite of passage for the fun-runner, mini-triathlete and cyclist alike. For 30 hot seconds those approaching the finish line can forget their woeful pace and joust a senior citizen to pull an o.22 improvement on their "time," clawing their way up the finishing list by one place and finishing mildly hypoxic. It is an important act of diversion for competitors still out on the course when the winners have already consumed their post-race carb buffet and beers, podiumed, and returned home to watch "The Bill" re-runs.
In the back of my mind, though, is the realization is that one hundred miles is a long way for someone lazy to pedal. This realization is jousting the idea that sitting atop a fencepost for nine hours is heroic. Back to the ride packet, though. Pictured above, allow me to explain why the clod of coupons and pertinent ride-day brightened my spirits.

1. The t-shirt. This royal blue light-weight cotton jersey has been custom designed for the American Dad that completes one act of heroism a year, and spends the other 11 months wearing the resulting t-shirt to company events and barbecues, no matter how unattractive the design. The "medium" assigned to me could generously fit an endomorph with ease, and the picture appears to have been assembled via PowerPoint clip art. Nice to see they didn't just bang in the gratuitous Rockies silhouette, but managed to squeeze the Qwest building in also.

2. The ride bib. On closer inspection, the ride motto can be deciphered: "Safety. Identification. Lifestyle." Well if I didn't think I was heroic, safety would not be my number one priority. Followed by identification. Clearly my ride mates will be that wholesome Neighborhood Watch bunch who enjoy sheet cakes with the faces of loved ones printed in marzipan. I expect an entourage of dad-beards, helmet mirrors, and neon cross-reflector vests to keep me company on Sunday.

3. (Not pictured: assorted coupons.) Straight into the bin went the Lasik eye surgery coupon, real estate brochures and $5 real buxxs to some Denver restaurant I've never heard of. Also, advertising for bike servicing priced to match your position on the corporate ladder: for a quick tune-up, the "Executive Tune"; for the deluxe treatment, the "Golden Parachute True and Tune." For the woman who has had a hard day - either riding 100 miles, or simply downsizing the firm - try the "Chardonnay Tune" with complimentary Yellow Tail aperitif.

All of which convinces me that the ride organizers are not expecting much of me, and will be placing more port-a-loos around the course than is strictly necessary. Between the textureless energy food, weak cordial and constant bathroom breaks, I'm looking forward to it almost as much as old age, which I may have reached by the time I finish.
Here's another Denver gem - my first siting of a Denver B-Share bike tour. Note the matching helmets and cheery white baskets on the share bikes. Now this is a group that says "Safety! Identification!" and relegates lifestyle to the bronze podium.