Honor a cancer survivor – put a face on the fight against cancer

Team Bradstein 2013 PMC jersey
Team Bradstein 2013 PMC jersey

Honor a cancer survivor.

Remember a loved one.

Put a face on the fight against cancer.

You’ll do all of these when add a photo to the Pan-Mass Challenge jersey I’ll wear in my 200-mile ride across Massachusetts in the 2014 PMC, where it will be seen by thousands of people cheering for our ride to make cancer history. Every rider and volunteer is 100 percent committed to curing cancer, and thanks to the fees they pay and generous event sponsors, 100 percent of your donation goes directly to cancer researchers, patients and doctors.

Chemotherapy was invented at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, and it continues to develop new, innovative and powerful treatments, such as the first vaccine for prostate cancer. Your $100 donation and photo on my jersey supports today’s efforts to develop tomorrow’s cures.

To place a photo on the jersey, simply donate $100 or more to my ride.

Go the extra mile and get your own jersey when you donate $250 or more to my ride.

Wearing these jerseys from past rides, I carry with me the memories of all my family and friends affected by, and sometimes lost to, cancer. Struggling up hills, freezing through slicing icy winds and sweating through the sauna that is summer in DC, I think of you all, and those thoughts flatten the hills, warm my heart and fill my water bottle with an iced latte. OK…maybe not that last one, but seriously, although I’m carrying all of you with me, it’s you who carry me forward.

And I’d love to be able to show all of you to my fellow riders as well.

Please join me on my ride, or send a friend or loved one along with me–donate today.

Even too much is never enough

“Any idiot can face a crisis, it is this day-to-day living that wears you out.”
― Chekov

I don’t ride my bike enough.

I don’t see my kids enough.

I don’t sleep enough.

I drink too much wine.

I spend too much time in worlds that aren’t mine, like twitter and Facebook.

I curse too much and don’t laugh enough.

It’s either never enough or always too much. Of course, none of these are probably true, but it’s what I tell myself, so it’s how I feel.

On the upside, I cut back on my coffee…actually, I cut back on my caffeine intake, mostly by drinking half-caf. Maybe that helped with the getting to sleep–or maybe that’s the too much wine at work. Nothing has stopped the waking up at three in the morning, worries cascading and ricocheting down through my brain like pachinko balls, clattering and rattling against my teeth on their way out.

Then I’m vertical again, and on my way. Hot shower. Cold floor. Loose suit. Coffee that I don’t have time to drink because the cats must be fed.

Breakfast should be spent reclined, in a diner, spreading butter on biscuits, salting the potatoes just so, laughing with loved ones, looking at the pies in the glass case on the way out. Instead, I check the weather, news, email, shut the door on the cats, pull my scarf out of my sleeve, wrestle into my coat, open the door and walk down the drive.

Mind the ice.

It’s dark and silent out, just like inside our house. Everyone still sleeps. I slid like a moon shadow around their dreams and their steady breathing as I walked memorized paths over the creaks in the floor and through the invisible doors, black holes in dark walls. I never see them wake, refreshed, returning home when they are spent and struggling to float through the rising tide of sleep.

Finally I succumb too, lying on my back, staring at the stars as the warm sea of dreams rises around me, tallying my day with marks on my mind’s wall…not enough, not enough, too much, not enough. The ledger is never balanced.

Putting my legs where my mouth is

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It killed my Dad when I was a kid, so I’m 100% committed to making cancer history–but I need your help to do it.

To raise money for cancer researchers, patients and caregivers, I will join 5,500 cyclists in the Pan-Mass Challenge (PMC), a 200-mile ride across Massachusetts that raises money for research and care at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute (DCFI). Dr. Sidney Farber founded Dana-Farber after he developed modern chemotherapy to combat childhood leukemia. Since then, Dana-Farber has continued to develop new treatments and cures for cancer, literally carrying their research results from the lab bench to the bedsides of cancer patients.

The PMC is the single largest donor to Dana-Farber and raises more money for charity than any other single event in the country–$375 million since 1980 and $37 million last year alone. That all came from donors like you, giving to make a world free from fear of cancer possible.

Because every penny matters, 100 percent of your donation goes to DFCI to fight cancer and care for cancer patients.

Together, we can make cancer history. Will you join me?

Over the last four years, we’ve raised $40,000 together to make cancer history. This year, I’ve again made a personal commitment to ride and raise $4,300. I hope you can help me achieve this goal.

I’ll do my part, training constantly to ensure I can complete the ride. While I’m doing that, please donate to my PMC ride at one of the following links:

Donate $25 to make cancer history

Donate $50 to make cancer history

Donate $100 to make cancer history and place a picture on my 2014 jersey.

Donate $250 to make cancer history and get a 2014 jersey of your own.

Donate $500 to make cancer history

Donate $1,000 to make cancer history

Every donation brings us closer by the mile.

P.S. – Your donation is tax deductible and 100% will go to Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. If you prefer to write a check, please make it out to the PMC, The Jimmy Fund or Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and mail it to me directly (email me for my address).

P.P.S. – If your employer has a matching gift program, ask your Human Resources department for a form, and follow the process for matches.

Learning to float

Progress in parenting is a slow leak, not a flash flood. It seeps in, until it soaks the ceiling, then runs down inside the walls and eventually stretches out across the floor, buckling the floorboards. It doesn’t sweep through the front door, smashing windows, floating the coffee table up the stairwell in a swirling clutter of magazines, candles and remote controls.

This is what I’m learning. Slowly.

Mama and I took two parenting classes and I took the Orange Rhino’s no-yelling challenge (really, that’s what it’s called…google it…) and I was ready to be calm, cool and collected. And I was…for awhile. I would get past my instinct to raise my voice. I would find clever solutions. I would use techniques. I would congratulate myself. I would encourage Mama. But then…

A trait the kids get from my side of their DNA is being easily distracted. And, hey, I’ve got work, the yard, baseball practices, a daily commute, Facebook–plenty of touts and louts shouting at me from the sidelines as I try to just walk down this path in the woods. Hey, speaking of woods, did you hear that bird call?

See?

As I got more distracted, I stopped focusing on solutions and techniques and I started needing results. I need you to get in the car now. I need you to get in the bath. I need you to put down the iPad. While I wasn’t quite the Old Yeller that I had been, but the volume was definitely going up. But then a curious thing happened that I didn’t see coming and almost didn’t see when it happened.

3B has sat on more curbs than a stray dog, having been put out of the car for name calling, hitting and general obsreperousness. This has been the result of other methods, techniques and blinding frustration in the past. It’s always worked to stop the behavior–even if he kept calling names, at least it wasn’t in the car–but it never worked to control it. That’s because the only person who could control it is 3B himself, and we weren’t teaching him how to do that. Rather, we weren’t giving him the chance to figure it out himself.

But, in this last few weeks, I have sat along more roadsides than I can recall. Oh, I wasn’t on the curb–I was in the car, along with 3B and Jewel, who is now old enough to be just as mutinous as 3B, in her own way. While they were going at it hammer and tongs, I was flipping through Facebook on my phone, or scanning the news, or just listening to the radio, up loud. What I wasn’t doing was paying any more attention to the kids than I needed to determine that they were done squabbling.

They’re both smart. They figured it out. And nobody needed to unbuckle a seatbelt or navigate a car seat exit and re-entry.

It seems a small step, but it was huge to me because I wasn’t engaging them; I was letting them figure out the solution on their own. I was providing the nudge of motivation–the car won’t move until you’ve figured something out–but I wasn’t providing the fear, shame, anger that direct intervention, yelling and confrontation delivered previously. And then, yesterday, I found 3B lacing up his Wheelies while in his pajamas. I firmly told him that he had to be dressed before he went outside, and he argued with me–it’s just our neighborhood, it’s no big deal, etc. I repeated, firmly, but not yelling, that he had to be dressed before he went outside and then realized that his protests were just an angry reaction to being told what to do.

Hm. Not that I know what that’s like at all…

So, I turned around, went into the kitchen and washed dishes or read the paper or sipped some coffee. It was up to him to choose going outside in his pajamas or doing as I required. Either way, I was going to leave him to himself to work through his reaction to my demand. After all, I understand how he was feeling. He did come by that red hair honestly.

Half a minute later, he walked calmly upstairs and changed into his clothes–a process which took about an hour, involved some reading and some art and who knows what else–and then returned downstairs. He never did go out on his Wheelies, which shows me that the important part of the dispute wasn’t what he could or couldn’t do or what he did or didn’t have to wear–it was the dispute itself.

Once I removed that, we could both get on with our decisions and our daily lives.

Both of these seem small from the outside–So what? In both cases you did…nothing. Yes. And that’s a big change for me, but not one that came a’gullywasher. No, it came one drop at a time, slowly filling and flooding me, floating me away, grateful for the rising tide.

Hands free parenting

When you absolutely, positively have to get to the hospital…
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(Not our car. We walked past this one on the way to the doctor’s office.)

Mama was in the office, so I was on daddy duty yesterday, shepherding the kids to doctor’s appointments and caring for Jewel, who survived the tornado of a 48-hour virus only to come down with a cold. 3B has it too, but Jewel seems to have gotten the worst of it, though she’s been cheerful through it and even taught herself to use the belly of her shirt to wipe her nose when there are no tissues.

I’m so proud.

What made me truly proud yesterday was how 3B, when Jewel had been shattered by shots in each arm at the doctor’s office, did everything in his power to comfort her. Ignoring her screaming, crying and anger, any of which usually upset him, he waded right into it, trying to distract her, offering her toys and comforts. And he stuck with it. She didn’t melt like butter, but lit up like lava, burning everything she came into contact everywhere she went, from the exam room to the car. 3B, however, was undaunted, cheerful and persistent.

I was so impressed with his efforts.

He showed that he not only cares deeply about his sister, but also is always watching her–otherwise, how would he know immediately what to offer her to calm her? How to talk to her to soothe her and not set her off? How would he know that he has to stick with her through it?

As for her, if I were sick and someone slid two slivers of steel under my skin to pump in a stinging solution, I’d scream at them too. I’d need to be held back too. And I probably wouldn’t be bought off with a princess sticker on the way out the door, so kudos to her for her quick recovery, even if the screaming didn’t really end with that sticker.

What ended it was a trip to Starbucks. Yeah, you heard me. Did I stutter? Starbucks, because I am the baddest motherdaddy in this here town. Actually, I don’t even know how we got there. Someone suggested that we get a black-and-white cookie (to protect the innocent, I won’t even use 3B’s initials here…oh, wait…) and Irish coffee sounded good, and we were going to get 3B back to school right in the middle of lunch and, oh hell, why am I explaining to you?

I told Jewel that we couldn’t go into Starbucks if she was going to disrupt the other people there. She was done with the real crying long before we got there, anyway, so I don’t feel like I was repressing her–though her therapist will be the final judge of that, I suppose. And we did disrupt everyone there anyway. I don’t know if it was a dad being left alone with two kids or just kids in the middle of the school day–shut up, stick that pinkie finger out and sip your goddamned poopacino–but everyone turned their head about 12 times while we were in there to stare at us.

And then it was over, 3B was back in school, Jewel and I did what we needed to and could in the short time left before school ended. As soon as it did, we had to meet the fridge repairman at home–the icemaker works again, so bring your vermouth and olives over anytime–race on our scooters to meet 3B, race back home, race to the playground, and then relax through a playdate until things got…testy.

Before we all got a little tired, hungry and done, the playdate reminded me that sometimes the best response is to just laugh.

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Mostly that reminder came from 3B’s friend, who seems to be forever cheerful. I bet I could get it from my kids, if I just shut up and listened once in awhile.

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There was more, and there will be pictures somewhere (I’m guessing over here), but those are the highlights of what was my hardest workday all week. It was the hardest and easiest. It was the longest and the shortest. It was a time of trials, transgressions and redemption.

It might have been that way because it was largely a hands-free day, meaning that I didn’t have one hand on my phone all day–except when I was texting with Mama to remind her that in offices, people don’t wipe their noses on their shirts. That relaxed me and allowed me to focus on where I was, what was next and who I was with. And to use both hands to get my shirt up to my nose to wipe it.

My kids were so proud.

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Escaping ennui

I made it through Back to School night without being sent to the principal’s office. Not that I was ever sent when I was in school…like Johnny Cash, I walked the line, but managed to never trip over it. Other than my daydreaming, my teachers’ only complaint was that I talked in class. A lot.

In third grade, our desks were in a U-shaped layout and my teacher told Mom that I was constantly talking to my friend. I was Mom’s sixth rodeo, so she said, “Well, why don’t you move him?” The teacher pointed at one corner of the classroom, where the tip of the U was. “I did. He sits there,” she said. Then she pointed at the opposite corner, where the bottom of the U was, “And his friend sits there. They just talk across the classroom.”

I recall that when that didn’t work, we would hang signs off our desks to communicate. If we could have gotten our hands on carrier pigeons, we would have each converted our desks into roosts.

So I wasn’t terribly surprised to find that 3B’s desk had been moved to the front and center of the class. Or that it was moved again the next day. I wish his teacher hadn’t told him that she was moving it because he didn’t get his work done, or that she understood that he almost has to talk to get his work done. As he astutely observed, “I was talking and working.”

Talking helps him work faster, actually. And he’s never been the fastest school worker, so his teacher might want to employ every advantage she can. And maybe that’s what she’s doing–putting him with kids who also talk and who don’t consider it a distraction. But from the sound of how she introduced it–and the lesson he learned from it–that’s not what she’s doing.

Perhaps I’m oversimplifying, but it seems to me that this is an example–like the lack of adequate recess–of the school being designed against boys rather than for them.

Whatever. As long as he keeps learning about non-linear causality in the space-time continuum through graphic novels, I’m not too worried.

We’ll see if my opinion on school design changes when Jewel gets to school. Right now she’s happy in preschool, though she’ll never admit that to us. We’re not sure how much she’s absorbing since she recently told us that a synagogue is and animal and Yom Kippur is a person, but being happy is a good start.

And, for Jewel, definitions and words are much like cause and effect in space-time: non-linear, flexible and not handcuffed to each other. Why not? Language is a virus from outer space, after all.

What’s most important to me is that in the last week, she’s decided that I’m worth spending time with again, after relegating me to a purgatory of preschooler ennui–good enough to open car doors and fasten seatbelts, but not acceptable for skilled labor, such as meal preparation, story reading or the dressing of Polly Pockets.

Holy crap. It just dawned on me…I had become Jewel’s valet, with a hard “t”. That’s it–no more Downton Abbey for her. Off with her PBS!

Just yesterday she called and left the sweetest voicemail for me when she awoke and found me gone–as I am every morning. Somehow, now she needed to tell me she missed me. Maybe it’s the turning of the seasons, maybe she’s buttering me up for a bigger allowance or maybe her 78th viewing of the Little Mermaid convinced her that fathers do have some function beyond imposing autocracy that might be of some value.

Who cares? Not this guy.

I love chatting with Jewel. Her mind is full of the most amazing thoughts and visions and words, all of which she’ll share in a fashion that makes me believe she reads On the Road under the covers after we tuck her in. An endless scroll of words spools out from her as narrates, dictates and bloviates her way through her day. Hearing her reminds me of the days when I had to move my seat every week and had daydreams.

Nice smock, Papa

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As soon as we flew back from Grammy’s, we jumped into the school year, with both kids having new teachers and classes. Jewel said she hated it, didn’t want to go, didn’t like her teachers and didn’t know the names of any other kids in class. All of that would be sad and worrying if her school didn’t, like every preschool these days, share a weekly review of pictures, which lets us see that she’s happy there.

Busted.

3B has a half-dozen kids from last year in this year’s class, and three or four of them are on his baseball team, all of which has helped his transition this year. In addition, his new best friend from third grade is also on his team. They met at the pool this summer and have become inseparable. School for 3B seems more of the same too–less homework than we had at our old condo school, with an emphasis on reading every night. His assignment in week one was to read 15 minutes every night. His reaction was, “15 minutes? I could read for three hours!”

Of course, he could also play Minecrack for three hours too.

And, of course, Mama and I have gone back to school as well, and now that summer is really over, I’m back to going to work in the final hours of the night. That allows me to come home while it’s still light, but means I’m ready for bed not long after the kids–finally–go to sleep. That’s fine when there’s nothing to do but make a fire, read a book and drift off, but I’ve been trying to re-establish parts of the front lawn that were eroded down to bare clay when we moved in. This means digging up the clay, working in topsoil, seeding and daily watering. Mama takes care of most of the mowing, which is a huge help, though we’ve both also been working to close out our summer garden.

This means getting the last of the tomatoes and peppers, harvesting a bushel of catnip, digging out what flowers the bird who nested in our window boxes didn’t ruin and replacing them with mums, planting bulbs and lumberjacking down the trees that our sunflowers became. I love it all, but it seems that there’s never enough time for it all.

Ah well, I didn’t always finish my school homework either.

Though Mama and I do have to stay focused on our classroom assignments, since she has an all-day meeting in the office that she’s prepping for all this week and next. While I’m attending a seminar this week as a mere participant, come November I’ll be a presenter, so I really have to get my ducks in a group…or is that poop in a line? At least I’d better stop mixing my metaphors like concrete salad by then.

To help me gather my thoughts and connect with other presenters and participants, and because I don’t have enough spare time, I started a blog about web content matters, which is what I deal with when I’m not out harrowing our front forty. I’ve had better luck keeping up with the my new web content matters twitter account–I guess I’m more of a twit…or that it’s easier to slide 140 characters into the cracks in my day’s schedule than to cram the writing of a meaningful blog post into the three minute gap before every meeting starts.

If you’re interested in such things as web content, communications, internal communications, intranets and digital workplaces, you might want to check it out. Even if you’re not, you can check in on me there–it’s my weekly review, like Jewel’s, so that when I whine about work, you can point to it and know that I really am happy.

Unlike Jewel’s, however, I can’t promise any pictures of me in a smock.

Over several states and through the woods

On our front lawn, there was a four-point whitetail buck this morning when I went out to turn the sprinkler on. That reminded me that for the whole time we were at Grammy’s, after computer camp, we didn’t see a single deer, moose, bear, snake or other critter.

The first week that computer camp was on, Mama and Jewel got 3B there and home, but on that Friday, they jetted out to Mama’s high school reunion, which was so large that it was held at the gazebo in the local park. I should write that they drove and jetted and drove to her reunion, because even after a one-hour drive to the airport and a two-hour flight, it’s still at least a three-hour drive to Mama’s childhood house, where Grammy lives.

After computer camp was over, 3B and I took the same journey together, although we got to wait on the runway for an additional two hours before takeoff while the pilots decided that they couldn’t boot up the navigation system and would navigate manually. Shouldn’t be that hard…fly north until you hear them speaking French, then land. Oh, you’re still in the U.S.

Barely, but still in.

And then, there we were, waking up with a view of potato fields out our window and woods across the lawn from the front porch. We spent the week relaxing with family. We visited with Grampa, where 3B learned Morse code and got to operate Grampa’s ham radio. We also went to Canada for Chinese food with Grampa, which involved driving maybe 200 yards across a bridge over the river through town. It was a faster trip back, since we only had to drive maybe 200 meters and we didn’t using our metric speedometer, so we were going, like, 85 liters per hour or something.

Most of the rest of the week we spent hanging out at Grammy’s. Uncle A and Cousin S shot off fireworks one night while the kids watched from the playhouse. Cousin S schooled Mama in games of Horse–or so he says–and 3B shot many a hoop with his cousins. We hiked up a road behind the house where 3B and Cousin Z played in a mucky, clogged three-foot tall culvert under the road while Jewel coveted. We were able to mollify her with some fresh raspberries we picked along the roadside.

They were far smaller than the ones in the bowl on our counter this morning, but they were sweet, not sour. They could be eaten under a wide blue sky and didn’t need to be buried under a mountain of whis cream, as Jewel calls it, to be tolerable.

And by the time I’d reflected on all of that, the buck had clattered across the street to stand on our neighbor’s lawn and stare back over his flank at me. We regarded each other for a moment, then each of us went quietly back to the business of our day.

Final countdown to next summer

The highlight of 3B’s summer was computer camp. OK, maybe the second highlight, after our visit to Grammy’s. OK, maybe his third after his Harry Potter birthday party. Or fourth, after dive team…

Anyway, a highlight of 3B’s summer was computer camp. So much so that on the final day, he was already planning next summer’s session, which he wants to coordinate with his friends, so they can all attend at the same time.

To clarify, it wasn’t all code all the time, the camp is designed so that the kids spend half the day working on technology–which can be programming, robotics or…one other thing I forget–and the other half of the day playing sports or participating in extras. 3B like the coding fine, though I think it bummed him out that on Friday of the first week, the programming app crashed and took his code down in flames, leaving him to start all over again on Monday.

He was working with a partner, and their counselor said they were both dedicated, focused and worked hard, but there was no way they could redo everything from the first week. It was fun to see what they did create, however, and just as much fun to find out what songs his code counselor had introduced him to each day when I picked him up. He would rush into the car and say, “Dad, you have to search on Daft Hands, harder, better, faster.” Or, “Just type in MIDI 3D friends.” But none surpassed the first day when he asked if I knew the Final Countdown.

Dude. Don’t make me bust out my 80’s card on you.

3B’s code counselor played it as the final countdown to class, and it was fun to hear 3B earnestly wailing along with Europe, although I’m not looking forward to explaining the waving lighters in the video. Or some of the fashion choices we all made back then. Oy.

His favorite part of the camp was his extracurricular topic: drama. Given that Mama and I met while working in a theater, that’s shocking, right? The pig iron doesn’t fall far from the fly rail, apparently. It helped that their three skits included two musical numbers, one of which was a song from Mulan, which he saw recently for the first time, and since he’d seen it once, he, of course, had every song memorized already.

I remember the lesson 3B taught his kindergarten teacher, which she told us about at our first conference: don’t ever promise him anything, because he’ll never forget. Sure enough, that school’s counselor had promised him a game of Candyland in the first month of school and when he saw her again at the end of the year, the first words out of his mouth were, “You never played Candyland with me.”

Then he had to remind her of their conversation eight months before.

Similarly, he’s been busting my chops all week for breaking promises to him about all kinds of little things, asking how he can trust me when I keep breaking promises to him. I can’t wait for the teenage years. Just sayin’…there’s a cloud for every silver lining.

But he had a sunny expression on his face at the end of every day of camp–thanks to the balance of coding, creativity and craziness. Even though he chose an extracurricular topic, he still got to get his ya-yas out in the second half of the day during a “choice” period, when he could choose one of many sports to play. On the final day, in addition to seeing his code and his performance, I got to see one of the sports. I’ll just say that after watching the counselors keeping up with the kids, those counselors aren’t paid enough.

Speaking of not being paid enough and 3B’s future career as a musical theater performer or rock ‘n’ roll drummer reminds me of his performance on that final day. I thought it would just be for the 20 or so of us parents who showed up to watch the six kids on stage. No. After the parents were assembled in seats, they let in the rest of camp, which was 200 or so kids and counselors, all noisy and bouncing around. The size of the crowd, which settled down and was a quiet, attentive and respectful audience, never seemed to even register with 3B.

Stage fright? Au contraire. I think he’d been waiting for that moment all his life. I know that he’s already waiting for next summer, plotting and planning who he’ll go to camp with. And that’s endorsement enough for me to be doing the same.

How Coke + Snickers became kale juice + Clif bars

I suppose that by now it’s been almost a month since I wrote here, since before my PMC ride, 3B’s technology summer camp and our family trip to Grammy’s. School has also started for 3B–yesterday was the 1st day of 2nd grade for 3B–and Jewel, who returned to her preschool just in time to learn about Rosh Hashanah before we head to our friends’ house for a dinner of apples and honey…and all that other stuff.

A good time, then, to reflect on recent events and write a little more in this book of my life that this blog is.

My ride went well, though my lack of training showed in my inability to ride strong for as long as I have in the past. Recovery was also harder this year than in past years; I was more tired for longer after the ride than I have been before. But each cancer survivor who greeted us along the route with a thanks for making their life possible was a balm for each ache and a charge of energy for each moment of fatigue.

In addition to riding with my team, PHAT Tuesday, I also managed to find the brother-in-law of our neighborhood friends out of a sea of 5,500 identically clad riders on the first day. We only rode for about 15 minutes on the first day, but on day two I managed to latch a tow rope to his seatpost so I could stay with him and we rode together for the second half of the day. He’s a strong rider and a good guy who I look forward to riding with in next year’s PMC, if not before. He lives in Mass., however, so coordinating a meeting point between us for a training ride might be tricky.

The PHATs were, as always, a fun, fast, friendly group fueled by 100 percent pure awesomesauce. There are several big motors on the team, and each of them cracked me like a roasted peanut at some point on the ride as I tried to follow on their wheels.

You’d think this would have taught me my lesson and that I’d be on my bike every night, riding hard for next year. Yes, you would think that, because you’re smarter than I. But, while I haven’t been on my bike as much as I want, I have been watching what I eat. This year I got to the PMC heavier than I have in the past, and while it would cost me a pretty penny to get a bike that is ten pounds lighter than my current one, it will only cost a dessert here and a drink there to get my body down those ten pounds…if I start now. Oh, and a score of pushups and core workouts every morning.

What happened to my teenage years, when I would ride 30 miles fueled by a Coke and a Snickers bar?

So, that’s how the ride went. More about computer camp, Grammy’s and school this week.

Not confused, just well mixed