Rocky Mountain Randoms - The "HA! Girl can cook!" Edition

So, here's a wee tidbit of updates until I get my blogging groove back, post-laptop crash:

- In an attempt to train for my next tri, I rode my bike to and from work today. It's a six-mile trip (each way, for a round-trip of 12 miles, the distance for bikes in a sprint triathlon), half on paved highway frequented by cyclists and perfectly flat (but windy). The other three miles are half paved hilly road and half hilly dirt and gravel road.

Every meter of it is hell. Even the flat bits.

I am the world's worst cyclist. As I told someone recently, the only thing thing Lance Armstrong and I have in common is surviving cancer. I'm trying, I really am, but I am slow and weaving and unsteady and miserable the entire time. I need an enthusiastic but patient cyclist to explain shifting to me, to reveal how one can stand up on the pedals without falling over, or let go of the handlebars to grab a water bottle or pick the bugs out of one's teeth, also without falling over. Sigh. I finally checked my times from the Danskin Triathlon. As expected, I was good in the swim, slow but not horrid in the run and only ten people from being dead last in the bike portion.

Ugh!

- On my Spectrum of Grossly Over-Generalized Opinions of People Based On Geographic Location, Coloradans rank only slightly higher than Las Vegans, mostly because the people here at least know how to drive. Coloradans generally interpret the "independent pioneer spirit" as meaning they'll do what they want, when they want. Case in point: the Denver Danskin Triathlon I did last week. Spectators were roaming around the transition area (closed, theoretically, to everyone but athletes) with dogs and strollers and not caring one jot whether they were in the way of a woman trying to rack her bike and put on her running shoes to finish her race. There were even several spectators who simply joined their wives/girlfriends/whatevers on the race course, clogging up an already narrow path. One guy biking the cycle course (clearly neither a participant nor volunteer) shot back at someone who told him to quit: "It's a public road!"

The women in the race also displayed more "mememe" attitude than other Danskins I've done. People were more surly about passing aggressively on the bike course (granted, like the run, it was a too-narrow out-and-back rather than a roomy loop, but still.). One woman wouldn't move over to the right when a faster cyclist was trying to pass. The faster biker was just shouting "on your left! ON YOUR LEFT! MOVE IT!!" until the slower (much slower) woman shouted back "I'm in this race too!"

Not at your speed, honey.

The triathlon got me thinking, in fact, about a recent book I started reading about, then stopped because I knew it would only irk me. The author cherrypicked stats and data to "prove" Republicans are nicer, more charitable and generally more decent humans than Democrats. Now, I subscribe to the position that jackasses come in all stripes and colors and political persuasions, but after the Denver tri, I'm not so sure... Colorado is, after all, the reddest state I've done a tri in by far. If anything, the people I encountered at the tri were more selfish, less considerate of others and generally crankier than in either Massachusetts or Wisconsin. Go figure.

Despite the less-than-wonderful experience at last week's tri, by the way, my enthusiasm for appearing in front of thousands in my swimsuit in exchange for free water bottles has not ebbed. I'll do one again. In fact, I am doing one again, at the start of August, back in Denver. Coloradans, it's a chance to redeem yourselves in my eyes and prevent you from sinking, as a group, to the level of Russian cops and urban Tunisian men on my Spectrum of Grossly Over-Generalized Opinions of People Based On Geographic Location.

And trust me, you really don't want to be stuck with the urban Tunisian men.

- Wiley is doing his best to adjust to our new apartment, which is in a town just south of Bullwinkle Ranch. We live in a bit of a white trash 'hood, with lots of trailers and half-assembled trucks in the yard, but it's quieter than our old place and much roomier, with plenty of walkie opportunities. But there are the dogs. Everyone here it seems has at least one dog, usually two or three or four, and, well, with the exception of a miniature Schnauzer with a Napoleon complex, Wiley, at 75 pounds, is the smallest dog in the 'hood. There are Labs and big mutts and many, many Malamute-type behemoths. Few are on leashes. Poor Plush Smalls was extremely anxious about going outside the first several days, but has slowly gotten used to three or four or six dogs running up to him all at once to sniff his butt. He's even made a few friends in the 'hood, which is heartening. But he's also developed an adorable morning ritual: every morning, he tentatively sniffs the air as I open the door and then sticks his head out cautiously. If he sees another dog, he slinks back inside. If the coast is clear, he jumps out, puffs out his chest and gives the 'hood a good, solid "WOOFWOOFWOOFWOOFWOOF!"

- We have family meal, like many kitchens, every night about an hour before service starts. One of the cooks, almost always Keanu, throws together the scraps, the random bits of things we're trying to get rid of and serves them up to the cooks and servers. Last week, I had to make a lot of pizza dough for an event. Chef told me to make a couple extra half-sheets for Keanu to use as family meal. I asked if I could make it instead, and whipped up a Central Asian style pizza.... spinach, garlic, onions and a lot of meat from the "mixed meat" container of all the ground scraps, heavily seasoned with cumin and curry and cinnamon and other secret spices, all the flavors I experienced traveling in the 'stans and to a lesser extent Turkey and the Middle East and, dare I say it, Russia.

While Keanu is an awesome cook, he never makes stuff like that; his family meals are always either Mexican or cheese pizza. The cooks kept drifting by as I worked, lured by the exotic scents. When I finally took it out of the oven, they descended on it with such fury that very few of the servers even got to try it. I saw a few of the cooks wolfing down four pieces each.

I asked Jerry, my favorite line cook, if he liked it and he was ecstatic. "Ha! Girl can cook, huh?" I said, much to his merriment. "Yeah, finally you made something worth eating!" he laughed... he, the guy who devours all my scraps and actually lingers around my station when I'm cutting brownies, knowing I'll give him the end pieces.

The Long Road Out Of My Own Private Gulag

At last!! Today I was able to find someone in the Valley to recover my lost data files, after which I was able to restore my hard drive to the lean, mean, slightly unstable machine it is. I still don't have a tv, and haven't unpacked my stereo from whichever box it's in, but being back online is itself a delight.

I still have to re-load a bunch of plug-ins for this battle station to be fully operational, so you'll have to wait a couple days for a full update in the long, tedious detail you've come to expect, but in the meantime:

Here's a brief pictorial of my latest adventures, in the kitchen and beyond, accompanied by my loyal, panting yet pantless sidekick, AdventureDog:

I did dessert trios for a fancy-pantsed function a few weeks ago entirely on my own. The shot below is of the last few plates to go out. I'd already plated 60.




Here's me and Cerdic, my trusty Saxon warhorse (or, er, my bicycle) at the Danskin Triathlon in Denver at the end of June. I know my tri-suit is not the most flattering piece of clothing I own, but you know what? That thing on the green ribbon around my neck is a finisher's medal. Dat's right, homes, I finished my third triathlon, one I didn't train for aside from checking the air in Cerdic's tires that morning.



Today, on a day off (yay!) Sir Smalls and I drove to Rollins Pass, elevation 11,660 ft., where they used to drive cattle over the Rockies to their summer grazing spots, and walked a little ways on The Continental Divide Trail. Not to give too much information, but when nature called I debated whether to answer on the Atlantic or Pacific side of the watershed (the trail runs right along the Divide). This shot has a rather Sound of Music quality to it, doesn't it?

Much more soon, now that I'm back online! Whoo hoo!

The Pastry Pirate Returns... sorta

Just a quick post to all who've been wondering where I am. I am in the library, using the computer like a commoner. Shudder.

I haven't been posting partly because, in the past three weeks, I moved to a new apartment closer to work, completed my third triathlon (and, even though I didn't train for it, I did spend an awful lot of time thinking "gee, I should train for that thing.") and, tragically, my laptop died. First I was getting the blue screen of death with a stop error code, but now I get the even more frightening, otherworldly white screen with gray font, prompting me for a password to my hard drive that I never had.

It's going to take some time to fix, if it ever can be revived, but thanks again for all the good wishes, e-mails, posts and ponderings "where the hell are you?" I hope to have things shipshape sooner rather than later, and to post at length about the tri, things pastry and my latest hiking adventures.

Till then, here's a line I love from an email the Dread Pirate Iron Bluebird sent, forwarding the e-newsletter from the guys who came up with Talk Like A Pirate Day:

You never really know if you can fly if you don’t throw yourself off a cliff from time to time.

Rocky Mountain Randoms - The Finally Summer Edition

Things I have experienced for the first time since moving here to live in the shadow of the Continental Divide:

- Cows stretched on the grass, grooming themselves like cats. Really.

- The weather phenomenon called "virga," defined as snowfall that evaporates before it hits the ground (defined here not by Wikipedia, but by Bill the server when I asked him "what's this virga thing I keep hearing about?" one day at the restaurant. Chef overheard us and, the next day, told me to hurry up onto the deck. "Look! That's virga!" he said excitedly, pointing at some mist hanging between us and the Divide. "I dunno. It looks like mist to me." "No, no, it's virga." "How can you tell?" "I know virga." "It looks like mist to me." "It's virga.").

- Guys wearing cowboy hats and boots standing in line at the local supermarket in pairs, each guy pushing or pulling a cart piled high with frozen pizzas, beer and canned goods. After eavesdropping on a few of them, I realized they were actual cowboys stocking up on provisions to take back to the summer ranch now that the herds had relocated for the warmer months.

And I still say "Actual Cowboy" is an excellent name for a band.

- Driving in bright sunshine and 70 degrees, noticing a car coming toward you covered in snow, a hint of what's about two miles ahead.

- Rain and hail storms that last about 30 seconds but, as they track eastward, catch on the tips of the mountains and gather over Boulder and Denver, just on the other side. I've been trying to capture this with my camera, because it is So. Cool. The storm clouds bunch up and turn black right on top of the mountains, while where I am, it's cloudless and bright sun, even though it's only a couple miles away. It's like being in Minas Tirith and looking across the fields of Pelennor to Mordor.

- Swimming in the indoor pool of the Y of the Rockies, where the wall nearest the lap swim lane is solid glass, and being able to look out the window and see nothing but clouds that are noticeably closer than they are at sea level. It's like swimming in the indoor pool of the Y of Bespin.

- Swimming anywhere at 8500 feet above sea level is it's own special experience. When you come up for air, your lungs fill, but not with anything useful. It's like thinking you're drinking heavy cream but instead you get a mouthful of skim milk, only instead of butterfat you're missing it's oxygen.

- Planning a hike up around the cool igneous tertiary dyke rock formation I found a couple months ago, I was thwarted by a rushing stream between me and the rock. It was too deep and too swift not just for me, but definitely for AdventureDog. So instead we wandered off into the woods of the Never Summer Wilderness Area, found an old, old logging road (so old that the saplings springing up between the wheel ruts were twice as tall as me) and, after following moose and mountain lion tracks, found another, more eroded igneous dyke caused by a lava flow (the Never Summer Mountains are the only volcanic range in the Rockies).

Pretty cool.

A shot of my geologic obsession (torrent of snowmelt at its feet not visible):

The second wall we found:

AdventureDog, with the wall in the background. His hindquarters are wet because he fell into a stream while drinking water and couldn't get out. Good thing I was wearing my waterproof pants, because I had to go in to get him out. But he still seemed to enjoy himself.

Post(s) of The Month... and they ain't even mine!

Dr. Virago has been going gangbusters the past few weeks digging up hilarious YouTube videos. First she dug up a brilliant spoof of one of my favorite songs, "O Fortuna." I will spare you the many in-jokes she and I have about the song and just say that, if you know what's good for you, you'll go to her post and experience it for yourself.

Then yesterday she posted both the original and a bizarre cover of "Wuthering Heights." She and I have a long history with that song, too, but even if you've never heard of Kate Bush, I urge you to indulge in watching both videos, as well as a related Monty Python clip. When you're watching the original Kate Bush video, just remember that she was on a major record label at the time... then ask yourself if that song, and especially that video, would ever see the light of day in today's music industry.

In any case, "Wuthering Heights" remains one of the creepiest pop songs ever, and I just wish that Rammstein would cover it with Bjork on guest vocals. I really believe that would work.

Oh, and also, I decided long ago that if I were ever kidnapped I would feign a breakdown and sing "Wuthering Heights" over and over until my captors couldn't take it anymore and let me go. I think about these things a lot.

Also, if anyone ever forced me to karaoke, that's the song I'd pick. I'd have the bar emptied in seconds.

Enjoy the posts.

Rocky Mountain High

Wiley and I took the long way to the Boulder Target today... usually it's a two-hour drive (each way), but this time we made a bigger loop by driving through Rocky Mountain National Park... its famous Timber Line Road, the highest continuously paved road in North America, was finally open. It cuts across the Divide topping out at more than 12,000 feet, and although it opened officially for the season on Memorial Day weekend, it was closed soon after.

"We've got blowing snow, hurricane-force winds and visibility of less than 20 feet," said the friendly ranger when I called last Monday to see if the road was open.

Today, however, the only obstacles between us and Timber Line were the carloads of other tourists who freaked out at the sight of a moose 100 yards off the road and slammed on their brakes to take pictures and gawk. Sigh.

I did get to see my first elk up close. He was lounging by the side of the road, in shade under a tree, apparently camouflaged from most of the tourist traffic, since I was the only one who slowed down as I passed (slowed, not stopped to take pictures and gawk... I was more concerned that he would get up and dart in front of my car).

Wiley had his own wildlife experience... While we were stopped at a scenic overlook, three very sassy Lesser Chipmunks (actual name) came up to get a closer look at him. One was particularly cheeky and had a bit of a staring contest with Smalls.

Here's a shot of my long-suffering Focus, Kali, parked near the highest point of Timber Line Road with the Never Summer Mountains (my favorite mountain range name ever) in the background. You may also notice the tall pole behind my car... They're stuck all over the side of the road and parking lots to guide the plows clearing the road for the summer season because yes, the snow does get that high. Up to 35 feet, I've heard.

Right about at the highest point of Timber Line Road... Look at that tundra! Pretty dang cool. Literally. It was very windy and about 40 degrees cooler than it would be in Boulder a couple hours later.

More tundra (foreground), more mountains (background, the Gore Range, I believe)... there's something exhilarating about looking across to mountain tops instead of up at them, you know?

Beep Beep

I thought of titling this post with the more obvious "Who Do You Love?" but, since "Roadrunner" was always my favorite Bo Diddley song, and it seems like a proper send-off for the guitar great, I'm going with the "Beep Beep" instead.

Hearing today that Diddley had died wasn't surprising (the last time I saw him was years, years ago, and he looked a little shaky then), but it put me in a reflective mood. I first learned of Bo Diddley reading an interview with Joe Strummer, who cited him as a big influence. A little later, I got a double live album of Diddley (yes, vinyl... this really was back in the day) from my brother as a birthday gift, if memory serves. Or maybe I just stole it from him, like I stole his London Calling album. Remembering the specifics of ownership are a little fuzzy in my middle-aged head, but my reaction to hearing those primal, perfect guitar riffs was not. Wow.

"Roadrunner" was one of the first songs I learned to play on the guitar by ear. Unfortunately, it was also a song I attempted to sing, and I'm sure the neighborhood dogs' ears never recovered from a teenaged girl's shriek of "I'm a roooooooadrunnah, babeee! Beep beep!"

In any case, I don't mean to sound old, but thinking back on Strummer's comments leading me to discover Diddley made me feel that most kids today are getting cheated. With all the interviews I've read in the last decade, I can't think of many rock stars and rappers and pop idols who really reach back and reference someone as an influence, unless that individual is appearing on their new album, has just died or is on the same label and said interviewee has been told to shill for them. It's unfortunate to think about all the great music being lost because its maker doesn't have a Facebook page.

So thanks, Joe. Introducing me to Bo Diddley is something else I have to thank you for. And thanks, Bo, for your music. Maybe you and Joe are jamming together up there in that Great Gig in the Sky along with Layne Staley, Syd Barret, Pete Farndon, James Honeyman-Scott and Keith Moon. Oh, wait a minute. That would sound horrible. But wherever you are, I owe you one.