Alpaca Harvesting Farm Ride

Today my friend Ken and I ventured out into the rolling greenery of Kinnelon, Mountain Lakes, Denville, Montville, Towaco, Rockaway, and Alpaca-land. Who would have known, except K-Hova (Ken), that there would be an Alpaca Harvesting Farm on the country-road corner of some rural-Jersey village? The fence was wood painted white, and as we approached a flock of chocolate, vanilla, and cinnamon hued creatures eagerly made their way over to us with their elongated necks and freshly shaved torsos. With their Ostrich-like compositions, massive eyes, and fur-laden bodies, I felt as though Chewbaca and Han Solo would be around the next corner. The opportunists we are, we took some tourist shots, chatted it up with the chain-donning crew (they each had plastic bling chains around their necks with name tags, Katie and Tiffany were the most sociable), and then parted ways.

Pint-Sized Stoop Dweller

We have had many a surprise encounter, the Munks and I (yes, plural, there are two of them).


Plotting on the stoop.

Cruising among the chairs out back.


Frozen on the stoop, yet again.

La Matadora y El Toro

I may not have had more than one gear to grind in this past Sunday’s race at Lewis Morris; but I certainly had a real nifty bell to ring in lieu. Initial pre-race meditations were akin to those of a Spanish Matador contending the searing glare of an unyielding bull; it came down to the gear and me, alone in the ring, and I was dressed in red. Nevertheless, I had chosen to be there, to be alone with the bull, and it was all or nothing. Upon entering the first lap, though, I would come into a total body feeling—mind, soul, flesh—of connectedness and unity with the bike, the earth, and the race itself. Standing up on the first climb to muster past a few shift-happy racers, I touched into the essence of a mono-geared ride—you can only go one speed. At first I felt apologetic, letting others know that I was not trying to blast them, but that I simply could not go any slower, something seldom encountered on my geared bike.

The first two laps consisted of a three-dot paceline; with myself in the rear, proceeded by Ellen White, and then Jess McGinn. White and I were running the same gearing, so I mixed her experience with my own knowledge of self in order to keep both heart rate and legs in check for the remaining two laps. When White got out of the saddle, I got out of the saddle; when she sat, I sat; when she snot-rocketed, I dodged and sent out one of my own. With McGinn setting a single-speed-esque pace, the three of us were in synch, thus allowing for a focus on the churning wheel in front and an absorption of the beauty of momentum. The bike-body unification made itself known right away, and with each off-camber turn and every exposed root, I felt the bike as an extension of my own movements. Sweeping turns, little leaps, and rhythmic ascents were the foundation in my house of rapture. Before long, the bull and the fighter were looking less like enemies, and more like two individuals working hard together at their newly formed marriage.

With this two-wheeled device as an extension of my energies and my determination, when fatigue found me in the fourth lap, so it also found the bike; and although the speed was still single, it eventually grew to be one of a slightly slower cadence. By now White was neither seen nor heard, and I was intent on keeping McGinn within focus for as long as possible. With lap four, the bull and the fighter were near their end, neither looking to any longer draw blood from the other. Now they were one, at last content in their common struggle, continuing to the very end. Approaching the graveled finish line, the bull and the fighter knew they were stronger; they knew they had learned from one another, from those around them, and they were thankful. Rather than taking one another’s life, they had embraced, and at the end they were at a new beginning, ready to enjoy the moment and rebuild for the next to come.

Whistle Breezes

Today the breeze felt as though it had come from some far off island--a place where the tide is low and fast birds flitter across forming pools, searching out minnow trapped by a moon's pull. It traveled one's bare, summer arms with the knowledge of many lands and many people. It was an exquisite breeze of fulfilling simplicity; a cool blessing found at the apex of every turn, the culmination of every climb, and alas with the greatest presence--at the folding together of rocks--"The Lookout." Whether picking your way through boulders in Ringwood, plotting coordinates in Iraq, or piecing together the map of your existence elsewhere in the world--that breeze, I hope it found you.

Far-off breezes keep us company, as we touch green at the top of The Lookout.


A whistle we encountered, draped over the branches of a low-lying shrub, enjoying that same cool blessing and swaying silently, for once, in its presence.


Eazy-E, bombin' it down from the top of The Lookout.

Humble Hermits (Anne Geddes photo mania, minus the babies)

Spring has arrived. Several times she attempted prior, but our seemingly small ecological footprints formed an alliance and gave her somewhat tainted directions, thus sending her the long way when the fork in the road arose. Nevertheless, she is here, and so are the Humble Hermits she drums up from beneath coffee-ground soil, still soaked from April's showers.

Inch by Inch, Row by Row

The 20-fourth annual celebration of the day someone, an awesome someone, happened to give birth to me--April nineteenth--was this past Saturday. I was fortunate enough to spend the morning with my father, cultivating our newly born vegetable garden. Two clumps of Chives were transplanted in from a worn, wooden barrel. Miniature matchstick seeds of Marigold were sewn along the outskirts for protection from the high possibility, or perhaps inevitability, of insects. Planted in days prior, the once pebble-sized seeds of bean and cucumber were already beginning to sprout into little creatures of a green only earth could give. From moist-soil starter pods, to proud little men stretching for the sun, in less than a few days--it never ceases to amaze me, the ability of "things" to grow. First we take hold with our roots, and then watch out, because there is no stopping the determination of a new life, nor that of one growing older.

Time cannot be saved; it can either be spent on trinkets or treasures, choose wisely.

So, the last time fingers tip-tapped black keys for this blog was October 26th, two thousand and 7. A little over five months later, the urge to add something new and of value has struck and digits once again tap on keys of black, not the ones between white keys, but the ones with white letters printed on them. In no way, shape, or form does this lapse writing indicate that nothing of value has occurred over the past five months; but rather it may stand to testify that the winter has been packed to near capacity with time spent in the company of snow, friends, family, and love, all of which are interchangeable at any given moment. Perhaps now, on the eve of completing the First Annual (unofficial) Cheese County World Championships (CCWC), I have found a square foot of space into which I can place my inner thoughts, and share them with these keys of midnight.

A few highlights from this season's winter escapades.

Believe it or not, the dinosaur I have mounted like a steer was the mascot for a local Steamboat chain of gas stations--puts some pizazz into the uncool of fossil fuels.



Doobie, Taina, and I snowshoeing it on top of more than six feet of snow, somewheres in the hills of Colorado.



Hot. Hot. Hot springs. Natural hot springs.



Fish eye and Fishkil Falls.



Heyo. Steamboat and eighties neon--not by default, by choice.