Maple Syrup Thunderstorms: Mt. Snow Nationals 2008

So, here's a short, low-quality clip of Aaron's trunk full of junk atop his spinning, sweating legs. As requested, I made an attempt to focus on the calf area; yet, less than ideal lighting combined with my running behind him yielded fair to medium results. Regardless, Aaron's derriere pulled it together to make for an overall stellar cinematic debut. Great job, Aaron.

Speed Queen

Passing the time between races at this weekend's Nationals (Windham Mountain) led to close encounters with the local Tannersville Speed Queen dryers. There is a certain level of soothing captivation involved in allowing your presence to be sucked into the psychedelic tumble of moisture being expunged from clothing. Each time the circle in front of you rotates there is the faint hope that the near distinguishable blur of color and garment will complete a full rotation; but alas, the synthetic clump of spandex, socks, and four-fingered gloves that seem to wave as they drift round reaches the apex, and gravity pulls it into a plummet towards yet another rotation to the top. Perhaps this cyclical tumble of diversity, this whirlwind of colors, can be paralleled to our lives. Spiritually and mentally speaking, we, as human beings, are on a concurrent plane with the Speed Queens of the world. We have times in our lives, when things seem to be thrown into a spin, with varying degrees of control involved; different settings for heat and intensity come into play, and we find ourselves tossed about in this calescent amalgam of confusion and frustration. We make our way to the apogee of something just long enough to feel the loft of weightlessness, of understanding, and then without warning we are once again brought into the spin. Yet, when we are good and ready, when things have finally dried, we find that the whirlwind has come to a conclusion in its turning, and we are free to sort things out, just at the time we are meant to. The socks are matched and twisted into one another; the tangled garb is deciphered, and so are our lives. Although it is the case that things may get dirty again, which means the whirlwind shall return; its presence is brief and for the sake of the self, for it soon enough brings us to the point where everything stops—the heat dissipates as the door opens, and we realize we are surrounded by others just like ourselves, that we are all in this together and that somehow, someway, things will get sorted out.

Sula Peace

I must admit, I held quite a bit of anger this morning, for various reasons, and accompanying that anger was his partner in crime, frustration; two individuals whom I care not to associate with very often. Although, to be perfectly honest they are part of one's natural capacity as a human being, and so at times show their unsightly selves. Perhaps we need to feel them so long as we return from their world, just as we must feel the entire spectrum of human emotions in order to learn and progress.

Hoping to digress from their dark realm, I was fortunate to have time enough to grab Sula, plop some ice cubes into a plastic water bottle, sock my camera (I put it in a sock for sweat-protective purposes while riding), and head out towards Skyline. From where I live it takes about a half hour of pedaling saltwater from the body in order to reach the summit of Skyline Drive--and then you are in the woods; the sweet, emerald-lime, un-trafficked haven of the woods. With a Skyline ascent, followed by entrance into rock-spattered trail, I felt those two unnerving creatures of my morning's brooding begin to melt. In the film reel of my mind, it was an uninhibited visualization of negative energy, along with a steady flow of salty water and heavy breaths, in simple exodus from my body. The unwanted aggression and frustration congealed and melted off my back--sheer osmotic catharsis from the pedaling of one's bicycle. I could see it inside my mind's reel and feel it inside the running projector of my body. Sula and I were now headed along the orange trail, respiring the rained-on earth, finding ourselves in the company of old friends--inner-peace, solitude, appreciation, and acceptance.

Animal Mania Montages

While out at Skyline this past Tuesday afternoon, I happened across the world's stillest toad. For all I know he could still be there, in the spot among rocks and dried leaves where I left him, posing for the next journeyman to cross his path.





Write later. Tired now. Blue today we rode.

The Birth of Sula

She was born earlier than expected. The projected date had been marked in my little black book as June 6th, but she arrived just prior, and I am all the more thankful for it. Sula is her name; it's Nordic in origin, and from what I gather it means "sun." I will note that Toni Morrison's character, Sula Peace, played an integral role in my coming to choose the moniker. Her arrival can be marked as a momentous day in history, and I feel confident her and Frank will get along nicely. Sula and Frank, here's to you.

Sula has the hot pink grips and Frank has the hot orange paint-job. They rock my world.

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.