My mountain bike buddy, Guy, was holding a garage sale this morning so my sister, Babs, and I needed no further impetus to hit the sale trail.  I suggested we ride bikes but Babs feared we would find that perfect something and be unable to transport it on the bike trailer (see previous blog) so I agreed to roll the Lexus out of its berth.

Guy was manning his sale, literally drumming up business.  He had a drum set and electric guitar set up in the driveway on which he was amusing himself between customers.  He was relieved to see us as he was in desperate need of a potty break and had no sales staff to cover for him.  

Guy shares his tidy bachelor's bungalow with two yellow Labrador sisters and a tuxedo kitty named Miles Davis.  The girls are the ultimate and penultimate in obsequious cuteness.  A quiet suggestion from Guy sent them dutifully into the house where they sat in the open doorway waiting for permission to again join us in the driveway.  When our tour of the inside proved too exciting for them to control their vigorous tail wagging, they were gently vanquished to the back yard.  They sat peering back in through the doggie door until I coaxed them inside where they immediately sat, side by side, tails brushing the floor unobtrusively in unison, looking up at Guy to see if I were credible. 

Babs has been having trouble with the local skunk population digging for grubs in her garden.  Not wishing them any harm but seeking to inconvenience them into moving on, she hatched the idea of filling their excavations with dog poop.  Since she has no dog of her own, I suggested that perhaps Guy would be willing to share his bountiful supply with her.  He graciously provided her with plastic bags and a scoop and pointed her to the back yard where a week's supply of skunk repellent lay free for the scooping.

I wondered aloud whether it might not be a better idea to swing back by Guy's house on our way home to pick up her package, but she felt confident that the double knotted, double bag would sufficiently contain the odor for the duration of our sale-ing.  We proceeded to the next garage sale, and the next, and the next, as the cool morning fog gave way to a warm spring sunshine. 

We decided to stop for lunch at Panera's with the sun at its zenith.  Returning to the car after a leisurely break, we were met by the unmistakable odor of dog shit.  This was not the dainty fragrance of doggie doodoo or the or the waft of the cooling steamer in the lawn, this was feces in a pressure cooker.  There was nothing to be done but open the windows, the sun roof and the vents and drive like hell. 

My effort to outrun the stench attracted the attention of Redlands' finest who immediately gave pursuit and insisted that I pull over and put our hands where they could see them.  The officer sternly approached the car with ticket written all over his face.  At about ten paces I saw his face register a look of confusion.  He paused to discretely check the soles of his shinney black cop shoes.  Relief that he was soil free changed as he got closer to the car to a look that said "Where in the heck is that stench coming from?!"  Leaning down to ask for my license, it hit him square in the olfactory system.  Gone was the righteous resolve to uphold the law, replaced by an undeniable need to run away.  He mumbled something about needing to respond to an emergency and beat cheeks back to his squad car.

So, if it's as effective against skunks, I'd say my sister's problem is solved.   

It's been a while since I had anything to post because it seems that all I've been doing is working in the garden and it hasn't gotten lush enough to brag about yet. 

Mike ran the 5K in the Run through Redlands and I went as his photographer.  We had run the course earlier in the week so I had an idea of where I wanted to position myself to get the maximum opportunities to get shots of him running.  By shortcutting the course, I could get photos from three different places and only had to run about a mile and a half. 

I started shooting at the start line but there were so many people starting at once I couldn't pick him out in the crowd.  He was running with Lynette, a woman we know from the gym, who had been seriously training for this race.  Since he had been working  too much to really train, he hoped to be able to keep up with her.  Last year he'd been beaten by a seventy-year-old woman and a ten-year-old girl so he wasn't confident that he could out run 5'2" Lynette.

After filming the start of the race, I jogged up to Olive Avenue to wait for the runners to come by.  I waited and waited.  After about fifteen minutes I commented to another spectator that it seemed like it was taking a lot longer than I'd expected for them to get to this point which was only a mile from the start.  He kindly pointed out that a.) I was looking in the wrong direction, and b.) I wasn't on the street I thought I was on.  I was only a quarter of a mile from the finish line.  So, I proceeded to take pictures of anybody of interest who came by until Mike and Lynette came into view.  Mike was a few yards ahead of Lynette and managed to keep ahead of her to the finish.  My niece, Tara, came trotting by some time later so I fell into step with her until I spotted Mike coming back to look for me.

When the preliminary results were posted it showed Mike had placed fourth in his age division (same as last year) and Lynette had won her division.  She was ecstatic.  It came as quite the disappointment to her to learn, when she was called to the podium to collect her award, that she had actually come in second.  In the women's seventy and older division, Mike's nemesis from the previous year had not entered, so he was spared the indignity of having been bested by an older woman.

First about the title:  I'm not quite sure what a "gipper" is but my Dad always liked Ronald Reagan when he was in office.  Somehow, I've always thought of Gipper as a nickname for my Dad.  So, this one is for Flip the gipper who asked for a picture of my bike trailer.

Ever since the paychecks stopped rolling in, I've been looking for ways to economize so I don't have to desperately take the first job that presents itself no matter how mind numbing or demoralizing.  The most obvious idea, with gas at $3.85 a gallon, was to park the Lexus. 

Those of you who know me understand the sacrifice involved.  You know how deep my affection for that sleek machine runs.  You know how I love its supple leather seats that, with a touch of a button, remember the shape of my ass, the curve of my back and my diminutive stature.  My family has long ago grown weary of my tales of its powerful response to my request for acceleration, its quiet, gentle way of transporting my groceries, and its accommodation of my poor memory as it kindly reminds me that the key is still in the ignition when I open the door or as it turns on my headlights as dusk falls.  Nonetheless, I vowed that The Lexus (I even love to say "The Lexus") would henceforth remain in the garage unless certain criteria were met. 

Car driving criteria for me amounted to 1.) The passenger seat must be occupied (Luckily Mom is always a willing car pool lane dummy.) or 2.) I must have multiple errands that entail carrying more than fifty-five pounds or are more than 10 miles from home.  It remains to be seen if I bend these rules come summer and it's 110° in the shade but for now, it's an easy resolution to keep. 

The bike trailer is the same one you may have seen on my sister's site.  Uncle Ted built it for her to carry her garden tools to and from the community garden.  If you look closely, you can see the holders on the back for rakes and shovels.  Now that she's gardening at Ted's, she wasn't using it anymore so, she generously offered to let me borrow it.  For my mountain bike friends, the bike is a full-suspension, K2 Razorback Team with Ritchey Slickrock tires. 

Some days, when I'm in a hurry or feeling lazy, I'm tempted to break my resolution, but for the most part riding is just pure fun.  I get to feel sooooo superior to my overweight peers, driving their gas guzzlers.  It has occurred to me that they look down their noses at me and think I'm eccentric but guess what:  I am.

I took a day off from job hunting to join my cycling chum, Sally, on a hike up a trail we have been threatening to explore for years.  It is clearly visible from the wash singletracks as it makes a few switchbacks and then bolts straight up the ridge.  Knowing that the ascent would be steep and long, meant that weight would be a serious consideration.  And, since it was an overcast and gloomy day, I opted to leave the camera at home, a decision that I deeply regretted. 

We left the car at the Bryant St. ranger station and started trekking up Hwy 38 towards the Edison generating station (that's my guess at what the facility is).  It became apparent that we were living dangerously when one monster SUV driving, cell phone using, NASCAR contender after another roared past, oblivious to our presence.  Too intent upon our destination to backtrack to the singletrack trail that runs more or less parallel to the highway, we struck out across uncharted territory through knee-high grass thinking we would intersect the trail.  I was uneasy about tramping where I couldn't see the footing because rattlesnakes are common in the area.  Hoping it was too cool for reptiles to be a danger we proceeded with caution. Without warning I was flung to my hands and knees as the ground beneath the grass retreated into a ditch.  Alarmed, Sally, who was slightly behind me, asked if I was okay but in mid sentence, she too plunged into the invisible trough.  Have you seen the credit card commercial where the guy who is "waiting for his rewards" is pantomiming pedaling a mountain bike with his friends who are riding?  He mimes going OTB (that's over the bars in mountain bike lingo) as he descends a steep hill.  Well, that's pretty much how we felt. 

We approached the Edison facility with some trepidation, expecting discouraging signage at best and a hostile guard with an irritable Doberman at worst.  We were relieved to find that Edison had thoughtfully surrounded their structures with impenetrable fencing and signs with dire warnings of imminent death if breached, leaving the paved road open to the canyon we wanted to penetrate.  The turbines hummed reassuringly, muffling our footsteps (and giggles) as we sauntered past the seemingly unmanned buildings.

At the base of the ridge we found an ungated opening in the perimeter fence allowing access to the trail we were seeking.

  It began ascending at an angle that became uncomfortable at the  pace we were traveling but offered such rewarding views that we not inclined to complain.

  The trail lead to a small, roofed enclosure, long unused (except as a trash receptacle) that we couldn't guess what its purpose had been.  Another 100' up the hill we came to another similar structure that had water running through it. 

At this point the official trail ended and the unofficial trail took a more challenging course directly up the ridge.

The footing grew increasingly treacherous where the coarse sand cascaded over rock outcrops but we could see that a mere fifty yards ahead the trail seemed to level out a bit so we shifted to low gear and scrambled.  I carefully picked my way through a rock outcrop where the footing was more secure, the slope so steep I could have almost touched the ground with my hands, when I suddenly realized I was face to face with a large snake.  I stopped abruptly.  He held his ground and gazed at me appraisingly.  A clear view of his face calmed my pounding heart; he was a harmless gopher snake.  We waited patiently, regaining our composure and catching our breath, for him to move on, but he wasn't warm enough to feel highly motivated.  Eventually, we lost patience and climbed around his tail end trying not to alarm him unnecessarily.

When we came to a more level area we decided to stop for a lunch break.  The Yucaipa valley lay to the South and Mill Creek Canyon was visible to the North.  Looking across the canyon we could see that we were nearly at the same elevation as the Morton Peak lookout tower.  (The following photo of the tower was taken on a previous ride shortly after a fire swept through the area)  The tower, a remnant of more primitive times when scouts were posted to watch for forest fires, has recently been renovated and can be rented for overnight camping.  We took some pleasure in picking out our bike trails that thread through the rocks and brush in the wash several hundred feet below, and in imagining how thrilling (or fatal) it would be to try to ride down the slope we had just climbed.

We continued climbing on legs that now felt like they were made of rubber.  The trail continued in its relentless pitch and we were delighted to find a side trail that meandered off to the South at a more comfortable angle.  It petered out after about fifty yards but the view it afforded was more than worth the extra effort.  From this vantage point we could see a graded road that snaked its way up from the Yucaipa side and disappeared behind the ridge on which we were standing.  Now we had motivation to struggle on to try to determine where the road went. 

The trail, while still painfully steep, became easier to climb because there was a rock-chocked rut running down the middle that was just wide enough to fit a boot into.  Acting like a serpentine staircase, it provided reasonably secure footing.  At last the trail intersected the graded road.  Still, we couldn't resist continuing our course just to see what was around the next bend in the road.  Less than a quarter of a mile later we could see that the road went on indefinitely so we decided to head back down. 

Initially our fatigued muscles rejoiced in the fact that they were no longer competing with gravity but it didn't take long to realize that braking takes effort too.  We were less than half way down before we were speculating about how crippled by sore muscles we would be tomorrow. 

The sun had broken through the morning haze gently warming us on the climb.  There was a brisk breeze at our back on the climb up and in our face on the decent.  It carried the scent of wild lilacs and other blossoming bushes we couldn't identify.  One bush smelled ever so faintly of cucumber and melon.  When we paused to catch our breath we could take in the lush beauty of the tall grass, sprinkled with wild flowers, shimmering in the wind.

When we reached the bottom we decided to walk down the bike trail back to the car so we could relax and enjoy the scenery.  We saw nothing more than common lizards, although on our last bike ride we had seen two horned toads, which are reputed to be on the endangered species list.

The following photo (and the previous photos) was taken two days later when I persuaded my sister and niece to join me on a photo hike.  If you look closely, you can make out the switchbacks near the bottom and the trail up the ridge higher up.

My cousin Carrie said she was conjuring up an amusing visual image of us doing a rain dance so I thought I would post a photo of one of the more effective rain dances that I know of.  The efficacy of this dance varies by the timing of the dance.  Performed in summer or fall it is more likely to summon triple digit temperatures than rain but in March we still have reason to hope.

My Dad called yesterday and asked me how the weather was out here.  He lives in Michigan where the winters are truly winters and last way too long.  I try not to make it sound too much like paradise when I describe the temperatures here.  "Yes, I know sixty to seventy degrees sounds nice, Dad, but it doesn't really give you a chance to wear those really hot looking jackets you midwesterners get to wear". 

I must have a half a dozen jackets in my closet that are lucky if they get worn once a year.  Jackets are like the patio furniture Californians have on their front porches.  We don't really use those Adirondack chairs but we like the idea they convey of having the leisure time to use them.  Well, we like the idea of wearing jackets too and we even put them on, look at ourselves in the mirror (imagining how great we would look in the snow), and then hang them back in the closet.

And Californians think they would like to "have all four seasons" when they're buying those Christmas cards with the Vermont snow scenes on them, but give them forty degree weather for more than two days and hear them whine.  "I just get so depressed when the sun doesn't come out for more than two days", they remark as if it's some kind of trendy disease.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I am one of those people (that's how I know these things).  I don't feel any sympathy for those of you who have to slog through snow and sleet for a couple of weeks or months per year though, because that's the price you have to pay for those long summer evenings that stay light until you're ready to go to bed.  You have lovely summers!  When was the last time you actually burned your hand on a door handle?  That's right, it was when you visited us last summer, wasn't it?  I told you to come in February.

So, here are a few photos of the hike Babs and I did in the local wash today.  There weren't many wild flowers out yet but we may get some March rain to coax them out.

 Local "artists" have decorated the waterworks under the bridge.

There are remnants of old gates and pipes along the river banks.  Some, like this one, appear to still be in use.  In the spring and summer people like to make small dams on the stream to form ponds to play in though the water is cold, coming from springs and snow melt higher up.

 This is the new bridge, built over the old one.  You can see the old beams under the nice shiny new one.

I suspect everyone experiences bouts of depression at one time or another but when I'm going through it, it feels unique to me.  I look at the world and wonder how other people manage to be so productive, so energetic, so creative, so oblivious to the futility of our existence.  And when the oppressive cloud lifts, which it always does, despite the fact that circumstances are unchanged, I marvel at the plethora of opportunities awaiting my attention.

The uncertainty of being unemployed undermines my self-confidence, makes me forget all of my dreams and schemes and grandiose plans that seemed so thrilling when I still had a job, health insurance, profit sharing and coworkers who depended on me.  What a surprise to learn that the job that kept me from doing all those wonderful things was the thing that inspired me.

So, the challenge is to find the confidence to pursue new goals and trust that no matter how badly I fail, I can still pick myself up and try again.  William Randolph Hearst was my age before he even started to build Hearst's Castle so I guess I can safely take on a more modest endeavor. 

Okay, I give.  I know I've been whining about the drought for years and I realize that one should always be cautious about what one wishes for, but couldn't we ease into this rain thing a little at a time? 

This was my first week of unemployment and I had a list as long as my arm of things I was going to do.  Way, way down on that list was "clean up my desk" but after several days of inclement weather I have run out of the fun indoor stuff and been forced to wade through the mountain of unfinished paperwork.  Even as I write, I admit that all I've done is organize things into files of "Things to do immediately" and "Things to do eventually" but I really needed a break. 

I baked some bread to make the house smell good and then bundled up to do some yard work but as soon as I started digging, it started to rain again. 

  So I'm back on the computer procrastinating at cleaning up my desk.

There appears to be no end in sight to the rain.  This will give me time to turn some of the latest mountain bike video clips into movies.

I found this blogring for mountain bikers but it had nothing on it.  How does that happen?  Did all of its 11 members have fatal mountain bike accidents?  Maybe I should write a blog on mountain bike safety.

First tip:  Look farther ahead and go as fast as you can.  Speed is your friend when it comes to rolling over obstacles.

Second tip:  Wear a helmet just in case you fail in tip number one.

I finally got ambitious and took some photos on Sunday.  We get so caught up in the fun of the ride that I don't like to stop to take time to take the camera out of my camelback, but it was such a spectacular day I couldn't resist. 

Sally and I drove up to Grape Street and started at the Stanley Ranch Trail.  Then we climbed the new trail that cuts through Yikes! to the Crafton Hills fire road and from there took the motorcycle trail to the top of Zanja Peak.  Sally is such a mountain goat, she managed to stay on her bike even on the last excruciating push to the summit.  I was highly motivated to ride it too as there was a group of guys at the top that I would have liked to impress.  Unfortunately my wicked ways (too many Starbucks Mudpies and too few hours in the saddle) undermined my effort.  Thankfully, the guys had ridden off before we got to the summit so my humiliation was only in my own mind.  Sally is too good a friend to rub my nose in it.  I took a panoramic video of the surrounding mountains which I have not yet been able to upload.  If anyone out there has a tip on how to get it to upload faster than 3500 minutes, please let me know.

We rode the Dump Trail down (see the photo album) which is in nice shape except for the unusual water bars someone dug.  They were shaped in such a way as to grab your front wheel and fling you over the side if you weren't careful to cross them at an odd angle.  Maybe they thought they were creating speed control bumps at the same time.  It was a bit of a bummer because it's really fun to get up some speed on the steep sections.

The only bad thing about that ride is that you have to either ride Oak Glen Road and Bryant back to the truck or climb back up the switch backed trail out of the Regional Park.  Neither one is much fun after such a thrilling downhill. 

So anyway, when I got home and pulled my bike out of the truck, I had another flat tire!!!  I couldn't find anything wrong with it and it held air when refilled so Mike speculated that he had forgotten to close the valve and something pressed against it on the trip home.  Thank goodness because I'm starting to get a flat complex.