The frisbees failed; I can only fetch them myself so many times. So did the rope. The tennis ball is the worst, it tends to roll farther than I can throw. But as it turns out, an Aussie will herd anything, including radio-controlled buggies.

I've been taking the dog to chase the buggy. When I set the car down she sniffs its back end as she would another dog. I guess she thinks it's another animal, like poultry or game or little pigs. She chases it full-gallop, barking, nipping, occasionally trying to pick the it up. Every few laps I would let her win and bring it to a stop in front of me, where she would scold it for running away and pant heavily in turn. It seems the herder enjoys herding. She gets more exercise doing this than she does running. I've never seen her tongue so long; she can almost step on it.

I guess the more natural option would be for her to make dog friends, but even we have yet to make friends in Philadelphia.

As one friendly passerby described, "It's fun for the entire family".

····

I don't know why I picked it; coffee is the worst flavor for a late night ice-cream habit.

·

I couldn't believe it. The guy on the flat-bar Surly passed us as the Tamster was taking a pull. We passed the guy several miles ago; how could he, on his own against some formidable wind, keep up and eventually pass us? He doesn't even wear a helmet. Could he be fit?

I took the reigns without having recovered and tried to catch back up. It took me a mile and some fortunate traffic congestion to make it to his wheel; but even then I had to sit in for a few moments before I could pass.

I never eased up. There is a point to be proven. What it is, I didn't know; but I firmly believed there is one. I went hard until there was no sign of him. In fact, I went hard until we took our break at the end of the path.

We got off the path and split a bar; one whole bar always seemed too much to eat during a ride. Our conversation was a little hazy as I was a little light-headed. That is until she uttered the magic words "With us the whole time."

"Who?"

"The guy who passed us."

"The guy who passed us?"

"The guy who passed us."

"He sat in?"

"He was with us the whole time."

"The guy with the cycling cap?"

"The guy you chased down. You weren't yourself. You didn't even know you lost me for a while. I had to sprint back up."

"So he sat in, huh."

····

The dog casually pooped three medium-length pieces: black, brown, and then bright orange.

····

I got in the driver's seat to take us to the park.

"My, this car is dusty."

"I know."

Ran the wipers once, twice, "Wait a minute. That's not dust; that's pollen."

·

I forgot what it's like to get on the big ring. I forgot it actually feels easier.

····

We started the third installment of 24. I feel both excited and worried about this. The last season kept my imagination wound up even as I slept; it was like drunk sleep.

····

After another long, fruitless (so to speak) walk with Max, I decided to give her bowels one last effort before we resort to medication. At midnight I fed her three bowls of the ultra-mega-fiber mix: canned pumpkin, canned peas, and Ultra All-Bran. I would've fed her more but I got sleepy.

Watching her eat I imagined victorious results in the form of her barking, nipping, whining, begging me to take her out in the middle of the night.

·

At a little before midnight, I took the dog out for a long walk. She hasn't emptied her bowels since Tuesday and we were getting a little worried. It could be because we ran out of the canned pumpkin (fiber) that usually complements her meal, or because she has not had much exercise in the past few days due to rain; or both. I meant to keep walking until she poops.

I first let her wander around the yard. It's a sorry excuse for a yard; I usually describe it as four feet by four, but it's really more like twelve by twenty-four counting the bushes. She sniffed around for a bit before standing, then sitting, then laying by my feet. She just looked at me blankly when I pointed at the bushes and commanded "Go poop."

I tried the spot behind the Chinese restaurant next. It's a long, narrow piece of grass ideal for pacing; and that we did for a while. This used to be her favorite spot until we got too lazy; it's almost a whole half-block away. During our uhm-teenth lap I realized that while she had her head down low as if sniffing, she was actually just watching me.

The train station has an even longer patch of grass, some bushes, ample light and privacy. I let her off the leash to explore on her own. I may be putting too much pressure on her being nearby; dogs can have performance anxiety too. She walked around for a good while. A couple of times I called her back when she got too far. My watch was about to tell me it was one o'clock. Still no poop.

At least we got to practice walking around without a leash. There was no one around in the middle of the night who'd freak out about the unleashed hyena. And there were no other dogs to distract her. She was good; whenever she got too far I'd snap my fingers and she'd run to my side and sit. Now if she only would empty her bowels on command.

·

On impulse, I made guacamole to complement our steak tacos. We had to have the tacos; the carne asada had been marinating too long and was ready for the grill. The best taquerias serve their tacos with just white onions and cilantro; as I am serious about steak tacos, I meant to follow suit. We just needed some green on the side for a better-rounded meal; So guacamole it was.

I've never made it before, but have eaten it consistently ever since I discovered Mexican food in Chicago. They're often hit-or-miss at the local taquerias; any combination of thick, runny, rich, bland, green, and brown. However at fancy restaurants, ingredients you picked are mixed before you in a stone bowl.

Ironically, the most consistently refreshing guacamole I've found is made by the McDonald's Corporation's Chipotle chain. Their chips are good too.

We had most of the ingredients to make the guacamole. Avocados are no stranger to our shopping cart; I often put them on burgers and sandwiches. We had onions, tomatoes, and cilantro. I scooped in plain yogurt to replace lime and sour cream. Instead of jalapenos I used crushed chili peppers and Frank's Red Hot.

It looked a lot easier when they make it in front of you; they had the advantage of having proper avocados. As it turned out, ours were not quite ripe. My shaking, hungry hands had trouble freeing the meat off of the skin. Instead of mixing the lot by hand, I had to use the loud, less elegant food processor.

It turned out okay; Tammie liked it.

····

Reminds me of this guy I worked with in Madison.

I was nineteen, working behind the grill at Ella's Deli and Ice Cream Parlor. This deli had a full-size carousel out front and a carnival atmosphere within. The tables had various magnetic games, rolling ball mazes, and Pez collections; all built in. Above, mechanical biplanes and animatronic creatures buzz about on fixed wire courses.

The guy I worked for was the shift supervisor. He would read the tickets out loud, put the burger on the bun, the bun on the plate, garnish it, and then ring the bell. Actually, he did more than that; he managed traffic, making sure everything on the same order cooked at the same time. I simply grilled the burger when he told me to.

One day, while working alongside him, I noticed some guacamole on his neck where his Adam's apple would be (he was rather heavyset). I pointed it out.

"Oh. It's a birth defect." he said, and wiped it off with handkerchief. "It happens when I'm around heat."

"Oh." I said.

I was awed that our body can produce something so... green. Sometimes, when I look at a bowl of guacamole, I see the stuff slowly squirting out of some duct on this guy's neck; a bit like toothpaste or bicycle grease.

It wasn't until recently—as recent as a month ago—that I started thinking perhaps he made that whole thing up. A google search for "green ooze birth defect" produced no relevant results, as did a search "thick goo throat".

·

This reminds me: until I ran across recent references to her in imdb.com, I thought Phoebe Cates committed suicide when I was in grade school.

·

Recently, I had a bouquet of wireless network issues. It was enough troubleshooting to keep me up halfway into the night. I know, I could've quit; but the idea of waking up to a network that wasn't working as it should did not appeal to me. I like things to be perfect in the morning.

The router, out of the blue, started dropping the iBooks. Every few moments, I had to get up from my comfortable spot to power cycle the box. It could've at least had a power switch, but instead it boasted a power jack.

The trouble with troubleshooting is that you're usually doing it because you don't have a clue what's wrong. Through tedious trial-and-error, you cross out every possible scenario until you're left with one conclusion—sure, the one you've suspected all along. But of course you can never start with your nagging suspicion; that would be too easy.

After installing new firmware, resetting all the settings, clicking and unclicking every option—all that in the most mangled, backwards way possible—it turns out that changing the wireless channel (there are 11 to choose from) cleared up the connection. Until then the router was on 6, which was the default and likely saturated channel. It's possible that opening up the windows had increased signal interference.

It is also likely that, just as it had when it stopped working, the router simply and unexplainably decided to work again. It could very well have been coincidence that it had done so after I switched the channel.

Not satisfied that I fixed the issue, I still cringe every time my connection stalls or my browser hesitates.

·

For the third night in a row we had a craving for sushi. I'm certain it's the much-anticipated arrival of warm weather; around this time of year, my appetite shrivels and my palate longs for cool, light, and fresh.

A brief scan of the internet revealed no sushi delivery in Mount Airy. It's not much of a surprise; the only two Japanese restaurants in the area are of the upscale variety.

Craving was as far as we got. We were too lazy to do carry-out so we settled for whatever we had lying around. With uni and ikura in our hearts, we ate chicken tacos and beef tamales on the first night, frozen pizza and pre-blanched fries the next, and tonight's proxy was broiled lamb and fried rice.

So much for cool, light, and fresh.

····

6. Grey little thing impersonating a kangaroo.

·

My watch tells me I completed my target 66th hour of base training.

Of course, it's counting the mile long, heart-rate-maxed, go-on-without-me climb at the end of each ride; that is technically not a base mile. Thrown in the mix is the descent on that same hill, which brings me towards 40 mph just coasting; that is not a base mile either. And then there are the few occasions I forgot to disarm my watch after a ride; it wasn't intentional, but it still should not count.

Considering the state of this racing season, I'll let it slide. I never thought it would happen but my legs have begun to cry for some hurt.

·

By the time we make it out to the local team's sunday morning base ride, they'll be done with their base miles. More likely, they'll have already started endurance or interval training and have gotten too fast for us to keep up with.

Okay... for me to keep up with.

This week's excuse is a sudden onslaught of seasonal allergies; it kept me up through a good portion of the night. Instead of sleepy time, it was sneezy time; and this morning all I can see is my swollen lower eyelids.

····

Caught my fifth mouse.

Again, the night shift found a way to the bait without setting off the trap. All three traps were missing the Nutella bait, yet only one of them held a rodent. I still find it hard to believe that they are capable off working in tandem to beat the mechanism; but I can't think of any other method.

Perhaps my unfortunate captive had a flakey partner—who got distracted while holding the trap down. Can mice have ADD?

····

I'd just like to keep these mice straight, need I reference them in the future:

1. Cute little thing with beady little eyes.
2. Peed and pooped all over itself. Quite nasty.
3. Rather small, all brown, and very bouncy.
4. Big, grey, and big.
5. Black as midnight. Would not leave the trap.

·

Some time last week, we tried to order from the neighboring (literally) restaurant which delivers pizza, cheesesteaks, wings, and the like. They were closed, on a day that they advertised they would be open.

Though it's not the best food (nor the best food for us), we were worried they had closed their doors. The location was as convenient as it could be. We could probably tap our order in through the wall in Morse code.

As it turned out, they were renovating. Two clues led me to that conclusion: a sign saying "Under renovation: we will re-open on the 24th", and the sounds of dragging, sawing, hammering, and drilling (renovation) that starts after midnight and goes on through the night.

They weren't that loud; you could barely tell what they were up to. But those who know what it's like to wake up to the sound of a dog defending its owners have a pretty good idea what we went through early this morning. Max did her job and alerted us, very effectively, that there are strange and unwelcome sounds coming from downstairs. I might've had as much as five adrenaline rushes. Talk about zero-to-sixty.

·

Conversation on the trail led to a memorable solo ride on Chicago's Lakefront Path:

Near Hyde Park, the part of my ride where I was farthest from home, I felt a loud plastic whack coming from my head. Confused and alarmed, I looked around to see if anyone else had heard it. In the distance there was a little south-side punk laughing his face off. It took a while to realize he threw a rock and hit my helmet.

Consequently, I rode by the same spot the next day to find a man in his forties rubbing an aluminum Colnago and yelling something about respect toward the trees.

A few miles after the rock bounced off of my head, just south of McCormick, I was about to pass a guy on a hybrid. He was coasting along at around 16 mph; I was speeding at around 23.

"On your"—before I could finish with "left" he turns and spits a wad right into my face. I had a helmet for asphalt, I had glasses for debris; but I didn't have anything on that would keep this man's spit from getting into my mouth.

The look on that guy's face was almost worth it. It's still frozen in my mind: the moment of realization, after release but before impact.

A few miles later, north of Navy Pier, I caught up to a well-tanned roller-blader in white linen (transparent) capris. She was just inching along, bobbing her head to her tunes.

"On your left."

"Lala, I'm listening to the Postal Service on my iPod"

"On your left."

"Lala, I'm so cute."

"On your"—

"Lala, I'ma turn left without looking now."

····

Friends notice my defensive tendencies when I'm riding; I call out too much, I slow down too often, I'm always waiting for the car to make its move. Often the phrase "right of way" gets thrown around, to which I respond "right of way won't matter when you're trying to free my torso from a wheel well."

I have a simple rule: never assume. Never assume that they can hear you. Never assume that they can see you. And never assume that a rock isn't going to hit you upside the head.

·

I'm like a kid at the hardware store. I went in for 4mm nuts and left with a hex bit set, an optical philips multi-screwdriver, a magnetic bit extender, a foot's worth of 2-inch wide Velcro tape, lithium grease, motor oil, and four large permanent magnets for the fridge.

····

The heating and cooling guy came to look at our heating system. It turns out that between the underpowered boiler, the 8-inch pipes spanning the length of the building, and the uninsulated basement, a monthly gas bill of $700 isn't that unreasonable.

This whole time we thought we were getting heat from the salon below. It's not unreasonable to think that; heat rises. What we didn't know was the ginormous pipes that bring us our heat act as radiators themselves, warming up the basement, which in turn warms up our neighbors downstairs. Heat rises after all.

·

Anyone else get the impulse to say "LOL" out loud in one syllable?

····

After a week-long truce, I found droppings on the stove top and two traps triggered, one false and one with a guest. Breakfast is the first priority of the morning, so I left the little critter alone in its box in a corner. It made loud, scraping noises to assert its presence on the queue of things I still need to do.

Maxine, though visibly disturbed, did her best to avoid eye contact with the scratchy, bouncy black box in her peripheral; she focused on her food. Good girl.

Upon closer inspection, the bait—a medley of bleu cheese, Nutella, and peanut butter—was missing from the falsely triggered trap. This has happened before but I pinned it on human error. Now it's certain that the rodents have found their way around the trap.

I haven't figured out how a mouse can get to the bait without setting off the mechanism. The simple answer would be teamwork; one little mouse holds down the see-saw while another walks up the plank and feasts. But they can't be that smart; they're so small.

·

Of course, the first thing I did when the radio controlled buggy came was strip it down to its chassis and then put it back together. That just goes without saying. Any one else would've gone to the park to enjoy their new toy, but I'm the type who would first try to understand it. I even took apart the control unit.

The next thing I did was peel off the decals; I'm not a fan of the blue and yellow color scheme, and tag lines like "Spurred to Action" are just another lever of dorky. I replaced them with stickers I've collected, mostly from bike swag: Thomson, Sidi, Crank Brothers, a USCF emblem, and Rotofugi. I also took the letters S, A, and G from a vinyl letter set purchased for our mailbox.

Satisfied, I tried the buggy out indoors; it was a little late to run to the park. It's fast and rather hard to let loose in the confines of our home. Still I got some speed in, but with a penalty; I left skid marks all over the floor. They looked like the claw marks the dog would leave on the rug whenever her nails were too long; two parallel sets of four thin lines separated by eight inches of space. They even smelled like burnt rubber.

I was rather disappointed that Maxine figured out rather quickly that I controlled the buggy.

·

At one point in the night, the three of us (the Tamster, the dog, and I) eyed each other to see who was leading in the race to fall asleep. It was a stalemate; no one was nodding off any time soon.

Outside, the rain that had started sunday morning has turned into a winter storm. Every gusty howl whipped ice pellets at the bedroom windows; at the ones to my left, then the ones behind, then at the windows to my right; in that order. It was an excercise in spatial acoustics; it kept us awake.

····

Maxine's tennis balls came. I gave her one and hid the remaining two. She took to it quickly and has been keeping it by her side. It looks funny in her mouth. So far she's enjoyed pouncing on and bouncing with it, but we haven't tried playing outside. The nor'eastern snow made sure of that.

·

I was glad it was raining when we woke up. It means we get to sleep in.

····

We couldn't figure out why the soy sauce tasted funny.

I guessed that it's flavored or brewed with some citrus fruit. It didn't bother me too much or strike me as too weird; in the Philippines we would add lime or crush garlic cloves and hot peppers in the stuff. But it definitely didn't go with the sushi and the Tamster just didn't like it.

I flagged down the waiter and asked "what kind of soy sauce is this?"

The guy smiled and bowed apologetically, "low sodium."

"Ah, low sodium."

·

As it does when I neglect my grooming duties, my shadow grew into a beard. I don't notice stages in between; it is always just there, at once, in all of its scruff. Perhaps if I routinely shave this wouldn't happen; but it's rather hard to stick with a schedule when priorities are shared with my head and my legs.

····

Last December I upgraded from a Mach3 to a Fusion. Other than the kewl color scheme (blue, orange, and chrome) and an impressive price tag, I see no real difference: my beard still shows up when I don't shave.

····

One cold winter, when my old agency was still in its old loft space, all of us guys grew full beards, wore thick wool hats, and typed in full-finger gloves. We described the look as "on tour" or "on the road" bur really we were just cold.

····

My upper lip used to run straight across until, when I was fourteen, I shaved too confidently. The result was, besides bloody rawness that lasted a few weeks, an indentation on the upper edge of my upper lip that is common to most people. In fact, lips are never drawn without it.

People don't usually believe me when I explain this to them.

·

It didn't occur to me that I prepared our tax returns on Friday, the 13th. I'm generally not superstitious or neurotic, but tax returns are important stuff. Those of us who get their income reported in 1099-MISCs (instead of the more common W-2) need to be rather thorough with our expenses; it could mean as much as getting to build an extra bike this year. It could, but this year it didn't.

····

I can't figure out why tax day was moved to Tuesday the 17th instead of Monday the 16th.

····

Harold Crick is my favorite IRS auditor.

·

So far I've managed to put in 55 (out of my goal of 66) hours of base miles. Normally, I would be able to make up the deficit within a week but we have a bit of rain coming in starting this weekend.

I don't mind starting my training in May; there is no rush. Though Pennsylvania racing started in March we have yet to join a team or renew our licenses. We haven't even made it to any of the Italian fountain group rides.

This year isn't going to be a very big racing year. We've been a little slow at making racing friends. We also haven't had the chance to learn our way around. For us, this season will have a late kick-off and will be light at best—maybe five major races.

····

There is a reason self-checkout is limited to 20 items. Scanning a hundred grocery items through it can ruin anyone's night.

·

In the eighties, when I was nine, my dad got me a radio-controlled car.

I don't remember asking for one; I was more into action figures like He-Man, Transformers, Thundercats, and Silverhawks. I didn't really have an interest in cars, and in a way that never fully developed—I still don't have a license.

It was a hobby-quality toy—meaning you start with a few hundred plastic, rubber, and metal parts; add some oil for the shocks, a motor for the drivetrain; finish it off with some paint and some decals and voila.

I think my dad got interested the hobby, and then built me a Tamiya Super Shot and a Thunder Shot for himself. He had them finished by the time I saw them.

I broke mine often; the car was sturdy but not sturdier than a wall coming at it at 15 miles per hour. I wasn't a very good driver or a very good mechanic. I didn't even know that you build these things; I thought it just came from the store.

My dad fixed the car as often as I wrecked it; then one day he took it back and gave me his on loan. Of course I didn't know it was on loan so I painted his yellow car black.

That was the end of that.

····

I checked out the state of the RC scene today. Apparently, the craze ended with the eighties; it's nowhere near as popular as it was then. Only dedicated hobbyists are still doin' it, but it's good to know that people are still into their Tamiyas. The cars are no longer competitive in the racing circuits—the trend has moved on to nitro powered cars—but hobbyists still collect them and the company is still producing many new models every year.

Perhaps a car will be my next project: pick up a kit and put it together, spec a fast motor and decent electronics, then, piece by piece, replace all the original parts with custom ones made out of blue anodized alloy and carbon fiber. Yeah, I like that. I've run out of bikes to build, unless I get into recumbents.

I never built my own car but used to build Tamiya's plastic tank models (the stationary kind). I don't know why but I really liked tanks back then. Perhaps that's how my dad got into the hobby, seeing the cars at hobby shop as he picked up my next tank kit.

Even today, whenever I see the Tamiya logo I smell plastic cement and my fingers instinctively get stuck together.

I sound old but I'm not.

·

I ordered some tennis balls for the dog to play with. Tennis balls are furry. They are bouncy and bright green. The dog will have no choice but to chase and retrieve. Chase and retrieve.

She doesn't do frisbees, she doesn't do rope, and she doesn't do sticks. She just runs in the general direction of any thrown object with no intention of interacting with it.

To be fair, she's different at home. She loves her squeaky hedgehog; she takes it out when she pees, she rests her little chin on it as she naps, she brings it to bed, she squeaks it all the time. She even likes to play fetch with it as long as we're inside.

It's just outside that I can't get her to do it at all.

····

Tammie came home with a large container of pulled pork left over from an office lunch. We ate it cold for a small snack, the ate it hot in the form of burritos. Very satisfying.

·

J.D. Power and Associates mailed us a big, fat survey to fill out on our recent car purchase. It was printed in red ink with both a Scantron bubble section and an essay at the end.

Along with the survey—almost too easy to miss—was a crisp dollar bill. After making sure it was real, I pocketed the cash and tossed the rest in with the trash.

····

One thought kept surfacing whenever we passed other riders on the trail: I look like a fred.

It's mostly because of my bright, bright, bright green windbreaker that fluttered like the oversized plastic poncho that it was. It's also because of my wheels; the front was a sexy deep rimmed wheel that isn't really that practical, while the rear is my trainer wheel from my pit wheel set.

Topping it off is an oversized Huffy logo displayed on my down tube. This would be amusing had I been wearing full kit and not looking so fred; but today it only seemed appropriate.

·

It's one of those days—bland—kinda like when there's nothing to watch on TV.

·

We've been out on the trails around the Wissahickon creek several times; but until today it was was really more like hiking, with a heavy bike on one hand and crappy shoes on both feet, than riding.

The reason experienced riders love this park so much is the same reason we can't ride it for more than 5 minutes without dismounting: rocks. Plenty of rocks. Big rocks. Not mere gravel, not stones, but rocks. Even walking is difficult; I've gotten my foot painfully wedged in a gap (the second time, as rock-saavy riders went by).

We've been exploring the trail system, looking for a bunny hill. Normally what starts out looking easy ends up in the rocks. At that point we would turn back and return to Forbidden drive, to ride with seniors on hybrids.

Today we took on the toughest climb we've seen so far; fairly easy on the rocks but heavy on the steep. It also had strategically placed switchbacks which, coupled with the light rocks, were effective in stopping forward momentum.

We've done this climb before; there's a bit of ridable singletrack at the top that forks into two. The one we've previously taken looked clean but led to the rockiest descent imaginable. I hated it. The one we took today looked hairy, starting with a short rocky climb, but led to some very fun single track and the longest loop that we've managed so far.

This is now our loop. It may be the only one we can do at the moment, but we love it.

·

I registered carloscabalu.com today. It's not quite catchy but I would just kick my self, over and over, if another carlos cabalu got to it before I did.

I was actually holding out for cabalu.com. It's shorter, easier to remember, and faster to type. It's been taken for a while but keying it in only opens a parking page.

A WHOIS inquiry reveals that a Jul Cabalu has been squatting on the domain for the past few years; I don't know him though I suspect, like most Cabalus, he has roots in the province of Tarlac. The domain becomes available in July if Jul doesn't reregister; I'll have to check up on him then.

····

The domain registration service I use offered me a few suggestions when cabalu.com turned out to be unavailable:

cabalu.net, cabalu.org, cabalu.info, cabalu.biz, cabalu.us, cabalu.co.uk, cabalu.me.ukca, cabalu.org.uk, cabaluonline.com, cabaluonline.net, cabaluonline.org, cabaluonline.info, cabaluonline.biz, cabaluonline.us, cabaluweb.com, cabaluweb.net, cabaluweb.org, cabaluweb.info, cabaluweb.biz, cabaluweb.us, cabalunet.net, cabalunet.org, cabalunet.info, cabalunet.biz
cabalunet.us, cabaluworld.com, cabaluworld.org, cabaluworld.info
cabaluworld.us, thecabalu.com, thecabalu.org, thecabalu.info
thecabalu.us, thecabalu.net, cabaluworld.net, cabalunet.com
cabaluworld.biz, thecabalu.biz

I seriously considered thecabalu.com so I could have the email address thecarlos@thecabalu.com.

Classy.

·

Having to rely on an instruction manual was the last resort—I mean, all I wanted to do was defrost chicken breasts; it shouldn't be that hard. But the microwave oven was rather anti-intuitive. The first thing you see when you open the door is an uncoated metal rack, just like the racks on a conventional oven or even a those of the toaster oven. I thought you couldn't have metal in the microwave.

It turns out that, as explained by the manual, you can have metal in the microwave—that was news to me. Arcing (rhymes with sparking) can only happen on pieces of metal that can act like an antenna. So a stainless steel mixing bowl is okay while a fork would not be okay. A potato properly wrapped in tin foil, yes; a twisty tie, never.

I learned this on our first week at our new home, but have only begun exercising this new privilege today. The dog's stainless steel food bowl fits nicely in the nuke; saves using a second dish to defrost her frozen food.

Pretty cool, huh? I can't wait to do this in front of unsuspecting hosts.

····

While I graze the subject of Max's diet, I think it's interesting to note that over fifty of the brands involved in the pet food recall get their product from one source: Menu Foods, Inc. of Canada.

The company manufactures a good portion of pet food consumed in the States and sells it under different brands to give the illusion of a competitive market filled with choices.

I wonder if my dog's hippie food—she's on the BARF—comes from the same source.

·

Though I'm not getting my hopes up, I feel the need to report that today there were no droppings.

····

Yesterday I found myself in tandem with a guy in a pro team kit (CSC). Judging from his tan he hasn't been out much and was probably, just like me, out for base miles. I don't know why—okay, I know why—but as soon as we teamed up the pace went up to an average of 22 mph into some formidable wind.

For 12 miles we took turns riding upright on the flats of our bars; as least aerodynamic as possible, pretending the wind isn't there. It took just as much energy trying to look at ease as it did to maintain the pace up front.

Eventually we caught up to another rider, a few gates, and a series of tight turns; enough reasons to ease up on our sausage juggernaut. Soon after, he pulled off towards a rest stop.

"Thanks." he turned to say.

"Thanks for the lift." I smiled back and continued on to meet the Tamster for our evening ride.

I finished at 45 miles. Under normal circumstances that is about average for a base mile ride. This time, I barely made it home.

·····

Last year, my team held a series of four time trials to monitor our fitness. They were held on the south side of the Chicago's Lakefront Path, every six weeks beginning on the first Wednesday in April. The course is roughly 10 miles, from point A to point B and back.

My time went from a little above 32 minutes to a little above 26. While my shortest time isn't all that great, I was happy with the 6 minute improvement; I went from being the slowest to being about average.

Today, I decided to do this series of time trials on my own. I decided the trainer is the most controlled way of monitoring my progress; it takes out variables such as wind and traffic. To keep things consistent I set up my computer, pumped my tires to 120 psi, turned the knob on my trainer 720 degrees.

I gave up almost as soon as I started. At about 3 minutes in, I found myself pushing at 92% of my maximum heart rate going 18 mph. At this rate I would finish at what—40 minutes? I knew the pace on the trainer was going to be different but this was disheartening.

After I thought about it I decided this was still a more consistent benchmark. I just need to throw the last year's numbers out the window. And I'll need a few days to recover; I'm sort of cooled down and I don't really want to do it after this false start.

·

The brie worked; but the pattern of poop surrounding the trap suggests there were other mice trying to free the captive. Perhaps it's a mother mouse frantically trying to release her youngest baby mouse.

This is my third mouse. I think it's safe to say that this time around third time is not a charm; it could be as much as a dozen is a charm—or worse, two dozen.

I released the rodent around the corner, a block away; I try to pick a different spot each time to confuse their innate collective memory. At first my little friend wouldn't leave the trap. It took a few taps to get it to bounce away. Of course, when it finally did jet, I jumped a little.

····

My hair's finally starting to grow back.

Last week I had a mishap in the shower: I forgot to attach the usual eighth inch guard on the clippers. The first cold stroke on the side of my head immediately informed me of my mistake; but by then it was too late.

You wouldn't think an eighth of an inch would make a big difference but it does. My crown gets much, much colder; I have to keep it covered most of the time. However it becomes somewhat difficult to put on a cap because at this length my bristly asian head has turned into the hook end of a hook-and-loop closure mechanism (Velcro®). Catch-22.

·

I brought the dog to the park to get her some exercise. We used to run there; but I've been running less and less since I've been riding more and more, and the less I run the more it hurts the knees. So we walked.

We stayed away from Forbidden Drive, which is likely to have distracting foot traffic, bike traffic, and even the occasional horse traffic. Max needs a quiet spot to focus on her frisbee; more importantly, a secluded spot to be unleashed in a leash park. We parked our stuff by her favorite pond on the eastern edge of the park.

She wasn't interested in the least. I tried sliding it, rolling it, tossing it, catching it, bouncing it, hiding it, running it, chasing it, and biting it. For a second I thought she was chasing the damn thing but as soon as I threw it she stopped; she was chasing me.

Tomorrow I'll try her rope.

····

After successfully catching two mice, the traps suddenly stopped working. I tried switching the bait from peanut butter to nutella, and currently, to brie—these are city mice after all. I've also started disguising the traps in crumpled paper and cereal boxes to further entice their sophisticated palate.

I'm pretty sure my earlier efforts to duct tape them out were fruitless. Now it's just a question of the likelihood of trapping them all.

I'm so tempted to set up video surveillance; I'd really want to see how many of them there really are.

····

I don't know if it was the mood I was in but Snakes on a Plane was just dumb. It wasn't even camp; it was dumb.

·

April fool's tally: the Tamster with zero, Carlos with three. I win.

····

We bought Max a couple of frisbees; one blue and one orange. Australian Cattle Dogs are supposed to be naturals when it comes to retrieving these things in mid-air, but our dog only looked at them. If anything, the noise they made as they hit the floor bothered her. Perhaps I should try this outside.

·