Author: kennettron

Breakfast: eggs, hamburger meat (free range even), mushrooms, steel cut oats, flax seed, honey, coffee, rice milk, water.

Objective: on the bike strength training (big gear hill repeats).  Then ride to work (late).

Legs: feeling goodish.  Not sure yet.

Stomach: feeling like sitting around some more and watching youtube videos of Fleche Wallone.

Finally, back to training!  And training means big breakfasts and large bowel movements.  I have accomplished both today, and may be accomplishing one more of those things in a short time to come.  There’s no better way to start the day then waking up, loosing five pounds, gaining five pounds, and then loosing three more pounds.  All within 30 minutes.  It gives you a great feeling of accomplishment and lets you know that the day is just going to keep getting better and better.

More time on the bike means a lot more food.  Which means a lot more food going to someone who doesn’t really need it–someone who is just riding around on a plastic/metal toy for hours on end, eating up precious calories that could be going to nourish someone who really needs it.  Some poor guy in a dirt quarry in Africa, taken out of his village to break rocks with a sledge hammer for 18 hours a day–against his will and for almost no pay.

Before they came and destroyed his life, he had it pretty good.  He and his family didn’t have much, just a few cows and a small thatch-roofed hut.  But no one else in his village had any more or any less than him, so he lived in relative wealth among his people.  There were plenty of yams to be had, plenty of cheep beer, and few rainy days.  Life was just swell.  Until they came.

It happened on one of the few rainy days that they had.  Three military trucks came and burned the small village down, shot those who ran, and tied the rest up to be taken to slave camps to mine for gold, diamonds, and in our friend’s case: dirt.

The unstable government of this African nation (well, stable actually sense it’s always so UNstable that it can be viewed as being stable), had many causes.  Overpopulated cities, lack of education, a poor transportation system, lack of free media, a non-democratic government that always seemed to be involved in multiple wars, ohh wait.  That’s the United States.  Uhh, well I guess all that stuff plus no money, and more powerful countries aiding terrorist groups to cause trouble so the richer countries can get at the African country’s oil, diamonds, and gold with ease.  And dirt.

Our friend was beaten, yelled at, and thrown in the back of one of the large trucks.  After a bumpy, 47 hour ride in the crammed truck full of 30 of his friends, the truck stopped.  They were kicked out of the back and handed picks and sledge hammers.  The handles of both were worn and splintery and immediately our friend got a big splinter right between his index and middle finger, right in the notch there–the worst place for a hand splinter, other than under your finger nail.  Just as our friend, we’ll call him Bob since I don’t know any good African names, thought this day (or week now) couldn’t get any worse, he got another splinter under his thumb nail.  Damn sledge hammer.

He and his fellow prisoners were taken down into a large pit or rock, 400 feet down into the earth.  There were forty or fifty other forced labor workers there already, hammering away at the rock and carrying it out by walking  up a large wooden scaffolding on the east side of the quarry.

They were told to keep a sharp eye out for dirt and or mud, and to immediately report any they found.  There was a penalty of death for smuggling dirt out of the mine, so they better not even try it or else.  The upside to finding the dirt, though, was that once a ‘worker’ found 1200 grams of it, they were set free and paid $6.50 for their time.  Only the first batches of workers had found any dirt though.  It was all during the first week of digging, and for some reason the mine had produced no more once they got below 20 feet.  The quarry company had lost some $2.7 million dollars during that first week as they kept their promise to the thousands of workers they had paid and let free after finding their 1200 grams.  Business was bad now, and they made up for it by cutting back on food and water for their workers.

As the weeks and months wore on, Bob’s strength decreased as his fingers continued to get nasty splinters and his stomach remained empty, causing his ribs to protrude, his cheeks to go gaunt, and his arms to dwindle like small twigs.  He cursed the endless amount of boulders to be smashed, he cursed the guards with their guns, he cursed the hot sun, and above all he cursed the US based compost company that had hired this mining outfit to fulfill a large quota of dirt.  The composting company had been cutting their compost with dirt for years, and their profits had increased because of it.  They decided to move their dirt quarries overseas, since it would be cheaper, and now cut their product with 50% African soil (marked directly on the bag as a marketing technique), which allowed them to sell a bag of compost at Home Depot for $7.80, an unbeatable price for people that didn’t realize the point of composting is to ‘reuse’ discarded food scraps for fertilizing your yard.  They saw “Now with African soil and minerals” and couldn’t help but buy an extra bag of it.  Just think of the petunias that could be grown with THAT exotic compost??!!.  Most of the consumers didn’t realize the negatives of this kind of overseas operation, where the dirt was collected in Africa, the ‘compost’ collected in the sewers of India, and the mixing and bagging operation carried out in China.  They didn’t realize it was taking good American jobs and shipping them overseas, and they didn’t realize the minimal wages the workers were paid.  “At least they have jobs now,” was a common attitude for those who took any time to think about it at all.  But Bob would disagree.  He wanted his old life back.  A life free of constant splinters, being yelled at, and smashing rocks against his will for a half cup of rice a day.  Like a cyclist, he spent the majority of his day being hungry.  Except in a different way.  Maybe it would all be bearable if he could at least have an extra quarter, no eighth cup, of rice.  That would be do-able.  But no, greedy ‘ol Kennett needs it to ride up an extra hill today.  And the reason for riding up a hill on a bike is….uhh…

Well, this weekend was the first true weekend of riding in a long time.  Real riding, not sitting in groups drafting and chatting, but real base miles.  December is closing in and it’s time to start building up the hours.  Quinn and I did a cool 4.5 hours on Saturday.  Low points were getting screamed at by an old fat guy with a rifle to get the — off his —-ing property–for about five minutes straight while Quinn and I were on the edge of the road next to his driveway trying to get Quinn’s fender to stop rubbing.  Quinn called the police, and was politely informed by them that threatening to shoot someone while waving a rifle about and screaming obscenities is NOT against the law, and to please not call back until someone was shot and bleeding out on the pavement.  Other low points were when Quinn dropped his glasses and a car ran over them (most of the low points happened to Quinn by the way).  A semi truck almost hit us in an intersection where it failed to see us coming, or failed to care probably.  And last but not least I can’t remember the fourth thing but I’m pretty sure there was a fourth thing.

Anyways, I was pretty tired after the ride and woke up the next morning feeling tired too.  I had planned on doing three hours that day (sunday) and headed out the door deciding to just take it slow and see how I felt.  And for some reason I felt pretty good, and averaged over 260 watts.  Not bad considering last week was my first week of base miles.  Ok, time to go ride and eat some more food.  Sorry Bob, but humanity is messed up.

From the November issue of Sitting in Traffic:

Sitting in Traffic: So, Kennett, what was it like sitting in traffic on your commute home this evening?

Kennett Peterson: Well, it was pretty sweet.  At one point I think we went about 200 feet in five, six minutes.  That was the highlight I guess.  I think that’s when we got up to the slowest speed.

ST: How long was your commute?

KP: Oh, about 30 miles by bike.  Maybe 25 by car, although today we took some back roads because the freeway was so backed up, so maybe we did 30 today driving.

ST: So you ride one direction on your bike in the morning, and get a ride home with one of your parents at night, correct?

KP: Yeah, I do that to capitalize on the best traffic sitting conditions.  Generally traffic is the slowest and most congested in the evening rush hour.  Especially on a day like today when it gets dark before 5 and it’s pouring rain.

ST: Do you check the traffic reports before you drive home?

KP: Oh of course.  If traffic is fast and there aren’t any accidents, I wait to go home later when something good has happened.  There’s no sense in rushing home quickly and efficiently.

ST: Do you ever purposefully cause traffic incidents that will likely slow up traffic?

KP: In order to be comfortable in your environment, you must either adapt to it or make it adapt to you.  Humans have been using the second option for the last ten thousand years,  and I’m not about to go changing that.  When traffic is fast, I employ one of many tactics to clog it up.  Usually, I’ll attempt to cause a fender bender behind me somewhere by jamming on the brakes while on the freeway.  If I hear a loud crash behind me, I know I did my job well, and I’ll exit the freeway, take the freeway the opposite direction a few miles, then get back on the freeway going the original direction and enjoy the fruits of my labor.  Yes, I do enjoy a good old fashioned traffic sit, but I’m really doing it for the benefit of society.  Nothing puts a smile on someone’s face quicker than sitting behind a freeway pile up for a few hours.

ST: Back to today’s traffic sit, how long did it take for you to get home?

KP: I’d say a little under two hours.

ST: Wow, that’s longer than it takes you to ride to work in the morning, correct?

KP: Yeah, it was a good one this evening.  They’re usually not this slow, but when they are, that’s when you have to enjoy it and soak in the moment.

ST:  Any words of advice for our less experienced readers?

KP: I try to get right behind a large semi that takes longer than all the other vehicles around it to get up to speed.  Usually that’s the lane farthest to the right, which I never leave anyways.  But I really do make an effort to find  the slowest semi truck and tuck right in behind it while all the other cars to the left lanes pass me.  I also enjoy texting on my cell in between creeping forward when I’m in stop and go traffic.  That way you get a good chorus of cars honking at you while you let a large gap open up in front of you, at which point I’ll look up from my phone, accelerate way to fast and slam on the brakes before I hit the semi in front of me, and then start texting again.  I really enjoy that.

ST: Thanks for your time today, Kennett.

KP: My pleasure.

This weekend was the meet and greet for the 2010 HB elite team.  I got a ride up with Sean on Friday and we stayed at his friend’s house for the next couple nights.  She owns horses and trains them how to slide, spin, and run backwards in competitions.  Here’s a link to what I’m talking about.  Reining.  The room I slept in had stacks and stacks of American Quarter Horse Quarterly.  I think I added in that last Quarterly, but it might have been there.  Anyways, I read a magazine each night before going to sleep.  Basically the entire magazine (all 321 of them) was filled with advertisements for ”Peppy Go Go,”  “Ridin’ N’ Rockin’,” and “Fredy’s Bang Wagon” and other horses with multiple first names that didn’t seem very practical.  Imagine the announcer at the rodeo: “And our next rider, number 317, is Samantha Brighton on Fredy’s Bang Wagon.  Looks like it’s gonna be a bumpy ride…”  All of these horses, for some reason, had bought advertisements for themselves in this magazine to sell off their sperm.  If I went to the sperm bank and gave them some product, I think I get $50.  Not that I’ve done it, but that’s what I’ve heard.  Great, for some reason the computer had decided to underline everything I type.  But back on topic, these horses are selling their semen for $1,500 to $5,000 bucks a pop!  For that price, I’d expect some bang for my buck, hahah pun intended.

As I flipped through the magazines, each page would have a picture of a horse with it’s main blowing in the wind, it’s competition palmeres, how much it had earned in comps over the last year or it’s lifetime, how much it’s offspring had earned, and the price of it’s precious product.  It wasn’t great reading material, but it’s all I could find.  I had strange dreams…

Other than my bizarre nightly readings, the week was packed full of team presentations, dinners, and activities for us to get to know each other.  Adrian Hegyvery (a Hagens rider last year who just signed with the pro Team OUCH) gave a talk one night that I thought was very well thought-out.  To sum it up, it (and the whole weekend in general) made me want to start training harder than ever before.  I began dreaming of 35 hour weeks in Tucson, but quickly put a rein on my bad side and rememberd my new mantra, which I can’t remember right now but it’s something like “don’t be stupid,” which I’ve obviously paid no attention to over the last 20 minutes while writing this.  Yes it’s taken me 20 minutes to come up with this.  Not including time spent on Youtube looking for horse vids.  That last one, in case you didn’t realize it, has an amazing song about a guy who must have eaten a midget hillbilly.  It will surely be suck in my head for days.

I was very impressed with the organization of the team and I’m very exite about making great glory for teams Hagens of the Berman!!  I like!

Hagens Berman elite roster:

Director: Joe Holmes

Sam Johnson

Phil Elasser

Nick Clayville

Me

Lang Reynolds

Sean Passage

Chris Daifuku

Spenser Smitherman

I’ve got a little hillbilly in me, I’ve got a little hillbilly in me, I’ve got a little hillbilly in me–just in case that song wasn’t stuck in your head.

First rule of altitude tent: No farting
Second rule of altitude tent: NO FARTING.
Third rule: If someone taps out or goes limp, you must wake yourself up and get out before you suffocate.
Fourth rule: Only one person in the altitude tent at any time.  Unless you get really lucky and somehow get an “OK, sure” to the question: “So hey, you want to get out of here and go back to my place…to my altitude tent?”  She’s out there somewhere.  Just probably not sane.
Fifth rule: One gasping breath at a time.
Sixth rule: No shirts, no shoes.
Seventh rule: Altitude sessions will go on as long as they have to.
Eighth rule: If this is your first night in the altitude tent, you HAVE to fart.

Top searches for the blog today were :  seabiscuit,  zorro,  fabian cancellara,  snot,  chicken eating baby.

Speaking of chickens, I’m going to build a chicken coup for our backyard and supply said coup with baby chickens that I will one day enjoy eating.  Amazing that somebody in the past knew that the future me was going to write that last sentence and use those key words “chicken”  “eating” and “baby.”  Strange. There could be a number of different reasons why that person typed those words in that order into a search engine, crossed their fingers, and hit “I’m feeling lucky.”  I’ve never been brave enough to hit that button.  But this person(s) did, and for some reason ended up here.  I personally would have suggested You Tube for that kind of search, but maybe they were a bit more distinguished than I, preferring to read about a baby being devoured by a ravenous chicken instead of seeing it.  Because with reading, you get to make up the scenes in your head, as opposed to TV or you tube, where you’re stuck with reality or whatever someone thought reality should look like.  Yes, the mystery person must be one of those highbrows who listen to NPR  and read the newspaper, creating beautiful mind images of babies being torn tiny limb from tiny limb as a pack of screeching, clucking chickens kick and stab with their beaks at their squirming meal, all trying to get a piece of the action as this bloody tornado of furry, flying feathers, and infant intestine, blows through someone’s backyard.

I’ve decided to quit writing in this blog because it is inappropriate–not me, the content.  I have plenty of normal, nice thoughts, but when I start writing on this site, they turn sour.  And it looks very un-pro.  So with that said, this may be my last entry.  This was my idea and was not suggested by anyone else.  I’ll start another blog, but I warn you: it will be much dryer and more boring.  I’ve had to hold back on this blog as it is, so writing even dryer will be tough.  But it has to be done.  The next blog will be about racing and training only.  There will be no crap talking or anything negative, because that only gets me in trouble (even though I’m just about always being sarcastic but not everyone gets that and feelings get hurt and/or I look like a jerk).  All the good stuff will have to wait until my book comes out–which will have to wait until I write one. Here are a few names for the new blog that I’m thinking about:

Kennett Peterson’s Blog
A blog about Kennett Peterson
Kennett Peterson
Kennett
Kennett Peterson’s Racing Blog
Kennett Peterson’s Racist Blog
Kennett Peterson’s Racing and Training Blog

They are all pretty neutral. Not sure which one I like best, though.

Other news: the core logging is going well. I’d say I’m about 1/4th of the way done. Maybe more like one third actually. I should be done before December.

My biggest news is that I’ll be riding for Hagen’s Berman next year, one of the best elite amateur teams in the country. I’m very happy to be on it and we’ll be doing quite a bit of national racing. A Boo yeah is in order: BOO YEAH!

I saw the dentist last week and they told me to start flossing, like they always do every time I see them. I can’t remember if I wrote about this in the last post, but I will again because I already started. Anyways, they told me to start flossing, but it’s already been a week and I haven’t started yet. I told myself I was going to wait a few days to let my gums recover from all the bleeding they did when I got my teeth cleaned, because it was definitely a hard workout for them and they needed a rest afterwards. I took a sugary recovery drink to heel ’em up quick, but rest is the best. But like I said, it’s been a week and I’m not sure I have the motivation to start anymore. They gave me a thing of floss at the dentist’s office, but each time I go to grab for it in the bathroom drawer it’s not there. I left it in my room. It’s not lost or anything, but when I’m in the bathroom making an effort to floss by looking in the drawer for the floss thing, that’s already a good effort. I don’t want to have to walk all the way to my room and grab it, that’s asking too much. And I keep forgetting to put it in the bathroom when I walk by it. I guess I’m being a little lazy, but flossing is kind of a lot for my teeth and gums to be asking of my anyways. Back in the day, cavepeople didn’t brush their teeth or floss and they were fine. I brush my teeth twice a day and take a sugar recovery drink for my gums afterwards every time too. In my opinion, that should be enough. If my gums bleed at the dentist, then that’s their own problem and they should deal with it by either toughening up or learning to live with a little blood like the rest of us:

Estimated 1.3 million deaths.

“Over one million Iraqis have met violent deaths as a result of the 2003 invasion, according to a study conducted by the prestigious British polling group, Opinion Research Business (ORB). These numbers suggest that the invasion and occupation of Iraq rivals the mass killings of the last century -the human toll exceeds the 800,000 to 900,000 believed killed in the Rwandan genocide in 1994, and is approaching the number (1.7 million) who died in Cambodia’s infamous “Killing Fields” during the Khmer Rouge era of the 1970s.”

“Even with the lower confirmed figures, by the end of 2006, an average of 5,000 Iraqis had been killed every month by US forces since the beginning of the occupation. However, the rate of fatalities in 2006 was twice as high as the overall average, meaning that the American average in 2006 was well over 10,000 per month, or over 300 Iraqis every day. With the surge that began in 2007, the current figure is likely even higher.”

“for the first four years of the occupation the American military sent over 1,000 patrols each day into hostile neighborhoods, looking to capture or kill “insurgents” and “terrorists.” (Since February 2007, the number has increased to nearly 5,000 patrols a day, if we include the Iraqi troops participating in the American surge.) Each patrol invades an average of thirty Iraqi homes a day, with the mission to interrogate, arrest, or kill suspects. In this context, any fighting age man is not just a suspect, but a potentially lethal adversary. Our soldiers are told not to take any chances.”

“these patrols currently result in just under 3,000 firefights every month, or just under an average of one hundred per day (not counting the additional twenty-five or so involving our Iraqi allies). Thousands of patrols result in thousands of innocent Iraqi deaths and unconscionably brutal detentions.”

“Iraqis’ attempts to escape the violence have resulted in a refugee crisis of mammoth proportion. According to the United Nations Refugee Agency and the International Organization for Migration, in 2007 almost 5 million Iraqis had been displaced by violence in their country, the vast majority of which had fled since 2003”

“Iraq’s refugees, increasing by an average of almost 100,000 every month, have no legal work options in most host states and provinces and are increasingly desperate.”

“Maki al-Nazzal and Dahr Jamail quote an Iraqi engineer now working at a restaurant in Damascus, ‘Return to Iraq? There is no Iraq to return to, my friend. Iraq only exists in our dreams and memories.’ ”

“Another refugee from Baghdad said, “I took my family back home in January. The first night we arrived, Americans raided our house and kept us all in one room while their snipers used our rooftop to shoot at people. I decided to come back here [Damascus] the next morning after a horrifying night that we will never forget.’ ”

Read the whole thing here.

JFK video worth watching. I promise it’s not Rick Astley.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K7y2xPucnAo&feature=channel

Oh, I just checked and there were three people that searched for “chicken eating baby.”

The coring ended on Monday and me and  Kendra (the head archaeologist) will continue core logging like we were the week before last week.  But it only lasts until Friday.  It isn’t certain yet, but I’ll either be helping her on a separate dig project (also for the Columbia River Crossing) or I’ll be starting up another series of drilling on the Warshington side.  With all this work, and living at home, I have already saved up for something pretty cool that I’ll show you when it arrives.  Plus I’ll actually have a little money to live on and to travel to races next year.

I’m waiting to hear back from some teams for 2010.  I should know the final decisions by the end of the week. I’m pretty damn excited. I think my chances are good.  I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but I have anyways. Although if none of that works out, it sounds like Team Oregon will be a good alternative, with a lot more funding than last year and a small squad going to a number of NRC races throughout the year. Either way, I’m going to win an NRC race.

As far as training is going, I’ve been commuting and doing some rides on the weekends as well as ramping up the gym workouts.  Lots of core, some squats (up to 185 today Eli), a little plyometrics and a lot of stretching to build up those nerve connections.  A new aspect of recovery I’ve been incorporating is the foam roller.  My plan is to get in the habit of using it after every ride/workout.  The YMCA has three big black foam rollers that no one ever uses except for me.  They wouldn’t miss one if it snuck out the door somehow.

“Oh don’t mind me. I’m just really excited to be finished with a good hard lifting sesh,” I’ll say as I walk out the gym with a raging ‘roller’ hidden in my shorts.

Next week is the beginning of on-the-bike strength training; I’ll start base in November, and head down to Tucson at the beginning of December. I can already tell that I’ll be starting off this season much stronger than I did last season. The rest I’ve had so far has been good–a little over three weeks off in August, some more racing and long rides through most of September, and a few weeks of light riding and lifting up until now and the next week or two. I think I’ll be starting off the year with my threshold 15 or 20 watts higher than I started last year. If I can raise it another 20…look the f out.  The key to 2010 for me will be staying healthy. Just about every two months, I’d get sick and have to take time off the bike and then slowly start back up again, finally getting fast for a month before getting another damn cold. Quinn suggested I take “sick” days instead of rest days. With the idea of calling it a sick day because I’ll treat it just like I would if I was getting sick–not doing anything except eating and resting. Rest days, which can and do include riding up to an hour, can easily turn into 1 and a half hours, which can turn into 2 hours, which can turn into a three hour ride, which can turn into five hour including intervals up Mt. Lemon. Not that I normally did this, but I guess on occasion (before I was being coached by Jeannette this spring) it did happen. Also, I will be taking sick ‘weeks’ as well. My rest weeks this year were pitiful, sometimes including multiple races and interval days. Stupid of me. It won’t happen next year. I’m going to take real rest weeks and if I do get sick, I’m going to pull the plug on any current training or racing plans and spend a whole week getting better instead of continuing to ride and race, which always ends up making me sick for a month. In the future if you read that I’m getting a cold sometime this next season, please remind me of what I just wrote.

I’ve noticed that the end of the race season and beginning of the next year is when people start talking about how they’re going to change and improve for next season. “Dude, next year I’m gonna drop another 6 pounds and increase my threshold by 17 watts. That’ll put me way up there at intermediate domestic pro, man. I’ll be flying so efing fast…next year.” I think most people get this mentality as their past season comes to an end with results that never happened, a list of DNF’s larger than planned for, and goal wattage numbers that their power meters never saw. I always set my goals ridiculously high, which I think is a good thing. But it does mean that I’m always a year or two off of when they actually happen. I think a lot of us are like that, and for those that aren’t, you should try it. It’s impossible to face an impossible situation if you think it’s impossible, but not if you don’t. Anyways, this time of year is exciting if you have big plans for 2010. For cyclists, the end of September is like New Years is for everyone else. Didn’t succeed in last year’s racing resolutions? Don’t worry, it’s October and time for the smack talk to begin. I don’t know about you, but I’m planning again on a 60 watt threshold improvement for ‘o ten. Seriously.

Check out the “food” page at the top. I just re-did it and included some good stuff that you may find interesting.

While riding to Vancouver to “the facility” where I cut open cores and stuff, I got spat on by a homeless woman. She was walking towards me on the sidewalk as I rode in the street. I usually give a half smile to the homeless if they make eye contact with me while riding, because I feel sympathetic towards them. Not hugely sympathetic, like giving them change or anything, but sympathetic enough to give them a half-smile. I give quarter smiles to other pedestrians I make eye contact with while riding, because I can relate to them being outside on the streets with me, but I don’t feel bad for them. So they only get quarter smiles at most. A lot of the time, if I’m not in a good mood, they get a grimace–just because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyways, like I was saying, I was riding up to Vancouver to cut up some cores. Actually I was already in Vancouver, which always seems to be under a rain cloud. Portland could be sunny and dry, but if you’re in Vancouver, it’s most likely raining or about to start. But on the bright side, Vancouver is much smaller than Portland, but practically touching, which makes for a short commute without having to live in a big city. I think a lot of people like this idea, but don’t end up doing it, as you can see because Vancouver doesn’t have that many people in it. If everyone had this idea then carried it out, Vancouver would be large and therefore wouldn’t work for that little city short commute plan. And then if it was big, that would mean that no one would have had that plan in the first place, and no one would have moved there. But then that would mean it was small, and would work for the little city short commute plan. But then people would move there and make it big again. The cycle is never ending…Basically the logic becomes illogical if a large number of people did the little city big commute plan, so very few people do it. Instead, they live in suburbs 15 miles away and drive 45 minutes to work each way.

So back on topic, I was riding my bike last week and I felt like doing some big rides on the weekend. I know it’s a little early to start base, but that’s not what I was planning on doing. Nothing wrong with doing a little riding on the weekend to stay in shape and focused. Later in the week, I did a 3.5 hour ride on Friday and a 3 hour ride the following day–both shorter than I had wanted because my legs were super sore and aching from lifting for the first time on Thursday. DOMS always gets me even if I lift light the first couple times. I could lift the bar only and my legs would still be sore the next day.

But I still did want to go big on Sunday. But I didn’t. But, I did just start three sentences in a row with the word “but.” That’s way too many times. Quinn, Jim, Gavin, and I went to Lost Lake out by Hood River instead. I had tried to convince Quinn to ride to the top of Mount Saint Hellens with me on Sunday, which is something like 150 miles or more, but he thought it would be a better idea to go free diving in a lake instead.

Quinn used to do a little competitive free diving back when he was living in Hawaii, and built up to over 100 feet. And I have been diving a bunch, especially this year, so we were set on going big in a different way.

All four of us drove up there and Quinn, Jim, and I got in the water with wet suits, masks, weight belts, and fins. Cool things we found were: a sunken boat, lots of beer and soda cans, newts, fishing lures, and…..CRAWDADS. BOO YEAH we found lots of them. After going down below 25 or 30 feet a couple times, Quinn and I decided to stick to shallower water instead, because at that depth the water dropped to slightly above freezing, plus there wasn’t anything to see down there anyways except mud.

Sticking closer to the shore lead us to collecting almost 100 crawdads. The rest of that day was spent talking with southern accents, as well as the next night when we made a huge pot of Jumbalaya/gumbo–not sure which name to call it by, but I think Gumbo is the correct one.

Shucking the poor guys.

The carcasses.

Now this heaaahhh crawooodady dun had himself a heck of a hard taahhm, I do reckin. But the looks of him do give me a heavy hankerin for some bug gumbo ifn’ I evaahhh did haveaahhh one.

As I passed the homeless woman, she stopped walking, glared at me and spat as I passed. I think it was a direct hit. I was shocked. To her, does this mean I’m the man? I was still wondering why she was so pissed off at me as I got to the facility a few minutes later and got off my something thousand dollar bike and inspected my something hundred dollar rain cape. No spit on it. Luckily I was in Vancouver and it had been raining.

A few weeks ago, two young chaps had a laugh at the expense of some teenagers.  The night started out like many others.  The birds stopped chirping and returned to their nests or favorite places to perch, the sun set in the north, the fragmented moon began to shine, and the stars stayed hidden due to all the light pollution coming from the porches, street lamps, and cars of Beaverton.  But…this was not to be an ordinary night.  

It was late on Saturday, maybe 1:00AM, and our two heroes were on their way home to get some sleep before a full day of surfing at the coast.  The driver of their vehicle had actually just completed a day of surfing, and had come to pick up his friend in order for him to spend the night so that they could take off early in the morning.  Four surfboards were still strapped to the roof of their car.

As they continued driving home, they passed a small gang of miscreant highschoolers hanging out on a surburbia street corner.  It was quite obvious to our two protagonists that they were up to no good, or were hoping to be up to no good but hadn’t quite stumbled upon the right ingredients yet.  All of that was about to change, as our two surfing characters (we’ll call the driver Kent and the passenger Quincy), had a brilliant plan.  Quincy suggested they turn around and make another pass, as it was obvious that the teenagers needed some entertainment.  So Kent waited until they were out of sight and he turned the car around.  They drove back by the street corner, where the five kids stood and sat on the lawn near the curb, watching the red car with the four surfboards go back the opposite direction, thinking that they must be lost.  But of course that was not the case, for the car turned around again, this time in plain sight of the teenagers, and passed them once more.  This time, their heads all visibly turned as they wondered what must be going on.

Back in the car, Kent and Quincy couldn’t contain their laughter as tears strolled down their cheeks and they gasped for air.  More drive-bys were needed, that was obvious.  So they turned around again out of sight, and a minute later they passed the teenagers for a fourth time.  This time, two were standing up a few paces back from where they had been sitting near the sidewalk.  It was not Quincy and Kent’s goal to scare the poor adolescents, but if that was the case, so be it.  Because the laughter that they were continuing to experience was well worth it.  

Kent noticed the gas light was on, and suspected that it had been on for some time.  They briefly discussed finding a gas station, but thought against it as they turned around for another pass.  This time they approached slowly, then gunned the engine and loudly accelerated past the hooligans.  Kent flipped the car around again when they were out of sight, and this time passed the kids going slowly, with loud music.  They had now all retreated from the lawn where they were sitting, except for one.  The rest were standing back from the corner, backing up to one of their houses.  

Kent and Quincy turned around again, and this time Quincy planned on showing them a pressed ham, but realized he’d have to wait until they were driving the opposite direction so the passenger side was facing the prey.  As they turned around after passing once again, Quincy had an even better idea.  He got in the back seat, where the windows were heavily tinted, and Kent reclined his driver’s seat all the way and leaned back so that he wasn’t visible at all from the side.  He could just barely see through the steering wheel to the road.  Kent rolled down the window and he and Quincy slowly passed, going no more than 10 miles an hour, slightly swerving due to not being able to see.  When they had passed the kids, they burst into a type of laughter that makes one breathless and weak.  They pulled off the road for a minute to get control of themselves.  Snot was steaming down their noses as tears blurred their vision.  After much laughter, subsiding of laughter, then laughter starting up again, Quincy and Kent finally calmed down.  Gas was needed, so they spent about five minutes driving to look for a gas station.  They gave up pretty quickly deciding that there probably was plenty of gas left, but mainly just not wanting their prey to escape while they were gone.

Who knows what the teenagers were thinking at this point.  It had been five or ten minutes since the driver-less car had passed them.  Had it been possessed by surfer ghosts?  Had it simply been a prank by a team of robotics engineers floating above in a blimp who were controlling the car by remote?  Well, it was all over now.  They could settle back into their routine of sitting on the curb at 1:30AM waiting for a case of beer to appear out of thin air in front of them.  

But no, such was not the case.  For Quincy and Kent drove by again!!  The teenager’s hearts skipped a beat, then rappidly skyrocketed.  The brave one stood up as his friends scampered back even farther away from the curb to a nearby bush.  He posted up with his hands covering his crotch like a soccer player creating a wall.  His chin lifted up as if to say, “What UP!  You messin with ME and MY possee?!?!”  

After two more passes, he had retreated back to one of their houses along with his friends, which was, for Kent and Quincy’s benefit, located on the same street.  They were scared, but still too curious to go inside.

Coming in to their final pass, Quincy had a brilliant plan.  Although always tasty, pressed ham still was not on the menu.  Something even better.  Much much better.  The equivalent to a $50 piece of lobster sushi, or a really giant burrito.

As the two trouble-causers came upon the house where the kids had relocated, they rolled down the window and slowed down to a stop.  Four of the teenagers were hiding behind a truck in the driveway, one began fleeing as he saw the ghost surfer’s window roll down.  At this point, one came out of the house with some adults.  Quincy, wasting no time and not stumbling upon his planned speech whatsoever, said:

“Excuse me, do you know where Southwest Linden Street is?”  The adult, who was now walking to his car with the other adult and aparently ignoring whatever his kid had told him about the ghost car, said:

“Hmmm.  Southwest Linden Boulevard.  No, I don’t know where that is.  You know a cross street?”  
“Well…no,” Quincy replied.  “But they told us it was near the 217…” 
“Well that’s about three miles that direction,” the adult pointed.  
“Oh. Well Ok.  Thanks then.”

Flawless. Kent and Quincy drove down the street a little ways, pulled a U turn and passed the teenagers a final time, who were no longer hiding behind the parked truck. As they passed, they waved to the teenagers, forever confusing them and giving them something to wonder about for the rest of their lives.

These past two weeks have been full of drilling.  “What am I doing drilling?” you may ask.  Well my answer is this:

I was hired by an archaeology company to do grunt work for a project they were hired for.  It’s for the CRC (Columbia River Crossing) project–the new I-5 bridge that’s going across the Columbia river to Warshington (maybe).  Our job is to make sure there aren’t any significant archaeology sights, such as Indian burial grounds, directly in the path of the drill, and therefore none anywhere in the path of the new I-5 bridge.  We’re also using the data to map the prehistoric landscape.  

My job consists of many things, but mostly it consists of standing around trying to keep my hands out of my pockets to appear busy.  This is my biggest challenge.  Appearing busy in an office setting is much easier.  As long as your staring at a computer screen, you might be doing work.  Chances are you’re not.  Like right now if you’re at work, you’re reading this blog which is not at all related to what you should be doing.  But no one will be the wiser.  Not so with an outside job.  To appear busy during a drill job or any other similar type of thing, one must have a constant look of confusion or deep concentration on one’s face, as if in a perpetual state of bewilderment and or meditation.  To compliment this look and further promote the deceit of having intellect, a pen in the hand and/or even a piece of paper will suffice.  Make sure to write on the paper and look at it once in a while, because this is what people who are actually working do.  Keeping your hands out of your pockets is a must, as it screams “money-waster.”  If I don’t have anything in my hands I like to keep them folded across my chest or resting on my hips.  The second option does wonders for appearing thoughtful and smart.  Cock the head to the left ever so slightly.

Luckily, the dress code calls for jeans, boots, a neon safety vest, and a hard hat.  I say ‘luckily’ not because this is how I like to dress (except for the neon vest part) but because of the attire’s air of importance.  Think of all the things people in hard hats and vests do.  Holding stop signs, drilling things, being a fire man…the list goes on and on.  And when doing any of those jobs, you certainly look busy and important.  Just imagine how busy and important I must look with a hard hat, neon vest, long pants, and a clipboard.  Pretty damn busy, I know.  And even more important.

But as busy as I may appear, I am not.  And neither is anyone else.  Before I go any further, let me explain who else I’m talking about.  There are the three drillers (John, Billy, and Greg), and then there’s me, Matt, Kendra, and Jeff.  These are the main people on sight who have an actual job to do.  Kendra is an archaeologist and Jeff is the geologist.  They both have to be there, analyzing the core samples when they come off the drill rig.  Other than the drillers, they’re the only two people that really need to be there.  Next there’s Matt and myself.  Matt is an intern for the geology company, and I’m me.  Then there are two people who work for the CRC project plus a trainee or intern of there’s.  Then there’s two other geologists, including their boss who’s always calling Jeff to get updates.  Then there’s a safety guy from some safety department that I haven’t seen since the first day, an ODOT guy or two, the boss of the archaeology company, another archaeologist that’s come once or twice, a few people on the phone that are in charge of something but haven’s shown up yet, and my dad–yes that’s how I got the job.

That means there are roughly 20 people that come to the core sites from time to time.  That’s a LOT of people standing around trying to look busy, although some of them are too important to have to appear busy.  If I was a suck up, I wouldn’t know who to suck up to because there are so many bosses.  

Back to appearing to be busy, the best thing to do to appear being busy is to actually be doing something.  But that requires there to be something to do.  A lot of the time, I’m just standing there, looking down at the core in it’s 5 foot wooden box, along with the other people staring at it.  A look of puzzlement comes across my face as one of my brows lifts.  My eyes squint as I bring my forefinger and thumb up to my chin, which sits in the slot right between them.

“Do you concure, Kennett?”  

“Why, yes.  Yes, indeed I do concure.  Proceed with the analysis.”  

That’s what I’d say if I was important.  But my job is actually to load the cores from the truck into their wooden boxes.  I also label the boxes with a marker, drill the boxes shut once the cores have been looked at, staple the box’s nylon fabric hinges that are always breaking, transport the boxes to and from the storage facility in Vancouver, and help the drillers run errands like filling up their water tank.  This may sound like a lot, but it isn’t.  At times it gets pretty hectic with all the noise and cores coming off the drill rig, but most of the time it isn’t.  And to make matters even worse, the stuff I just listed above is pretty much the same job that Matt has.  Plus he’s an intern, meaning so he’s super eager to do everything that does or doesn’t need to be done.  It’s a race to get to the stapler first to fix a broken box hinge.  We play rock scissors paper to see who gets to screw the boxes shut.  He’s always trying to get one step ahead.  Maybe there’s no competition and it’s all in my head (probably).  But nonetheless, he’s quick.  Someone needs a strip of duckt tape? Matt’s got three torn in 4 inch strips with no dangling hair strands lined up and ready to go.  A core section is about to be sent down the ramp from the drill rig?  Matt’s been standing there for five minutes waiting for it.  A box needs to be moved to the saw horses?  Wait, what box?  Matt went back in time and moved it there 10 minutes ago.  Paying someone low wages and constantly reminding them that they beat 100 other applicants to get the job so they better be happy about it must be a good motivator because Matt is a great worker.  When I look around at all the people at the drill sight, I see the person making the least amount of money doing the most amount of work.  All the salary guys have got their hands in their pockets.

I started riding my bike to work, which is a 55 mile commute, to get some exercise.  The first day I commuted by bike, the storage facility key jumped out of my backpack side pocket some where along the route.  So as my penalty for trying to be environmentally friendly, I lost a key that’s most likely going to cost $300 to replace (the whole lock).  Now when I ride two and from the job, I have my eyes locked on the ground searching for it along the roadside.  I haven’t crashed yet, but I did get hit by a car yesterday.  Right before the Sellwood bridge, a car passed me going around the corner–only 20 feet before you merge onto the bridge.  He immediately had to put his breaks on, and hadn’t even fully passed me yet.  I was still just a few feet off his right side when he began turning.  I’m not going to yield to a damn car when it’s cut me off, so I held my ground and turned with it.  The idiot still didn’t see me when we straightened out on the bridge and bumped up against my handlebars and leg.  I yelled at him and said some profane language to watch where he was going, then waved him off when he slowed down to offer assistance or something.  I didn’t crash or get hurt at all, just a tiny bump.  But it’s occurrences like this that will keep ordinary people from commuting to work on most roads.  I’m amazed by the number of commuters I see every day in Portland, but it’s nothing compared to the number if idiot drivers stuck on I-5 in gridlock.  That’s why we’re doing the preliminary work for the CRC project–to make the bridge bigger and in doing so, decongest traffic in Portland during rush hour.  And it needs to be done too.  I can see how slow the traffic is coming into Portland from Vancouver in the morning and going North in the afternoon.  It’s stop and go every single day.  But making the bridge bigger/making the roads 8 lane instead of 6/raising the speed limit isn’t going to solve the problem.  The problem is cars, like I always say.  And I know I’m preaching to the choir, but I don’t care.  Cars and bikes need to be separated if people are going to commute to work in mass numbers.  And the bike path along the river in Portland is proof.  That thing is always jam packed.  We need more bike paths like that throughout the city and more bike lanes and bike routes from the surrounding suburbs.  Someone should really get on this and do something about it.  I would, but as you know, I’m already super busy.  Just look at me: hard hat, vest, typing on a computer.  Well, I Better get back to work.  There’s a core that needs some of my intense inspection.