Day 13, Provo, Chris' Birthday

The formalities: 67 miles, 12.4 mph, 5,990 calories, into Provo, Utah.

The good stuff: Chris is 30 years old today! Chris is our first born, so we made all our learning mistakes with him, but he turned out most excellent anyway. Born in Boston, Chris was a Boy Scout and played the cello, taking lessons from a doctoral candidate at Rutgers. What I remember best about his time at Rutgers was our Wednesday lunches when he was a senior. Chris also got “buffed up” and in great looking shape in his junior and senior year. When I inquired about it he told me that there was a fitness center in his dorm, so it was either that or go to class… After Rutgers, Chris worked as an IT guy and then sold his condo, left NY, and went to Duke Law School. Chris used his IT savy strategically at Duke, where he was Editor of the Law Review and graduated with high honors. Chris is now clerking with a Judge in Denver and will be staying there to work with a Denver law firm. Chris is a fearless mountain biker, an aggressive skier, and set up this blog. I know that fatherly pride oozes from this entry, but I can’t help it. I love him dearly and couldn’t ask for a better son.

It’s also the birthday of Karen Montville, the saintly wife of my ,Bob. In response to the “how did they meet?” question, I used to tell people that Karen was a go- go dancer at a bar that Bob frequented. Once go-go dancers went out of style, I’d tell people that she was a nun who Bob met on a retreat. More people believed the go-go dancer story. Karen kept me alive in college with periodic donations of food from the school lunch program that the kids wouldn’t eat. The canned chicken was so tough and stringy, that we had to put it through a meat grinder before we could turn it into “chicken slop,” “fried chicken slop,” or “re-fried chicken slop.” Karen’s and Chris’ birthdays were usually co-celebrated with a big back yard bbq that often included Father’s Day as well. Those were the days.

Happy Birthday Karen!

Today’s ride report: Most of today’s ride was, well, pretty dull. We rode out of Salt Lake City through office parks, then industrial parks, and then ** through residential areas that were totally nondescript, except for those mountainous mountains with their opaque reflective granular crystals (how many ways can one say, “snow capped mountains”?) that rose up in the distance like ant hills on steroids.** We passed the Olympic Skating Oval, but it was not picture-worthy. The cue sheet was long, the mileage was off, and the names of many of the streets had been changed. This led, imho, to some dangerous riding. It went like that for about 40 miles. Things became more interesting as we neared Provo. We created the lunch hour rush at a gourmet sandwich and salad place. It lived up to its name (the gourmet part). My Philly Cheese Steak has way better than any I’d ever had in Philadelphia. First of all, it was made of real meat, half inch squares, perhaps ¼ “ thick. They’d been grilled. The meat was lovingly embraced by a carefully seasoned cheese sauce that didn’t drip off the roll or run down your hand. All this was on a freshly baked crisp hot hoagie roll. Now Bob would probably say that this isn’t a Philly cheese steak, which should have “minute steak” meat analogs, a piece of processed American Cheese, on a three day old bun leaking of grease. I don’t care, it was good.

**The snow on the mountains rising over Provo were like fingers of French vanilla sauce running down a huge scoop of Chunky Monkey ice cream with cherries at the bottom. The cherries could only be Brigham Young University.** We detoured (or "went off-route" in cycle lingo) to cycle around the campus. As the pedaling professor, how could I not? The BYU campus had the well-groomed look of an Ivy League College, and exuded money the way a soft peach exudes juice on your new kakis.

I though that my real wheel was the tiniest bit out of true and brought it to Gerard during mechanic’s hour. He agreed, fixed it, and then as I walked away, hollered out, “come back, your water bottle cage is missing a bolt.” He has a really good eye.

There is a condition called “bike brain.” It usually strikes at the end of day’s ride and essentially robs one of the ability to have any thoughts that have to cross more than two synapses. I have it bad. The $^***@# electronic room key wouldn’t work. Jay (today’s roomie) tried and it wouldn’t work for him either. I took the card to the desk to complain, and they kindly pointed out that I was using a card from the Comfort Inn (where we were last night) and that my Fairfield Inn card (where I am now) might work better. They were very gracious. That key allowed entrance to my room where I proceeded to search for my dirty laundry bag. Couldn’t find it. Forgot it at the last hotel? Hmm, let’s see if I can find yesterday’ clothes. What did I wear yesterday? Nothing! No, I didn’t cycle nude, yesterday was a rest day. A rest day when I’d done laundry. Hence, there was no dirty laundry bad.

Wow, this is a long entry for a day when not much happened and I was in a low energy mood. Maybe tomorrow it will be short and sweet.