“It’s like anything. It’s like, you grow, you change, you start having conversations about that in your relationship, and it just got to a point where we realized it might not be working anymore.”
AIRBALL! The least informative explanation of an uncoupling of all time by the WNBA leader in assists and games played. The first thing I taught my writing students was to avoid vague words and phrases. Words like “anything”, “change”, “that”, “it”, “anymore”.
Of course, Sue Bird doesn’t owe anyone an explanation, but since she attempted to provide one, she’s going to have to resubmit it. No exceptions, even for 13 time All-Stars.
What on earth has happened to the eclectic humble blog? I know what you’re thinking, you didn’t sign up for this. DM for subscription refunds. Oh wait, the humble blog is free, so complain accordingly.
Today you had a smorgasbord of sports viewing options. Always a thrill, you coulda stood anywhere on Delphi, Waddell Creek, or Chein Hill and watched the boys and me go uphill at superhuman speeds. At least that’s how I remember today’s ride. Or you coulda watched the M’s lose in the 9th to the Tigers. Or Zverev finally break through in a major. Or, if truly enlightened, you coulda watched the pro golf playoff at Jack’s course.
Or you coulda watched the correct thing. Women’s professional golf. Specifically, the U.S. Women’s Open at Riviera, won by 27 year old Nelly Korda after her 2’10” final putt circled the entire cup before disappearing.
Korda is kool and I was very happy to see her win, but there were at least two other noteworthy stories you may have easily missed. But I got you.
Since time immemorial, women professional golfers have been playing for approximately 15% of what their male counterparts do because it’s been hard for the women’s tour to attract nearly as many eyeballs, and therefore, television sponsors. Today’s purse was a record, a whopping $12.5 million. On Wednesday, Korda will continuously check her checking account until her $2.5 million dollar wire hits. By the time she pays her caddy, other team members, federal, and CA taxes, it might be half of that, but I digress. The good news is that today the women played for more than the men do during a regular tournament week and for 62.5% of the fewer in number PGA Signature Events. That constitutes serious progress.
Second, dig this very short Gaby Lopez clip. Lopez is Mexican and finished one stroke back, tied for second. These days, when it comes to both cultural diversity and immigration, it’s easy to get overwhelmed by depressing news and to lose hope that we’ll ever thoughtfully and peacefully figure either one out. We would all be a lot better off if we just pressed pause and channeled Gaby Lopez’s attitude.
Think of it as the flip side of “woke mind disease”. Suburban moderates in Greater Seattle, and especially right wing nutters, love nothing more than complaining about all things Seattle. It gives their lives purpose. More specifically, the leftist politicians in charge, homelessness, decaying public spaces, and lax policing.
Major props to Carly Dykes and the Seattle Times for restoring some balance and so poignantly reminding us that our Big City, despite real challenges, has redeeming qualities too.
Another sports post. One newer subscriber, named Lara, just hit “delete”. Which is good, given her inbox.
Some history compliments of Wikipedia:
“On July 2, 2008, the Seattle SuperSonics, an American professional basketball team that competed in the National Basketball Association (NBA), moved from its original city of Seattle to Oklahoma City. The team began to play as the Oklahoma City Thunder in the 2008–09 NBA season.”
That is a woefully incomplete summary because it doesn’t get at the buyer’s subterfuge and the associated anger of the SuperSonics faithful. So let’s give Wikipedia a second chance to flesh that out:
“In months before the settlement, Seattle officials released emails exchanged by members of Bennett’s ownership group, alleging that they indicated that some members intended to move the team to Oklahoma City all along, and had not negotiated in good faith. As a result, Schultz sued to rescind the sale and transfer the team to a court-appointed receiver. He dropped the suit after the NBA noted that he had signed a binding contract not to sue Bennett’s group and argued that his proposal would violate league ownership rules.
In 2019, Schultz said, ‘Selling the Sonics as I did is one of the biggest regrets of my professional life. I should have been willing to lose money until a local buyer emerged. I am forever sorry.'”
This thievery made it especially painful for woebegone Sonics fans to watch the Oklahoma City Thunder win the NBA title last June. So much for karma?! And then, insult to injury, to watch them have the best regular season record this year.
And possibly repeat as champions. But not so fast said a 7’4″ Frenchman for which OKC had no answer in the Western Conference Finals.
Now that you’re hip to Seattle basketball fan’s pain, this is the best paragraph you’ll read today. From Yahoo Sports.
“. . . there’s a harsh financial reality facing the Thunder. With Holmgren and Jalen Williams both becoming max contract players next season, the franchise currently projects to have $260 million on the books for 2026-27. That puts them about $40 million above the second apron, which would lead to $500 million in salary and luxury tax penalties on top of all the penalties that come with being a second apron team.”
Half a billion dollars. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer franchise. Karma is back baby! And now we relish in the schadenfreude of Clay Bennett’s OKC Thunder slipping into mediocrity.
Postscript. Notice Schutlz said “one of the biggest regrets”. The biggest was just recently raising the price of DanDanTheTransportationMan’s morning coffee.
Who often reminds me, as only a loving big sissy can, “It’s not all about you, Ron.” But this post might be. 😜
A subset of humble blog readers, who also happen to be personal friends, have reached out to see how I’m doing post bike accident. Which I’ve greatly appreciated. Here’s more than they, and you, prob wanna know. If my sissy has read this far, she’s rolling her eyes.
Five of us were enjoying a truly beautiful spring day, sunny, 50’s, meaning built-in air conditioning. In a pace-line, we were two hours into a two hour and twenty minute ride, baring down on Tumwater High School at 20-22mph thanks to a slight tailwind.
I was fifth of five. The lead rider, who has been relegated to Witness Protection, did not point out a small, but deep divot in the road. Remember sports fans, whenever you’re on the front, your main responsibility is to the be the eyes for the whole train. Rider number four hit the devilish divit head on, and as a result, slowed quite a bit. I was sitting my customary three feet behind him and didn’t have enough time to avoid riding into his back wheel. At the last fraction of a second, I turned my wheel to avoid his, but all that did was create an angle that launched me dead left into and across the center of the road. Picture a rock skimming across a glassy pond.
My skimming across the pavement happened right in front of a kind and caring woman on the way to work. Had she left for work 20-30 seconds earlier she very well could’ve ran over me. She checked on me and called it in while my friends looped back to provide additional/wonderful support. Soon, a bevy of young male firefighters began asking me questions and poking and prodding me. If I was gay, I would’ve immediately started feeling better. They asked me who the President was, and I said, “Oh man, I feel badly enough already.”
My friends studied my helmet and saw that there were no scratches and so everyone knew my compromised cognition was just my normal state of being. While I was sliding across the road, I was sure I’d broken my collar bone or hip or both. When I came to a stop and was able to sit up and eventually get to the side of the road, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that apart from road rash on my right shoulder, elbow, and knee, all the damage was confined to my right rib cage. Which hurt like a motherfecker.
The fire boys recommended I go to the hospital for a more thorough eval, but they have to say that, right? One also stated with a wink what all my cycling friends and I already know from experience, there’s absolutely nothing they can do for broken ribs.
Meanwhile my friends were putting my chain back on and checking out CanRon, the name of my newish whip, which remarkably, was almost entirely unscathed, maybe because it first bounced off me instead of the road.
Then, I somehow rode it home chapperoned by the team until we got to Deschutes Falls Park and then BC rode with me all the way into the garage atop the Fifth Street Bridge. There’s only two explanations for how I made it home under my own power. Stupidity and adrenaline.
The first night was scary. I had help at dinner, but afterwards, when alone, I was unable to move. I could hear my ribs rattling when breathing, which was even painful. My doc cycling friend who fancies himself a comedian, advised, “Just don’t move or breath.” Eventually, I tried to get into bed, but ended up half on the edge of the mattress and half off. Then, I couldn’t get off the edge of the bed. There may have been a lot of moaning and even tears. Masculinity is overrated.
Eventually, I had a good idea, which like the aurora borealis, happens on occasion. The recliner for the win. Somehow, I slept as well in it as in bed. And that continues to be the case.
I read it takes twelve weeks to recover, but my doc cycling comedian friend texted this yesterday, “You can do activities as tolerated. It should start getting better about 2 weeks after the injury. It will be mostly gone by 6 to 8 weeks.”
The good news is I am way, way better already, six days in. Yesterday, I walked 1.25 miles to the gym, cycled for 30 minutes, and walked home. Just don’t ask me what kind of watts I was pushing. It’s amazing to be able to go from sitting to standing without feeling like someone is jamming a huge butcher knife right into my side. Now, it’s more of a butter knife.
So, my goal is to be back running, cycling, and lastly swimming, closer to six weeks than eight. I mean I need to be ready for the start of the Tour de France in early July. And time is wasting.
Unlike me, the white Oakley frames did not survive the crash. And for the unusually observant, energy gel in cheek, not chewing tabacco.
Sometime in the middle of my recent California cycling adventure, I wondered, what are we even doing, turning the pedals, for hours, every day?
The only thing I could come up with was extending our childhoods. We were men and women consciously choosing to be boys and girls of old.
Then, my peabrain shifted to my earliest memories of cycling in Louisville, KY in the late 1960s. When first learning to ride a bike, I remember someone, guessing an older sib, holding the seat and running alongside me until they weren’t. And then I remember swerving bigly, a few times right into metal mailboxes that dotted the edge of the road. Like Louisville’s own Cassius Clay, down goes Ron! Eventually, I swerved less and less.
My earliest, most vivid, fullblown cycling memory, was a year or two later, when I was dominating the kickball field at Zachary Taylor Elementary. It was this exact time of year, April, and Little League baseball tryouts were right around the corner.
Six or seven years old, my pals and I knew we needed a few hours of spring training before tryouts, so we laced our gloves onto some Louisville sluggers and laid them across our handlebars which we balanced precariously with balls bulging from our pockets. And then headed to a very nice, very large park, about a mile or two from our dented mailboxes.
Once we got to the park, we noticed the tennis courts sat under about 10 inches of water that had, until recently, been snow and ice covered. Maybe, we thought, as we took off our shoes and socks, we should splash around the courts a bit before officially starting spring training.
Within a few minutes, I sliced the bottom of my foot by stepping on a metal twist off beer top. The water turned red and I grew faint-headed. Someone hurriedly called my mom who lit into me. Since I’m the youngest of four, she was DONE with emergency rooms. On the way to get ten stiches, she got all up in my grill and said, “IF YOU EVER TAKE YOUR SHOES AND SOCKS OFF AND CUT YOUR FOOT AGAIN, DON’T CALL ME!” Which is pretty damn funny now, given how kind and caring she normally was. Everyone has a breaking point.
I think this was a Thursday and tryouts were all day Saturday. Even though Spring Training was cancelled on account of blood, I rallied, and showed up at tryouts on crutches. Shagging fly balls like a young Ken Griffey and even chucking the crutches and hobbling into the batters box to take some ferocious cuts like a young Andy Pages. A legend in both Louisville Little League history and my own mind.
Needless to say, the coaches were impressed with my pluck. I vaguely remember a bidding war breaking out. I told the coach that finally landed me that I didn’t want a bag, but if he could do something nice for my mom, like maybe comp her snow cones for the season, I’d greatly appreciate it.
The legend, with a scar on the bottom of his foot, fourth from the left.
Today’s ride, 59.6 miles with 4,847′ of climbing was surprisingly easy. I was barely pressing down on the pedal and going uphill faster than ever. Maybe because I switched out my whip.
There are 11 of us and so we take turns driving one half of one of the six days. Lucas was the person who got double duty, so me, being my incredibly selfless self, offered to drive both my assigned pre-lunch shift and his post-ride one. Because Lucas is a real athlete, and not an impostor, he gladly accepted.
Halfway today, I ate my second breakfast outside at a sun-drenched Temecula cafe.
Eventually, Chucky Chuck, Marky Mark, and Lindy Linda rolled in and I sat with them while they ate. Marky Mark, who didn’t like his heart rate and how he felt during the first half road shotgun with me into Fallbrook. He told a great story about nearly strangling a guy who hit him while he was cycling in China. Who knew MM is a cold blooded almost killer?!
Alternative title of this post. And On The Fifth Day He Rested. Not much of a cyclist and definitely not much of an Old Testament scholar.
For anyone needing Strava inspiration today, my friend, DanDantheTranspoMan, might mow his lawn. He’s a great guy and a hell of a follow.
Tomorrow, lots of Pacific Ocean bike path. The pro triathletes are in town for the biggest race of the early season. I will be so rested you might see me slowly pass Lionel Sanders. Or maybe the pass will be fast.
Hot damn kids, real internet today. Now, the only problem is your intrepid reporter is completely shelled. Not enough strength in my fingers to type much.
Ride report could be titled “Teamwork Makes the Dreamwork”. The first half of today’s ride felt like a ride through the set of Breaking Bad. I was half expecting to see Walter’s and Jesse’s RV around every bend. And I coulda used some cocaine!
Once we hit the highway, the Bay Area Boyz drilled it. All. The. Way. In. They make them tough in NorCal. When Griffin was repairing a flat, Blair told me he once did 300 miles in 20 hours. LOL. If it wasn’t for the BABs, I would’ve ended up as half-melted roadkill. Massive pull after pull that Griffin and I took full advantage of all morning.
It was in the mid-90s at the finish.
Dunno if I can recover in 18 hours. Probs need more like 18 days.
And so it goes.
The Michiganders check out a desert dragon. Frickin’ Griffin. The King of Flats.Drug of choice. Shoot that potassium straight into my veins.
Not sure how I bounced back, but yah boy rode well today. I couldn’t decide if today’s ride was a Top 10, Top 7, or Top 5 all timer.
The first nine miles rose 2,000′ topping out above 5,800′ above sea level. Moderate morning temps, lots of trees so hella shade, and buttery tarmac. What more could one ask for . . . oh, good company.
Half way up, Skip rode up on me. We talked. About real shit. For 700′. Instead of staring at my head unit, I was engrossed in the convo. All of sudden, the bulk of the climb was done. Thanks Skip.
Cycling is like life. It’s easier, or less difficult, or more enjoyable, take your pick, with others’ help. If we were seeding the 11 crazies, I’d be the 5 seed. That means it’s very easy to get stuck in no man’s land between the top 4 and bottom 6. Three of the top four are from Michigan, so I refer to them as either Team Michigan or the Michiganders. Since they stopped at the top of the opening 9 miler to take pics and chill, they were happy to have me join them for the run in to lunch at mile 31. I had to work, but not so hard that I’d blow up later.
Team Michigan, Aimee, Dean, and Lucas, are so strong. Lucas is a twenty-something fourth year Electrical Engineering PhD candidate at Berkeley who I have really enjoyed getting to know. Yes, you’re right, the ulterior motive is that his big brain might somehow have positive effects on my peabrain. Aimee is his mom and she’s a phenom. Dean is Aimee’s bf and he couldn’t be stronger, nicer, and fun to hang with.
After an early lunch with Team Michigan, I started the second half with Marky Mark and Chucky Chuck. Right after lunch, one of the most fun descents of all time. Again, buttery tarmac, no traffic, sweeping turns, six-seven miles of goodness. Had a great time with them all the way to mile 50 where I lost them on the ninth and final climb of the day. You won’t find better dudes, so I wanted to wait. I said to myself, “Self, stop at the next shade.” Desert plus midday sun meant ZERO shade, so I time-trialed in the last 45 minutes or so.
Unbelievably beautiful route. Great company. Fo sho ride of the week I presume. Blessed.
Tomorrow, flat, hot run in to Palm Springs. Pray I don’t ignite.
My greatest accomplishment today might be getting this to upload on really janky internet.
Friday morning, I woke up in Washington State’s capital, per usual. Then I leapfrogged from Tumwater Costco to Medford Costco to California’s state capital and M and C Griffins Sacto crib*, hemorrhaging large swaths of my lifetime savings at the pump as I migrated south.
I was asked to deliver a message. Which I did.
Gav,
Eat the rich.
Bobby
Saturday’s tuneup ride was a flat, fun affair alongside the Sacto and American rivers. Well, except for trying to stay on MGriffins wheel when he got frustrated by my pedestrian pacing.
Today’s drive begins shortly. Destination San Diego where a week-long circumnavigation of the County awaits. 16 other crazies. Different California Hotel every night. Mark scaring me a bit by saying the group is “interesting” then just smiling evilly as if words don’t do them justice.
Your humble blogger will do his best to match their crazy. It will be fun to meet new people, ride new roads, and to dry out under blazing, cloudless sunshine. If only I wasn’t so undertrained. Don’t tell the crazies I’m a lil’ nervous.
Raise your hand if you’d like me to blog San Diego County bike week. Okay, thank you, you can put your hands down.
Raise your hand if you’re a numbers person and will (somehow) be content to just follow me on Strava. Okay, thank you, you can put your hands down.
Raise your hand if you’re of the same mind as my sissy who often reminds me, “Ron it’s not all about you.” Meaning, not only do you not want to know anything about how next week unfolds on the roads of San Diego County, but you’re deeply regretting even reading this intro.
The “please, please, please blog SDC cycling tour” contingent carries the day. Congratulations to them and everyone whose lives are about to be changed by my reporting.
Remember, when it comes to the humble blog, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”
*If you ever get the chance to stay at Chez Griffin, take it. Bespoke hospitality marked by amazing food and conversation.
Postscript. If UCLA wins today, I’ll pick up the Crazies dinner tab. Oh wait, I forgot how much the drive is going to cost. Nevermind.
Pressing Pause 