I am always needing to paste in code on my training diary and now it's super easy with the Text Template plug-in. You can name your templates and save them locally and anytime you want to use them there they are.

Nice.

I just found out that going to San Juan Island for Thanksgiving is a family tradition that started in 1970! Oh man, I had no idea... And you know, I can't readily think of a year that we have missed.

Some history - Bill used to have a position in the Department of Oceanography at the University of WA and this department owns the Friday Harbor Laboratories so it was an easy in. My parents liked it so much we kept coming and now it's 2007.

Here are the pictures.

This batch was taken on 22 November and are mostly of the four of us on the beach out by the American camp. The last couple of years Lucca has taken to building these enormous teeter totters. Two years ago we discovered that you can balance a board across one end of the teeter and markedly increase the danger factor. Of course that is now also a tradition.

On 23 November we went to the Westcott Bay Sculpture Park up by Roche Harbor. This place is pretty spectacular! Not only is it huge and does it contain about 100 sculptures but some of them are really interesting. One theme seems to moving parts. When the wind blows these movable pieces do some amazing things. And no material is off limits it seems, we saw pieces made of the traditional bronze, marble and granite and also pieces made of string and flags and even a bridge. I recommend you check it out.

Ever do something really stupid, realize it's really stupid and keep right on doing it? Right, me neither.

So here we are enjoying pretty much the only family tradition we have - going to Friday Harbor for Thanksgiving. This place is a research lab and along with cabins and apartments and a cafeteria and a dock and research vassals and and even row boats you can use and a day care facility now this place has Internet access. It used to be you had to go to the library and fire up one of the computers there but now they have wireless networks as well, two even. This morning I got online no problem; now I can't.

So what do I do? I keep trying. And waiting. And trying again.

The access points I was seeing this morning are not showing up at the moment and seeing as it's a holiday, they might just be turned off. But I keep sitting here, pretending to read magazine and stuff but really I keep clicking the refresh button on my wireless radio.

It's a sad state of affairs.

Oh I brought books. And I tried to build a fire (but I failed and Lucca had to take over), but what I really want is to [insert some lame reason here] online.

Okay, I love my bike(s). I have dreamed about them, resolved major moral dilemmas while riding them and asked girls out while on one. But no way would I ever consider going this far.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/scotland/glasgow_and_west/7095134.stm

Sadly, I used to be that guy... You know, the one that wears shorts way too long in the fall (or even the winter!) and who just can't roll with the seasons. It might be in the low 40s or even the upper 30s but they have on shorts.

Why? I wish I knew. Anyone who has traveled to Europe or most any other country will quickly discover that one sure-fire way to tell the tourists from the locals is to check what they are sporting below the waist. Shorts = tourist. All the time. I was in Rome, Italy once and it was quite warm, maybe 80 degrees and NO one had on shorts. Not even the college students, it's just not what you do.

America seems unique in these aspects; we all worried about being thin, tan and sporty. In other parts of the world it seems that people are accepted more for who they are. Not that there aren't divas in every country mind you, but if you had to paint with broad strokes America is freakville and any other place is normal. Don't we have the largest supplement and diet industry and don't we have the most obese people per capita? Freakville USA.

Anyway, there I am, walking to work a few days ago on the University of Washington campus. It's butt-ass [I love how you can put two words that mean the same thing together and it more clearly conveys the meaning] cold out, windy and here comes that guy. He's got on not only shorts but freakin' flip-flops. Oh sure, he has several layers covering his torso but what's with the shorts? You just know this guy never changes looks; ever. EVER. One outfit for all times, it's not only sensible but economical!

Not to be outdone buy this fashion-rutted guy, here comes an equally ignorant girl in the same outfit! You just know they are 1) freshman and 2) yet to have a real job.

Did I mention I used to be that guy...? Oh yes, I'm not getting off that easy. I recall one time when I was on a date in the middle of winter maybe 17 years ago, we went to get a beer and there was snow on the ground outside. What did I wear? Shorts. Jesus Christ.

I do not recall how I justified this outfit at the time, most likely I did not even think about it. And that's the problem - these people don't think. How many fashion faux pas could we avoid if we just stopped to think, even for a second. Is it so wrong to put on long pants if it's cold outside? Or if you are going to an event where it's not socially acceptable to wear jams?

You are either part of the problem or part of the solution.

I've got this closet. And it's filled with computers. I keep trying new shit and invariably stuff breaks; like right now.

I just setup a Windows Server 2003 machine and ran the Routing and Remote Access wizard which seemed simple enough but no - for some reason my DHCP server is now no longer handing out IP addresses.

So instead of sitting at the dining table chatting with Shelley and using a laptop on our wireless network I'm cloistered upstairs trying to figure this out. Poop.

Addendum:

Routing and Remote Access only breaks DHCP if you are a moron. Before I had the chance to configure my new server with a static IP address I updated it, patched it, etc. which required lots of reboots.

Turns out I only had 10 IP addresses in my DHCP scope and the duration of each lease was eight hours. So... that meant that my server hogged them all and there were no addresses left for the laptops.

After deleting all the old leases from the DHCP server the laptops we able to get on the network pronto.

Let me preface this rant by saying that I love CycleU. They perform a really great service for local riders and racers and provide invaluable coaching, training and skills classes. But... sometimes their customer service falls far short of what I think is reasonable to expect.

For about three years now they have had this indoor TT series. It's fantastic! The event is a 10 km CompuTrainer race and they have seven of these things lined up so when it's fully booked it's quite competitive to say the least. In the past when you finished a TT they would simply email you a spreadsheet of the results from the evening. This was super as you could compile your results as the year went on and also compare yourself to your friends, etc.

Then someone make a stink about privacy... I guess they thought someone else would get a competitive advantage or something if they saw all the results. When I heard this I was laughing. I mean I suppose it's feasible that this is true but c'mon; 99 percent of us here are just po-dunk local racers and I'll wager that there is not a thing anyone could do with this precious TT results knowledge that would affect the outcome of any local race. I guess I made a bit of a scene last year trying to argue FOR sending everyone's results to everyone but was shut down. Hard. "We take the privacy of our clients seriously" I was told.

So anyway, CycleU kowtowed to this user and started only sending me results for ME and not for anyone else. Now I had to email all my friends and share results the good old-fashioned way - by sending attachments. :(

After my first indoor TT this fall I was surprised that I got no results at all... When I inquired about this I was pointed to the CycleU blog and that results would be posted there. And guess what? everyone is listed!

Hello CycleU! Remember last year when you were all concerned about posting results from other people? Well now you are not only posting everyone's times but you are doing so in a format that is not very valuable to results geeks like me who want to track this kind of data and don't want to suffer through the manual data entry.

So my beef is:

1. I got no results.
2. I had to follow up to get my results.
3. The results are exactly what I wanted last year and could not get. Why the huge stink last year...?!
4. The format bites. You make me download an image? Argh...

Lastly - is there a link on the CycleU home page to their blog...? Only as of about today.

Why do people make stuff complicated? It's just an indoor TT and people want results. Sheesh. Why is it that so many bicycle industries are run by enthusiasts and not business people? I mean all the things CycleU does is great and these indoor TTs are great, where is that little bit of extra?

Man, the expression, "Seniority has its privileges" does not correspond directly to your chronological age; not by a long shot.

All plain old seniority gets you is cold hands.

I've been noticing that for the last several years my hands are getting colder and colder. I used to be able to ride my bike when it was in the mid 40s with no gloves at all. Not anymore. Shoot, now I go crying for the chemical hand warmer when it dips down close to 50.

The other day (read: about one month ago) I was at one of Cameron's ultimate Frisbee games and I was DYING. I had on two shirts, two jackets, long pants, warm shoes and my hands were like blocks of ice. I had brought along the digital camera to shoot some pictures and by the end of the game I could hardly turn the thing on or off.

I know your circulation to the extremities will usually deteriorate as you age but this is ridiculous. My hands looked all waxy and pasty and there were these lines across the backs of my palms - that would not go away - from the opening in my pants pockets.

You know it's bad when you can hardly unlock the car and all you have to do is push a button on the remote... :|

After winning about this for a couple of years to Shelley she finally did some research and came up with Raynaud's disease. I doubt this is it as I did not perceive any stress watching my son play ultimate but man, I need to figure this out. Then again, since stress is not the only cause and mere contact with cold can bring this on too, maybe there is some merit to this.

I'll just ignore this condition and eventually get frostbite. Yep, that's the ticket.

This entry is from Blog #2. The Sister Blog. Which really never had a chance to get its fledgling wings off the ground. Crippled as it was by the Ball and Chain of innate Harman Laziness. A laziness gifted to us in our DNA. A laziness so powerful it crushes souls. Or gets around to crushing them...someday. A laziness so complete it still has a Christmas Tree up in its living room in April. A laziness that prays for a rainstorm instead of heading down to the Brown Bear like every other normal human would. A laziness that is now medicated and isn't quite so lazy anymore.

But I digress.

Here's the post from last December about how much fun it is to ice skate at Seattle Center.

This past weekend we made a trip to the Seattle Center for a little holiday ice skating jam. I remember loving ice skating when I was young. Roller skating was really my thing but ice skates were also part of the repertoire. Shannon and I have pictures of ourselves skating at Lloyd's Center with our cooler older cousins circa what, 1980? Noses rosy. Asses soaked. Pant cuffs frozen and dragging under sharp skate blades. Was ice just softer then? Cause I swear to you, it's harder now. And my fear of snapping a bone has grown with my age. I took diggers all the time when I was a kid! What's my problem? God made dirt so dirt don't hurt. Right? Just dust it off, Nancy. And ice? That doesn't even stain...so who cares?

Apparently, I do.

The second my foot hit that ice, every joint seized up like a rusty bike chain. It doesn't help that the entrance to the rink is crowded. Parents holding kids, passing kids to other parents, tripping on other kids. Old folks who really do believe they're still adequately lubricated doing the one-legged dismount onto the ice and learning the hard way that you do not mess around with oil slicks, tight pants and a trick knee. The entrance was like a feeding frenzy in a koi pond: bodies pressed together until someone either pops out onto the rink or shoots back out onto dry land. This would be bad enough. However now there's this new invention, like bumpers in bowling for kids who can't keep it out of the gutter. I'll call it The Walker. It's a metal frame that looks like a walker for grandpas but with no wheels. And the perfect height for optimal shin damage. So kids hang onto this and, regardless of skating ability, they've got something to hold and can skate on their own. Kind of like grabbing the side of the pool when you can't swim. Except the side of the pool is portable. I'm all for leveling the playing field. Bowling bumpers are a nice way to let everyone enjoy the fun of bowling. I get it. That's awesome. But sometimes, requiring a certain skill set serves a purpose. Namely, keeping your teeth in your head and your blood off the ice. Tiny kids would latch onto the Ice Walker and shoot off, blades glinting, still wobbly to the brink of falling down every second. Just barely holding it together with each pump of their little legs, ankles frighteningly contorted and turned in, knees dutifully bringing up the rear. Some did dangerous high back kicks with tiny ninja skate blades. Others would gather some speed, put all their weight on their arms and let their feet fly forward: A mini metal snow plow spiralling across 4 lanes of skater traffic. Some gave up trying to hold onto it altogether and cracked their peanut noggins on the hardpack. Still others managed to get theirs airborne.

I couldn't tell who was worse, the kids with the walkers or the absolute nutzoid out of control parents who had no qualms about grabbing complete strangers as they went down in flames. Or the same crazy parents fighting at the rink entrance over the walkers for their equally crazy kids.

Just believe me when I tell you it was mayhem. Bedlam even.

At the Seattle Center they don't use a Zamboni, they just come out every 2 hours or so and sweep up the shavings. This leaves the ice so rutted. I've gone four-wheeling on dirt roads that had less washboarding. Skating a smooth straight line made my teeth clack together. I don't know how I managed to stay upright. It's possible the sheer number of people on the ice helped; you couldn't fall too far to the left or right without landing on somebody and bouncing back. Weebles wobble, People. I think I probably had some, "Isn't this FUN!" - in a totally manic/frightened/let it be over soon, God, way- smile on my face. And I KNOW I was skating a snails pace. My internal mantra was "Slow and Easy Wins the Race" interspersed with a random "Outta my way, Motherfucker". It was a little panic-inducing to say the least. Maybe it wasn't the actual falling that scared me. It was falling and being consumed by the swirling, peppermint-scented, sticky cloud of mitten and blade. A fate too often observed in my comrades of lesser balance. For a split second, I actually thought I ran over a toddler’s fingers. Another time, when something on the sidelines drew my attention, I looked back too late to find me butt-bumping some Bill Gates look-a-like and his wife. Eew.

I squeezed 45 minutes of skating out of my legs and then called it quits. I filled the fun meter. Punched the frivolity clock.

I've added a picture of me having said fun.*

*Notice one finger pointing straight to hell and my mouth saying "hot, hot, h-h-h-hot" a la Lou Costello.

As a nod to my two previous foray's into blogdom, I've decided to post a previous entry from both. This one I wrote almost 3 years ago when I  started reading all of Anthony Bourdain's books. I'm still a huge fan. I watch "No Reservations" whenever I can remember it's on and I've recently reread two of his books. I must have had some spare time on my hands for that one. Probably back when I wasn't training for that marathon. Interestingly, two people have told me they see why I fell for Marty as he has that certain jeu ne sais Bourdain: Tall, slender, curly dark hair, prominent bone structure, earrings, penchant for Levis. I guess I see what they're talking about. But Martin doesn't smoke nearly enough for me to truly love him. (I kid).

Ah yes. Annie Wilkes. The crazy chick in 'Misery'. The one who found James Caan in his car in the snow and kept him hopped up on goofballs so he'd keep writing his fancy books. She fed him tomato soup and bought him a typewriter and then hobbled him something good during an especially brutal bout of the "don't-ever-leave-me's". But she was his #1 FAN!!! I loved that line. I still use it sometimes. That and 'dirty birdy'. But Dirty Birdies aren't the point of my post today. What has brought me out of my blog retirement, you ask? What has prompted the return to my famous 4-entry wonder journal? Wasn't 4 enough? I figured 6 months had passed; it's time to give it another whirl. And I have a very important announcement to make. I am the new (and improved!) #1 fan of Anthony Bourdain. How did this happen? What about my infatuation with Bobby Flay? Why do I even give a shit in the first place? I need to break it down for ya. First of all, Bobby. Oh Bobby. We had a good run. I stumbled upon you in the very beginning. On your first show. I made your caesar salad dressing AND your roasted jalapeno salsa. We had a thing. But then I realized I really only loved you for your red hair and fair complexion. I liked the IDEA of you but your personality sucks. And like, the southwestern schtick is getting old. Branch out, dude. Everyone says you're an asshole but I don't agree. Plus, as we'll see with Tony B, being an asshole doesn't necessarily preclude you from being the object of my #1 Fan-Fare. The spell was broken when I couldn't find any of your cookbooks for less than $40. When I saw you sweating the pits out of your too-tight, purple, Tommy Bahama shirt, grillin' & chillin' on the deck of your pseudo-rooftop, Manhattan celebrity chef pad and when you went and married that bleached blond Harpie I spied in your 'studio audience' one too many times on Boy Meets Grill. That's another thing. You have too many shows. BBQ with Bobby Flay? Iron Chef America? Food Nation? Celebrity Kitchen Makeover or whatever it's called? Stop. Who is running your restaurant? Better yet, who is picking out those hideodorous tight button-ups that clash with your wonderful skin tone? Magenta? Think twice, Apple Spice. I still feel a little glowing ember of love for you, Brother that will glow on but as of today, if you plowed your car over a snowy embankment whilst trying to light your one celebratory Lucky Strike after putting the finishing touches on your new $50 cookbook that I can't afford and I happened upon your buried wreckage, I wouldn't steal you away to my doiley-lined, knick-knack infested, guest room so you could grill me meats forevermore. I think I would just call a tow truck.

But for Anthony? I would lump his 98lb carcass over the river and through the woods. It's not the cigarettes, former heroin addiction, bad taste in leather and tight pants, cheesy one-liners & potty mouth, the sad torch he still carries for 70's punk, the hatred of vegetarians. It's the nutty fact that these attributes don't make me want to kill him. I can stomach his painful posturing (with Samurai Swords!!) on the cover of Kitchen Confidential because he writes so well. If you can read his piece about eating his first oyster in France and not giggle or get misty, you're a rock. An island even. And a moron.

Anyone who can write like a champ, cook food I would never eat, be married to the same woman for 16 years* and drink like a fish is a-ok in my book.

That settles it, I'm making a t-shirt.

* Update: Bourdain has since divorced his wife and married some Italian chick and popped out a kid.