Never, in all my years of college, high school (hell, ANY school) did I think I would ever utter these words. Now that I'm out of school and doing my own thing it seems I can't sleep in if my life depends on it. Thinking back it might have started when I began going to the gym early in the morning with a friend about 10 years ago but really, is this kind of thing truly learned or are there just morning people and evening people?

Since that day way back when I have been getting up at around 5 am on most weekdays on a fairly regular basis and now come the weekend or, heaven forbid, a vacation where you are fully, 100 percent able to sleep in I am unable to do so. Like today. I woke up at 5 and finally got out of bed at 6 and now I'm sitting here typing.

If you ask Shelley the answer is clear. I'm a morning person (read: freak, weirdo) and she's normal. On weekdays I regularly get home from the gym and she's still in bed. On weekends she can wake up to tell me goodbye as I leave for a ride, roll over and be asleep in a heartbeat. In fact, she'll set her alarm on the weekends just so she can turn it off and go back to sleep with the feeling of satisfaction that she does not need to get up. Not me. Once that alarm goes off I'm done for. Even if I just have to get up at 4 or 5 to visit the bathroom I'm finished. I'll go back to bed but just lie there staring a the ceiling.

You might say, "Martin, why are you fighting this? Think of all the extra time you have each day that most other people don't." Well it's not exactly like that you see... I might wake up early but then come 8 pm; unless I'm actively doing something, I shut down pretty fast. We'll be watching a movie or (trying to) read books when all of a sudden my head hits the couch/pillow. The only exceptions seem to be when we're out with friends, at a party, you know, doing stuff. Sadly there is one other exception; the computer. I can sit and mess with shit for hours it seems. There have been times when my ability to stay awake in front of the glowing LCD has been kinda ridiculous in fact.

On those days when I don't get to bed until late and only get six (or five or four) or so hours of sleep I still seem to do okay. I'm not one of those people that has a second job at night or some massive hobby they do when everyone else in the house falls asleep but I do seem to do alright with less sleep than some.

But sometimes I really want to sleep in... I have vivid (and fond) memories of being able to shut my eyes, go back to sleep and then have breakfast at lunch time. Plus, there are times when your body just needs more sleep. Mine needs it too but it refuses to get it. Thinking back I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say seven hours is the most I have slept in years. What's that you say? Eight is normal? Whatever.

If this is one of the affects of aging I guess it could be a lot worse. I could be going to the bathroom not just at 4 but at 2, 2:45, 3:30... you get the idea.

See, now this is where this gets funny. So I'll put away my hanky from that last post and tell you the sad, pathetic story of my unrequited teen years.

As luck would have it, I ended up going to school on the north shore of Lake Tahoe. Incline Village to be exact. From about 2nd grade on. Not until I reach 6th grade did I realize the wonder that was Grady Clifford. He played drums in my band class. Clifford, meaning Doug Clifford. Cosmo. Not that I even grasped that fact at the time. He just played drums and I played clarinet. Was there ever a more sexy instrument than clarinet? Just ask Benny Goodman.  So he was like the pinnacle of hotness and he dated some chick named Cindy and they made out in the back of the bus all the way down to the Nevada Band-Off or whatever the hell the field trip and I drowned my sorrows in Twizzlers. Such is love at 14. I carried a torch for Grady for a year or two. Until the time one winter where I actually got to ride up the ski lift with him. OK. Yes. Here was Shelley's big moment. The culmination of all my dreamy ruminations in my girly bedroom, painting my toenails and tracing his initials on my Keds. The moment I had dreamed of for all of 1986. My girlfriend (who was TECHNICALLY DATING HIM at the time) let us take a lift ride together. And what did I do? All that time imagining the day we would actually come face to face. Applying makeup in my Clairol mirror just so with the blue eyeliner, just a touch of the shimmer pink lipstick.

Total silence.

I did not say one word the entire ride. All the way to the top of the lift. Zip.

And that was that.

He went left, I went right.

Isn't that weird? If I wasn't a sad, sad, confused teenager, I'd really beat myself up about that one. But I'm beginning to forgive myself for being a complete douche between the ages of 12 to 19. I know, 19 seems beyond the douche cut-off but break me off, eh?

Anyway. I wonder sometimes what Grady Clifford is doing and if he knows that he had any effect on a silly retarded girl from junior high. My guess is no but then maybe. Just maybe.

Ah. Have you ever seen the rain.

I'm not sure, I might be the only one. But Creedence makes me cry. It's so chalked full of memories. In more than one way, I suppose.

It's weird, I've been thinking of my dad lately. And this song always makes me think of him. Before my step mother poisoned his soul and made him love Celine Dion. He used to love Creedence. And he used to have lambchop sideburns and wear patterned golf pants and Budweiser can hats and drive a blue Chevy van. We lived in a trailer and my Uncle Reed bought me a harmonica for god, my second? third? birthday. How can I remember that? The mind is such a miracle. And I have these pictures of my father from then. He and my mom, so much younger than I am now, together raising two kids. All my memories are Glen Campbell, Willie Nelson, Neil Diamond, Dolly Parton, George Jones. How is it that a 3 year old can remember. That when I lay on the beach a million miles from that memory and that song comes on, I cry. Remember my father in the absolute perfect father light. And I hit repeat about 10 times.

1. Direct flights. The less take offs and landings, the more skin left on my lips.

2. Online check-in.

3.  A fresh new outfit. Nothing distracts from imminent death quite like a crisp flattering shirt. If I feel good walking through the airport, I'll feel better when everyone stares at me while I'm crying during takeoff. Small comforts, people.

4.  Arriving at least 2 hours before takeoff. Minimum. This allows me to do my weird rituals like, buying a magazine I won't read, scoring gum I'll use to cover up my booze-breath (see #5), go to the bathroom 2 or 3 times to do my breath exercises, hit the ATM for cash for yes, in-flight booze!

5. Taking my time at the bar. Ritual requires two scotch on the rocks. Neat if I'm feeling especially vulnerable. (None of this is logical, I know).

6. Comfortable shoes.

7. Podcasts on my ipod.

8. A soothing scent. Sometimes I like to try out something new for a trip. There's something about catching a whiff of nice that makes everything OK. Not quite as OK as say, being tucked in my bed on land, but hey. The upcoming flight to Hawaii is all about this.

9. Sitting next to people who hate flying even more than me. I feel so much better about myself! What weaklings.

10. Sitting next to people who care so little about flying, they barely notice they're on a plane.

11. Having a lot of kids on the plane. What are the odds of them all being struck down in their youth?

12. Lots of empty seats. In my (totally delusional, again, I know) estimation, it makes the plane lighter and therefore less likely to plummet from 30,000 feet.

13. Having a seat that allows me see the flight attendants. The reasoning being, if they're chuckling about last nights escapades at the Best Western Deluth Airporter Lounge or blissfully catching up on their knitting while waves of turbulence twist the plane, I probably have nothing to worry about.

14. New planes. There isn't anything worse than realizing you're about to board a plane from the late-80's. The exterior paint job may be shiny but the fixtures will give it away. The yellowed plastic cabin siding. The old-school orange/white attendant call buttons. Ashtrays. Nothing says, "Last Voyage" quite like re-re-re-upholstered seats.

15. Easy access to my emergency copy of The Tibetan Book of the Dead. Just in case.

Aloha.

At the start of the first road stage of this year's Paris-Nice stage race cyclingnews.com reported that the rain was falling and the wind was blowing. The weather was so atrocious that the distance was cut in half... quite unusual for a professional road race.

As a winner of stage two of the 2007 Tour de France to Ghent, Gert Steegmans was known as a specialist for uphill bunch sprint finishes. He showed it once again by winning stage one of Paris-Nice in Nevers. The race was shortened in half to 93.5 kilometers due to severe weather, but was contested on a very high speed when Steegmans' team-mates from Quick Step decided to put the hammer down in the cross wind.

Under the rain, the Belgian squad looked as comfortable as if it was racing in its own backyard, unlike the diminutive Spaniards from Euskaltel who were daunted by the high winds. "Kevin Hulsmans and myself, we looked at them and we laughed, they were scared," Steegmans testified.

Nice. It takes balls to say that sort of thing but it takes even bigger balls to walk the walk and Steegmans did that in spades. Not only did Quick Step shred the peloton at will but Gert took to the front with 350 m to go and never looked back.

What's that clanking noise...? Oh, it's Steegmans approaching.

None of us ever want to be that guy, be it this category or any other but this time it was me.

I'm eating my 'lunch' (and when I say lunch I really mean whatever scraps and leftovers I can scrounge up when I happen to get hungry) at my desk and today it consisted of some bread and marinara sauce. In general there is nothing finer and I love dipping bread in just about everything. So I'm ripping off hunks and dipping them in the sauce and greedily chowing down.

Then, as is my nature, I realize that there is some stray sauce around the lip of the Tupperware... Being Martin means I'm compelled to get every last molecule of food in my mouth and so I dutifully take a piece of bread and run it around the lip of the container to mop it all up. First the outside and then the inside.

Seeing as I'm doing this at my desk the doctor is in so to speak and people keep popping by the IT office. Picture me trying to help the Dean's wife with her husband's Blackberry when suddenly I'm startled by this cool sensation down by my crotch. I look down and I'm slowly pouring the marinara sauce into my lap because in my efforts to wipe the last bit of sauce off the inside of the container I had tilted it way over; too far over.

She was like, "Oh, I can see you are in the middle of your lunch, how about I come back later...?"

No...! I said something like, "Just leave the Blackberry here and I'll have it back to you in a jiffy." I reach for the first thing that seems capable of scooping sauce off my jeans and it's a card Shelley sent me long ago. But it's glossy (so hopefully the sauce will not damage it) and it's rigid enough so I grab it. As the Dean's wife is walking out of the office I'm left trying to scrape all this mess off my pants and be super subtle about it. Not.

Then I have to run to the bathroom to grab a bunch of paper towels, wet them down and start the dabbing process in what is always a futile attempt to make it look like this never happened. Of course that is not what happens and instead I emerge from the bathroom with a big, wet stain on my jeans right in the most embarrassing spot possible. Nice. All I can say is thank goodness I didn't have to give a talk or anything.

By now my jeans are mostly dry and it looks like the card survived. Whew...

I am such an idiot when it comes to my medication. The fact that I even have to type 'my medication' is embarassing. I think I'm still in denial that I'm on anxiety meds. Like, I don't believe that I really need them. Which, who knows, maybe I don't. But at this point I can tell you that withdrawal from this medicine is in itself anxiety-inducing. So which came first, right? Partly as an oversight and partly I think out of sheer spite that I refuse to believe I need these pills, I failed to refill my prescription in time. So for the last 4 days, I've been off the Celexa. Inadvertently. Actually, that's not true. I called the pharmacy in time but some jack-off named Jeffrey forgot to pop the pills in the mail on Thursday otherwise I do believe they would have showed up Friday. And since nothing came on Saturday I'm pretty sure I'm going to just white-knuckle it on through to Monday. Yes, yes, I'm sure I could do the sad Emergency Call to the on-call doctor and have them refill my purin tablets in no time but I just don't want to be that guy. I was that guy when they forgot to call in my valium for my airplane ride. I felt like such a nutjob crying and asking Martin to please help me find my airline drugs! I was so distraught, I could have easily gotten on the phone and cursed the doctors unborn children. It was that big of a deal to me. Je. Sus. Sometimes I wish I would just get a grip. On the other hand, who is this Jeffrey-douche who forgets to send people their pills? What if they were my cancer pills or something? My insulin? Something life-threatening. God, what an asshole. As it stands so far, I'll just be incredibly, miserably, dizzy for the rest of the weekend. As long as I don't start Web MD'ing and convince myself I'm having a stroke, I should be fine. If I had known this medicine would be so hard to get off of, I never would have started it. I remember asking the Dr. about that, too. He assured me it was very easy to stop. Yeah right, Jeffrey.

In other news, I got a bunch of books today in preparation for the Hawaii Trip. In no particular order:

Hunting and Gathering - Anna Gavalda

Stumbling On Happiness - Daniel Gilbert

Excel 2007 for Dummies - someone who knows Excel

Moral Disorder - Margaret Atwood

Think I'll read all these while I'm away? Me neither. But it's nice to have some variety. I asked my sister for some book recommendations and she gave me the thumbs up for Margaret Atwood. I said, "Wasn't the Handmaid's Tale a really bad 80's Lifetime movie?" and she said "Yes but the book was pretty good". Then she recommended some Salmon Rushdie. And we joked about how you have to do some brain warm-ups before diving into anything Rushdie. Limber up the ol' gray matter. Some deep-brain lunges. Seriously, that shit is dense. I tried reading The Moor's Last Sigh and I think I sprained my frontal lobe. Maybe not good beach reading. Who knows.

Sometimes someone comes up with the answer to a question that should never have been asked; like this Iso Truss mountain bike frame.

I mean I guess it's a neat engineering feat but there are so many things wrong with this design...

• What happens when you leave a cup out in the rain? It fills up with water. on a wet day all of these tubes are suddenly great, big cups that will fill with water, mud, cow poop, dead slugs and anything else you ride through. Live in So Cal? Have no fear, your 2.75 lb frame will also soon weigh 4 or 5 when it fills with dust.
• How many times have you banged your legs against the tubes of your frame or fallen on your bike? Now imagine banging them against a cheese grater or falling on a thousand tiny serrated knives...
• Ever sit unexpectedly on your top tube? Right, these bike designers obviously have not either.

This is the kind of thing you buy and then hang on your wall or seal up in your time capsule so you can laugh about how silly people were 20 years ago when you dig it back up.