Introduction
This is the twenty-second installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I of the series is here, Volume II is here, Volume III is here, Volume IV is here, Volume V is here, Volume VI is here, Volume VII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume IX is here, Volume X is here, Volume XI is here, Volume XII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume XIV is here, Volume XV is here, Volume XVI is here, Volume XVII is here, Volume XVIII is here, Volume XIX is here, Volume XX is here, and Volume XXI is here. The different volumes are unrelated, except by blood. By which I mean I figure in all of them. I’m sorry about that … it’s just the way it goes, this being my blog, as opposed to, say, yours. If you haven’t read the previous installments, don’t worry—you’ll be no more lost than anybody. If you do decide to go back and review them, you may do so in forward or reverse alphabetical order, length order, by weight, by number of comments, or according to which ones just “speak to you.” Of course, you’ll have to read them all before you can make this determination. Best of luck to you.
What are albertnet Bits & Bobs posts? They’re posts that comprise a mishmash of randomly assorted literary tidbits from old letters, emails, graffiti, and other modes of written communication I fell into in my callow youth. (Was I callow, in my youth? Well, I was callous but not sallow. Not that “callow” has anything to do with either word. Nor were these all written when I was young … but once you type “callow” it’s almost impossible not to follow it up with “youth.” Hmm. You know what? I think this introduction has gone on long enough.)
December 22, 2009
I love your anecdotes about cheesy bike race prizes. I cannot believe you received a box of powdered rug cleaner after hammering your ass off on the bike. And a peanut butter grinder? Who grinds his own peanut butter? Life is too short.
[Concerning the above: I always like to include a picture at the top of my posts, so that mobile viewers will see a thumbnail. But I don’t have an old photo of my teammate’s peanut butter grinder. Since I’m always curious about the latest AI, I tried out a new picture-generating app, Whisk, to see how it would do. My initial prompt was just “bicycle racer using a hand-cranked peanut butter grinder,” and Whisk chose to portray a woman, perhaps because it supposes women are more pleasing to the eye (which in my opinion is correct). I think Whisk did okay, after I told it to put “EBVC” on the jersey, to get rid of the vaguely unsettling non-word “PAKTY” it had oddly chosen. Note, however, that the crank doesn’t look right and for some reason she’s wearing only one glove.]
Myself, I don’t think I’ve ever won anything so useless, but a few items are worth noting. For example, after my first year at UC Santa Barbara, I spent the summer in Boulder and won a water purifier in a criterium. I was really stoked at first, because the tap water in Santa Barbara (well, Isla Vista) tasted like a swimming pool and I was looking forward to being a hero to my roommates by showing up with a purifier in September. But the catch was, the prize wasn’t a water purifier free and clear; it was three months of the use of the water purifier and then I had to give it back! The water in Boulder was really, really good (legend was it came directly from the Arapahoe glacier) so purifying it that summer was really gilding the lily.
Another time, in a Mini Zinger criterium the organizers offered a prime on the second-to-last lap. But I didn’t hear them announce it as a prime—I just heard the bell. And they’d moved the lap cards inside the fencing because they thought racers were getting too close to them, so I’d lost track of what lap we were on. I thought it was bell lap (since you’re not supposed to have a prime on the penultimate lap), and gave it everything the next time around. I took the prime handily and, thinking I’d finally beaten my arch-rival Pete [on the last stage of a nine-day stage race], I did some really theatrical victory salutes. I think it was a combo fireballs-to-heaven, rock-concert-fist-pump, and Mike-Tyson-speed-bag. Then Pete said, “Dude, we have a lap to go.” I was absolutely mortified. Worse yet, when I went to pick up my prime—a twelve-pack of Hansen’s soda—the dickhead race director told me, “Sorry, we’re all out.” I was livid. So I went and found my friend D—, who was not only 6’4” and over 200 pounds but liked to dress—and could act—like a thug in those days. I brought him over and asked the race director to repeat what he’d said about being out of Hansen’s, which he did. “That’s okay,” D— said, grabbing a stack of Wendy’s gift certificates that were sitting on the table. “We’ll just take a whole slew of these.” So Wendy’s was our go-to for the rest of the summer.
July 19, 2010
[On the topic of “chaingate,” an incident in a Tour de France stage in which pro bike racer Alberto Contador attacked his rival, Andy Schleck, at the moment Schleck’s chain fell off—a move that many saw as unsportsmanlike.] At least Contador did issue an apology, which is kind of nice, though he couldn’t help polluting it by accusing Schleck of taking advantage of him on the cobblestone stage. His apology also included this odd statement: “I dislike what has happened today, is something wrong with me?” That’s in translation, of course; he might have actually said “I dislike Brussels sprouts; it’s just how I was raised.”
August 21, 2010
Here is my ride report for the Mt. Hamilton Suffer-fest today. (Since I don’t race, this is the closest I can come to a race report.)
For breakfast I had a PBJ and a banana. The peanut butter was, due to a freak shopping accident, sodium-free. Lack of salt makes peanut butter inedible, of course, so I salted it. But you can’t just salt unsalted products and expect a good result. That’s a lot like trying to explain a joke. But I had to try. To make matters worse, it was early and my NoDoz hadn’t kicked in yet, so I accidentally over-salted the peanut butter. Adding insult to injury, the jelly was actually the dregs of a jar of cherry preserves, and was basically syrup. The effect was an over-salty cough-syrupy sandwich which I enjoyed not at all.
During the ride I drank six 20-ounce bottles of energy drink and ate one Powerbar, two gels (one 1x-caffeine, one 2x), and approximately one Hostess crème-filled cupcake (I offered a couple of guys bites which in aggregate amounted to most of the second cupcake in the two-pack). I had half of a NoDoz in Livermore; Kromerica took the other half and immediately felt so good he decided to ride home via Morgan Territory. (He’s so fit now, we may need to do an intervention, tying him to a La-Z-Boy armchair and equipping him with an X-Box and a case of Doritos.) Riding back without Steve was like having an engine car removed from our train.
The signature moment of the ride was on the shallow descent following the Hamilton summit, when the pace was unconscionably high and I was clinging to the back of the group for dear life. It was windy, so I knew if I got dropped I would suddenly be in a different postal zone from the others, and they’d have to wait, and it would take forever to fish my ego out of the ditch and get my sorry ass dragged home. That descent was like being put in the ring with a prizefighter and being told, “If you don’t last all twelve rounds, you will be shot in the head upon leaving the ring.” I was miserable: everything hurt. My legs hurt, my ass hurt, my hands hurt, my feet hurt, and my back hurt. I felt significantly better after our 7-Eleven stop in Livermore.
When I got home I had a very large and dense piece of E—’s homemade refrigerator cake, which is either the lasagne of cakes or the Pabst Blue Ribbon of cakes, or both. It’s layers of graham crackers, chocolate pudding, and sliced bananas, left overnight in the fridge so the graham crackers dissolve. Highly tasty, notwithstanding the amount of sweet crap I’d already ingested during the ride. Then I had a leftover pork cutlet expertly prepared in the French style with cream, lamb stock, and vermouth, followed by two pan-fried tortilla pizzas (spaghetti sauce, mountain-of-melted-mozzarella, Portobello mushrooms, scallions, sliced salami). I regret that I am stuck home with the kids and cannot face Joey Chestnut in a taco battle (per Andres’ e-mail from earlier). I’m sure I could take Joey, whether it’s a speed or quantity competition, unless he’s some sort of freak. I am still hungry and may partake of a carnitas burrito from Talavera later, pending spousal approval, or might try Celia’s Mexican restaurant, which I’ve eyeballed a few times but never tried. Anybody have any input on that?
As a sad footnote to my ride, I was hammering home (thirty minutes past my furlough!) and coming down my street, about thirty seconds from home, I passed some MAMIL on a fancy-pants cawbun fibuh Trek. Astonishingly, as I approached him, he started veering quite suddenly to the left, across my path. I yelled and he just kept coming. I yelled twice more before he heard me and corrected his line (we were way in the left lane at this point), just before he’d have crashed me. The complete imbecile was plugged into an iPod, and had made his bizarre left sweep without bothering to look over his shoulder. If he had actually crashed me, I’d have beaten him to death in the street, or strangled him with his headphone cord. As it was, I seriously considered beating him to death anyway, just on principle, but as I said, I was already late getting home. The brainless shitweasel probably has no idea how close he came to losing his life today. I take some solace in the fact that, riding as cluelessly as he does, it’s only a matter of time before he will be run over. I hope his death doesn’t trouble the conscience of whatever driver ends up taking him out.
In summary, Mount Hamilton was a truly glorious ride. Many thanks to MC Roadmaster for setting it up.
December 1, 2011
[An email, sent a few days after my surgery for a broken femur]
FROM: Dana Albert
TO: East Bay Velo Club
DATE: December 1, 2011 5:14 PM
SUBJECT: From Dana – I am home!
All,
I haven’t read everyone’s e-mails yet but I’m looking forward to it. Hurts to type--road rash on fingers. After some radical PT (peeing standing up, with walker) I’m exhausted so lifting my neck is causing me to sweat. But I’m HOME. Thanks to all for your well-wishes, calls, visits, and other kinds of excellence. More later ... maybe much later.
Dana\\
August 29, 2012
[Another email]
FROM: Dana Albert
TO: East Bay Velo Club
DATE: August 29, 2012, 9:54 PM
SUBJECT: Lance Armstrong caught huffing ether
Now that I have your attention:
Friday will be my very last day working out at the Albany Physical Therapy gym. I’ve been going there 2-3 times a week pretty much all year. It’s in a gross little strip mall off San Pablo Ave between Solano and Marin Ave. This place has become a significant part of my life history. I once watched a manicurist walk out of her shop, remove her surgical mask, puke all over the sidewalk, and then head back in to work. There’s a Happy Donuts where my family once went back before I could ride or drive and they had to shuttle my crippled ass around all the time.
Though I’ll continue PT at home, I thought I should celebrate finishing my gym era. But how? Well, there’s a Round Table Pizza in that little mall, and though it’s a pretty grim place, I do remember regretting that the one time I got take-out from there, when my daughters were tiny, I left half a pizza in a box on the roof of the car and it flew off and erupted on contact with the street. My regret was only partially based on A—’s bawling; also, it was good enough pizza to lament having lost. Plus, during my exercises one day last week I saw a cop go in there, and twenty minutes later he still hadn’t come out dragging a perp; i.e., he was eating there. I don’t know why I put much stock in cops’ restaurant choices, but I think it bodes reasonably well. And as someone who loves all pizza, even the Totino’s frozen pizza with the fake cheese, I found the smell beguiling every time I rode by.
So what I’m getting at is, if anybody feels like joining me at Round Table at 12:30 p.m. on Friday, please let me know. They have a lunch buffet for $6.99. I reckon once we suffer through the dried-out ‘za that’s been sweating under the heat lamps, they’ll have to start making stuff fresh and it might not be more than half bad. I’m not going to do an eVite or try to publish a guest list or anything. (If nobody responds, I’ll probably skip it because if there’s anything more depressing than eating a buffet at a Round Table in a dingy strip mall with friends, it’s doing it alone.)
I hope I haven’t oversold this. I’m trying to defend against accusations of bait-and-switch.
[Postscript: several friends offered to join me, but only if I changed the venue to Little Star. Foodies to the core! I held fast to my original plan and thus ended up eating the buffet solo. After I ate all the preexisting pizzas, the cook let me order whatever I wanted for my next three pies. It was great.]
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