Bicycling and Brooke

Okay, here is the quick Brooke-bike story.

I was driving home one afternoon, early for some reason, when Brooke was in about fifth grade.

Here's the road (if the link works) I was on, Browning in Salem. No shoulder except some gravel, no bike lane, no sidewalks.

And I pass my beautiful daughter Brooke bicycling home, NO HELMET!

Fourteen years later, I think her ears are still ringing.

Bicycling

Well, I thought it was about time I post something on bicycling, since you are looking at "JulieBike" blogspot. (I have already posted some nickname explanations, including the Hooligan thing.) I'm not a big-time rider like cousins Rick, Fernando, and others. I haven't done the Cycle Oregon. I don't race. I don't do the big group weekend rides. Or crazy stuff, like Portland's Bare Naked Ride or the ZooBomb (is that the right name?). I don't ride year round in the dark and rain -- I have been in the dark or rain, but those are future stories.

We used to bike as kids, back in the good-old safe days, after school, in the summer, just out and about. As an adult, I only biked occasionally. Brooke tells me she was scared when I put her on the child carrier seat, the original kind where the kid was riding over the back wheel. We did not have the kid trailers back then. Sorry Brooke!

(Oh, maybe tomorrow I will give you one short story about her cycling as a grade-school kid...unless she recognizes where I'm going and posts it first!)

I got active again almost four years ago. I saw an article about the Livestrong ride (not a race) that was going to be the second annual fundraising ride, 2006, in the Portland area, one of three nationally. The first year it was held, Mom and Dad went down to the end of the runway to watch some of the riders go by. That was September 25, 2005, four days before he passed away. So I signed up for 10 miles and had three months to prepare for the June 2006 ride.

Started "training," short rides (couple of miles) in my area. Then a longer 8-mile route - funny how I don't notice how steep the hills are when I'm in the car. And I soon found out there's a reason cyclists wear those funny padded shorts or pants. 'Nuf said on that.

Figured out how to load the bike on the front of the bus, so I could bus to work in the morning and bicycle home (8.5 miles).

For the Livestrong ride, I switched when I picked up my registration packet: 40 miles instead of 10! Woo-hoo! Not as much to brag about compared to the people who were doing 60 or 100 miles. In fact, it was very sobering, humbling, to be passed by people who had the sign on their back, "I am a Survivor."

My sign: "In memory of Dad."

Brussels Sprouts

Brussels sprouts? How can she blog about brussels sprouts?

Most of the family knows this story. So read along and let me know if I'm embellishing over time. Or skip off and clean the bathroom. Your choice.

Dad trained me to not like brussels sprouts. That was not his goal. I was about fifth grade, I think, and the vegetable for dinner one night was B.S. (My apologies if the initials offend you, but I don't feel they deserve the energy it takes to spell them out every time.) The rule was, you have to try everything at dinner.

I tried, but I gagged on the little buggers. Literally, could not chew and swallow one little B.S. Dad decreed, "You can go after you try one, but until you do, we're staying right here." My brothers were excused, Mom was working around us to clean up, and it was showdown time.

Really, I tried. I brought home good grades, I did what I could to please my folks. But those weird green things? And how do you describe that taste? Maybe it was just that smell, where your brain says, "Whoa, kiddo, something with that smell was not designed to be eaten and enjoyed."

And we sat.

And Dad fell asleep at the table.

Mom said I could go.

Technology and "proprietarian-ship"

So now I have a techno project. I wasn't planning on having a techno project.

The project I want to do is take out the shower door in the trailer, and just put up a rod with shower curtain. The shower door is an accordion, metal frame, glass panels door. I would post a picture, but that's part of my problem.

I want to send a picture(s) to a friend to get advice. I took a few pictures, then realized I needed the flash to be off (too much glare reflecting from the metal frame). So that took quite a few minutes.

Note to self, next time take the reading glasses, even when there is "no reason" I'm going to need them.

So now I just need to upload the pics, attach to an e-mail, and go do something else exciting for the day, right? No-ooo. This cute little laptop doesn't have the Canon driver loaded. Go to canon.com, and there is no driver for Vista operating systems. So I need to fire up the desktop and do the upload there.

Properietarian-ship? I just coined that word. Why should I even need a driver? The camera should have a nice little .jpg or .bmp file, and I should plug it in through the USB, and I should be able to transfer it just like I'm dealing with any other drive partition. But Canon has it set up so I have to use their proprietary software to get to my own pictures. Except they don't have the software I need for my machine!

Some day, eventually, I also need to flash-drive pictures (not so much of the shower, but all our other treasured family pics) to this laptop so they can go to the 1.5TB backup drive. That is so very much not happening today.

I love computers. I love number too -- a post for another day about the evil numbers I have been wrestling lately. Really, they are possessed.

Okay, off to the evil desktop PC. Hope your bits and bytes are behaving themselves!

Telemarketers

Ooh, here's a common enemy to unite the troops!

First, you've probably heard this tip: register your number at donotcall.gov. Very easy, and now it doesn't expire -- you used to have to re-register about every five years. We very seldom get calls, mostly the ones that are exempt (charity, political ads, research polls).

I got the all-time most annoying call a few weeks ago. "I would like to speak to Mr or Mrs Jackson." My standard reply is, "Who's calling please?" The answer this time was in such a thick accent I COULD NOT understand one word. So I simply hung up.

A few seconds later, the phone rang again! Really, I thought, you have got to be kidding me.

"Mrs. Jackson, why did you hang up on me?"

"I could not understand a word you said, and we are on the do not call list."

"This is not a marketing call. If you did not want to be called, why did you mark the ballot?" Then a bunch more unintelligible words. No, I have no idea what he was talking about with a ballot.

I cut him off. "I cannot understand you. Do NOT call again." And he didn't.

Do you have a good story?

Nate's birthday

Happy birthday to Nate. His Oregon Ducks gave him a great present. And may I emphasize that they had to come from BEHIND to win?

Today is also Nate's dad's birthday.

This is your birthday song. It isn't very long. Hey!

Ben's birthday!

Ben is 26 today. So really quick, here are three of my favorite Ben stories.

1. Call from Salem Hospital 3:00 in the morning, need permission to treat Ben. He was found drunk in the middle of a street. He was about 16 at the time. When I went in to the emergency room, the first thing he said (or slurred) was "Please don't cancel my snowboard camp." Oh, and it was the day before Mother's Day.

2. Call from Sprague High. Ben had been hanging posters for some garage band's upcoming performance. He was told he needed to have permission, needed to take them down, he refused, was put in the "Options Room." Okay. Then the secretary took a breath, "And now he's chained himself to the desk in protest." I laughed. [Admit it, you did too.] She wasn't so happy. I tried to control my giggles and squeaked out, "Um, is there something you need me to do?" "No, we're just required to let you know." Later his friends put up signs, "Free Ben Bolen, prisoner of free speech." Brooke was mortified (a year behind him in the same school).

3. Call from my Dad. Notice all of these are me getting a phone call from somebody. Anyway, odd that Dad calls me. "Hey, Dad, how are you doing?" "Not very G** Da***d well. I just saw my grandson getting arrested on TV." During the war protests, crowds were ordered to stay out of the street. Ben stepped off the curb to see what was going on down the block. Charges (disorderly conduct, I think) later dropped.

Our free spirit, kind hearted, vegan, charitable Ben. Happy Birthday. I love you.