Tree farms

Make no bones about it, I love my trees. They surround me and on a daily basis remind me of who, precisely is in charge. Dead and rotting ones have come crashing down upon my precious possessions (I have two), and sometimes on blustery and windy winter nights the thought of taking one on the head is a touch disconcerting. There are many other things that they do to provide me and my neighbors with value besides act as pollution filters. I would much rather live in the forest amid these noble plants, in the shadow of the possibility that one of them may come crashing down squishing me like a bug, than to live in a swath of clear cut land layered in asphalt and safe from falling limbs, trunks or spurs. Don't even get me started on the subject of safety (just yet).

Yesterday as I was cleaning up the yard, I took a break to flip through the latest edition of Wired magazine. They had some VERY interesting things to say on a number of environmental subjects, this one especially catching my eye. Turns out that once again something I held to be dear and true was wrong. At least part of it. Check this out fellow tree huggers and let me know what you think. In the meantime, I will sit in the shade of my maple and cedars and finish the article. And then get back to work, cause I leave Wednesday for Germany and there is lot's to be done.

http://www.wired.com/science/planetearth/magazine/16-06/ff_heresies_04forests

Me and the Arrow

Had the new Sony HDV HC7 camera delivered yesterday by FedEx (ohhh, there it is). I was out in the yard working on the Shooter Scooters camera mount when he drove up, parked and headed towards me with the goods. There was the truck like a HUGE mobile billboard in my driveway (a dirt road with a fir, cedar and maple backdrop) almost begging for recognition and acceptance.

"OK", I says to the driver, also sporting the logo on his well worn cap, "how many people do you suppose have never seen the arrow?"

He froze, turned on one heel, not an easy manouver in inch and a half rock, and stared at the truck, and hence the unmistakable BRANDING on its side. He looked at it for a very long while and I started to suspect that it was possible, although VERY unlikely that even HE had never seen it. At last, he looked towards me, smiled and announced, with great sincerity, "95%".

He then, added, "Are you in the business?"

I went into an detailed explanation of how my work as RCVman includes decades of prerequisites in graphic arts, marketing, advertising arts (my major in college) design, etc, etc, until I could see that I was losing him with the dullness of my verbal resume.

We both agreed that it was in the top five of all-time brand logos, joining (this is my list) the Nike Swoosh, Coca-Cola, Playboy, and Apple.

He had to go, after all the arrow represents speed and efficiency, said so-long and walked to his rig. Stopping as he opened the door to climb in, he turned and said, "It is pretty cool, thanks for the comments".

"Thanks for the camera."

So have you seen it? Here is a commentary on its creator.

http://www.thesneeze.com/mt-archives/000273.php

The George

If, dear readers, you are EVER having a less than perfect day, watch this.

George Carlin was (sadly now in the past tense as of Wednesday) one of the funniest, most profound and prolific comedians ever to grace stage, screen and stereo. I will leave it at that. RIP GC, I laughed so hard I cried.

YUM

I was very humorously reminded by David Sedaris in his best seller "Me Talk Pretty One Day", that Tom Robbins once said that there are only two mantras: YUK and YUM.

So true.

Photo examples: You decide which is which.

Chapter 73

"This is the last time", she said, trying again (and harder this time) to convince herself of her core power, determination and karmatic standing. "If I allow you this gift, and you abuse it, I am both writing off the now and pissing on the then. Have you forgotten that in wasting this moment, this opportunity, we lose a piece of eternity?"

At a loss for words he heard a dove agree with her calling the recherche coooo.

D

My nephew D with his beautiful assistant, Nathalie, at the Cafe d'Este in Nice. They both had wonderful things to say about working for the most famous couple in the world, she in her native Italiano and French and he in between mouthfuls of fried squid. We had more desert than ten people should have in a month. Great fun on the first "official" day of summer 2008!

Chapter 73

"Does he have the balls", was the question du jour. Everyone familiar with the situation was asking this, himself included. It wasn't so much the danger, sure he could break some bones, get stitched back together, or spend a day or two convalescing with some synthetic pain numbing narcotic, it was more the outlandishness of the idea. And what it represented in the long term for the project.

The risk factor was huge. He would be putting all his chips (as equity) on red five, trusting that every bit of effort, sweat, planning, partnering, time and energy would be enough to manipulate the outcome in his favor (the payoff). It was time to let 'er ride, he figured, go for broke, shit or get off of the pot, let this simple, yet grandiose, single move validate the project. All that he had. All that he was, all that he would ever be. One move. Now. Here.

Did he have the balls?

The skinny blond was nervous, watching him smile at the set-up. He was growing into the part, accepting the drama much the way a climber sets a piton and tests its strength. She had an investment of another type altogether, needing him to win in order to delay an outcome that was to everyone but her, obvious and inevitable. Her last cigarette was ten years ago, but right now her fingers reached nervously into her Louis Viton handbag searching for a smoke.

Time.

No Bull

No Bull.

End of a blistering day here in Nice. The event, the shoot, the first international two race endeavor was a success. It was smoking hot today for the fourth edition Ironman France. Logistically it was a challenge as Fabrice's Yamaha was a sport bike, sleek, fast and a beautiful blue, but it had no back rest and an interesting mirror/throttle/flight deck configuration that caused some early morning consternation and a creative application of the Fig Rig and just about every clamp he had available. We have to get the camera out front, he must have said to himself a thousand times over today's 112 twisting, climbing, curving, diving fast and furious miles. The quick bit of video he looked at after the race, while cooling off with yet another cheese panini and Heineken, looked very good, except for left turns where you only saw half of the arc, hence the need for the forward camera in order to show the entire road, all the time, regardless of the road font, or S. This needed to be fixed before Germany, now next up, and two weeks away. Options:

1) Perfect the mirror bolt assembly shoe.
2) Test the SD lipstick Visio cam for quality.
3) Come up with something else altogether.
4) Join the rodeo circuit.

As far as a something new altogether, he had no idea as to what, but was already reaching for the chalk to do some mental blackboard mechanical drawing. This might take the entire flight from Paris back to Seattle tomorrow.

He was determined walk the 5K to the airport at 4am. It was along the Promenade and should be OK at that time of day lugging the gear case and three bags into the Medeterrean sunrise . It was all paved and would allow him to get in some work before the long flight and save 29 Euro to Tony Lama.

It was a great having dinner with Darren on Saturday night. He seems to be settling in to the French style and liking the current assignment despite it's 24/7 demands. He looks great (see photo).

After all has been said (?) and done, he was guininely happy to have been able to make the trip. Some of the bike leg through the outback of Provence was absolutely stunning. He hoped that what he was seeing in the tiny viewfinder, sometimes at 40kph, would look as great as it did hanging on to the back of Fabrice's bike, one hand on the camera and the other like a bull rider cinched around the rope. They made the triathlon equivalent of 8 seconds. He was happy about that. And that ain't no bull.


Photos: Top to bottom: Christophe had the CT booth rockin to the Kona RCV
Can you hear this?
My roomies for the week at the ten star Chez Patrick, Kale and Regan
The first out of the water and ready for the killer fifteen star bike leg.

Jamon

Jamon

Felix Torres was the third baseman for the Los Angeles Angeles in 1964. It was a time that hispanic ballplayers were in the minority having yet to make the big breakthrough to the major leagues, aka, The Show. In order for him to make it into the starting lineup for the Halo's that season he had to do several things well. And a few very well. He had four of the five tools, universally known in the circuit as the ability to 1) Hit, 2) Hit with power, 3) Field, 4) Throw, and 5) Run. Felix could not run. Nor could he speak English. The former was accepted and forgiven, as was the latter, to a degree.

He remembered this story as he sat at the sidewalk cafe in Nice and perused the menu. Sure, he started with a half carafe of vin rouge and a basket of pain rustica, that was easy. But what about the main course? Moreover, how did he get some balance with his vegetarian preferences? Did that mean another salad, or the french version of pasta primevera, again? Maybe he should have gone back to his pals at the pizza cafe or gone to see his buddy from Tunis and had another fornage baguette and a bottle of beer. But the waiter was surprisingly decent with his anglais and together they worked through the menu, carefully and relatively painlessly, for to him, being a stupid American was painful.

The starter course was fresh asparagus, with sliced tomatoes in a tangy white sauce. The spears were steamed and then covered with sauteed garlic and tiny balls of sea salt. Two lemon spirals added color and zest. The evening was warm as was the bread. He was informed that the house wine was a four varietal blend of Provence. He could only recognize one, and after the second glass gave up trying to guess. The waiter, being it a slow night, came over on two occasions to converse, the first topic that of traffic, gas, global economics and the driving habits of the french. The second was money, the Italians, the Russians, the changing city center of Nice and,of course, footbol. Together they managed to make it an interesting conversation with the waiter's broken English and his bent French. It helped considerably that when they reached a verbal stalemate, he could play an Italian pawn into play and get to the next move. This pleased him immensely and reminded him of the movie he had seen the night before, The Orphans of Huang Shi, in which the main characters are English, but the setting is 1930's China and subtitled in French. You had to pay attention.

The main course arrived and he was pleasantly surprised by the delicate preparation and presentation of the risotto avec artichoke. Tomato base, topped with generous portions of parmigiano. More bread, more wive, more conversation. It was a wonderful Wednesday evening in Nice. He was happy that he chose the L'Albatros as the spot to dine. Finishing off with two scoops of vanilla (french) ice cream and an espresso, he left a thankful tip and walked off into the night.

At the roundabout waiting for an opening, he suddenly laughed aloud remembering that Felix Torres, a professional ballplayer only forty-four years ago went an entire season (156 games) eating nothing but ham and eggs because that was all he could say in English.

Race day is still four days away.

Footbol

One of my favorite pastimes, he considered while sipping an ice cold mini Heineken and munching a panini formage, was watching people be themselves. He was quite fond of the Italians whom always seemed to provide the proper combination of opera and chaos, pleased by the Brits and Aussies who were confident that they (alone) had it all sorted out, in absolute awe of the cultures of the Orient, and amazed by the French. He had spent the day visiting the many streets of Nice, starting at the promenade, taking care of some nasty credit card business (where did it go?), having lunch, shopping, catching a movie (more on this later) and then, as the RCV Nice coupe de gras, having the peaceful sandwich mentioned in the opening sentence. It was a nice day despite the rain.

But these people. What is it that turns them into absolute maniacs when there is a footbol game on? True, I have never played the game, thinking it silly to engage in sport without the use of one's hands, but the level of passion that they show for their team is beyond the superlative.

I am sitting at a sidewalk cafe at dusk, enjoying the gentle breeze off the Med and the smell of clean, post rain nighttime air, with the match on TV across the way, not more than ten feet. They were five deep in the street, yelling, chugging beers, chain smoking, talking on tiny cell phones, gyrating to each movement on the screen and building a crescendo of cheers every time the ball was kicked towards the goal. I sat and smiled as my cook at one point hurried across to see what the roar was about as my pommes frites sizzled in oil. First things first, no? It was a wonderful mix of tourists, locals and everyone in between who cared to share some fun, a fan or not.

The funny part of all this was that there were two Ironman France posters up in the window of the pub where the game was on.

We got a long way to go before we are able to inspire this type of enthusiasm, he thought, wondering who was playing.

Stan

Stan

(Editors note: This and the four prior postings are out of sequence due to the work load, lack of available internet connection and my choice of accommodation. Please to excuse)

Friday of race week. Excellent sleep in the private R1 chambers at the hostel. Had to move to the dorm this morning creating a challenging logistical storage issue. Here was the plan, and please dear RCV readers, keep in mind that when RCVman decides to do something on the cheap, that means OTC (and please remember also that this is England and things are pricey), so everything marked down, always on sale and totally without frills. No excuses, no luxuries and no hedging. In that past that has meant a lot of fasting, walking and reading, but this time, the combination needed to include both functionality and efficiency:

Wear the Glide Cam vest under the jacket.
EVERYTHING goes into the backpack; camera, extra batteries, tape and all the accessories, tools, and connectors to do the shoot. Surprisingly, it all fits, and weighs a hair under 30 lbs (he guessed).
Check the remaining gear into the hostel secure closet tonight and light out at 8-for the bus.
Take the number 55 bus from Exeter to Tiverton at 0855. (5 pounds, 20 pence).
Transfer to the Dulverton bus at 10:45 (cost tbd as it's a Saturday).
Meet Special Agent Ward at 1:45.
Get to the athletes meeting at 3 and hook up with Ali to establish rider logistics for Sunday morning.
Camp at the Lake.
Do the shoot. Kill the shoot (please no rain).
Talk SA Ward into a ride back to Tiverton as there is no Sunday service from Dulverton. Train back to Exeter. Walk to hostel. Get gear. Re pack.
Go to "decent" local restaurant as reward for success.
Have a nice meal and two glasses of wine.
Monday: Check out at 11, walk to train station, take air-porter and fly to Nice via Brest and Lyon.
Repeat process on the Cote d'Azure.

Sound like a plan, Stan?

Nice

Nice

The UK 70.3 was a wrap. Issues, always issues, always challenges, always something out of the immediate (or long tern) control of the intrepid RCVman, but a wrap none-the-less. The Saturday hook up with Simon and Fiona went without a hitch, as was to be expected as this was an official FBI (Fun Boys International) manouver. I simply say that I will be in the smallest hamlet in all of Southern England (Dulverton-Southern gateway to the moors), and Agent Ward is there, with a map, a tent and a wonderful bottle of expensive wine (my favorite varietal) , compliments of his Dad. We braved the treacherously narrow and winding roads (now I know where the bus drivers of Almafi get their training) to Wimbleball Lake, found race directors Ali and Chris, checked in, got credentialed, made camp, met up with Catherine and promptly went to dinner at The George's Pub. And had a delightful supper.

With 4-am as a wake up time, we hit the bags early, a mere 100 meters from the muster area. The plan was coming together as nice as one could expect. I had met my driver, Martin (not Darren) Saturday night and we set up the camera mount configuration and shoot protocols. The sky was full of stars and the predicted rains were nowhere to be found. Nice.

The 0600 swim start was into a fog bank into which the 1,200 athletes swam, made the turn and swam out of, and back to the park. We waited as long as possible, leaving at 7, roughly half way into the pack. We were atop Martin's fire engine red Triumph, a fast looking and surprisingly comfortable ride. I had previously switched the vest attachment to the left side to accommodate the UK driving custom, but decided to hand hold the Fig Rig at the last moment to try to get a little more extension to the left for a better POV. This is an issue that we need to correct, he mentally noted several times during the long ride. There was a bit off mirror the entire day at the lower left of the frame, keeping him from fully capturing left turns and enough of the ((stunning) scenery on the left side of the road. We need to get the camera up front to see both sides of the road, balances and all the way through turns, he again chided himself, knowing that it was too late for UK, and IM France as well.

Almost two complete laps, three hours of footage, and it starts to rain. And then hail. And then rain and hail. I swabbed the lens about four times and kept the camera body protected from the heavy downpours, but the footage from that point is questionable. And he had checked the camera into a locker this morning at the hostel, so he wouldn't have access to review until tomorrow, now Wednesday of race week for Ironman France. Sunday would have to be from another bike, right side con-fig, with the vest. That's at least five hours of holding the camera no less than three feet from his center of gravity. His back hurt just thinking about it.

Yesterday was a day at the airport. He left Catherine's charming, cozy and comfortable little cottage in Exeter at 10, got the the airport at noon, met the charming writer Annaliza Davis, and then hit Brest, Lyon and finally Nice at 2200. A 29 Euro cab ride and he was hauling luggage up two flights of stairs to his dorm bunk none the worse for wear. A Neapolitan pizza and a couple of Heinekens at a sidewalk cafe in Nice at Midnight wrapped up another International travel day.

The first re-con mission through the streets of Nice was this morning, and proved successful as the race venue, expo and swim was less than a mile from the hostel. He had stopped and bought another power converter, customized it to fit with his trusty swiss army knife and now sat pounding keys on the old iBook G4, as the iPhone charged and his spirits rose with each passing moment. Nice.

He did however, wish he could start editing video.

U

UK 70.3 race week. He had braved two center seats and 15 hours in the air to get to Exeter, England. No 'quality' sleep since Tuesday and it's now Thursday at 1740. He laughed thinking that he needed to avoid at all cost any mirrors for the shock of seeing Keith Richard's wearing HIS cap, reflecting back, just take him to a 19th nervous breakdown. Such is life on the RCV trail these days folks. On the next-to-last leg, seedy Kennedy to pulpy Paris, le gande Air France baguette had two video cams in the belly and showed the landing live on the big screen. It looked eerily like an RCV. Alours, Bastards!!!! Stole our vision and cheapened it for an easy ovation. Remember the days when the passengers (now referred to as meat) actually applauded upon arrival after a long flight? Anyway, the resolution was horrid and the colors were washed out and dull. Where have I heard that before?????? He was so famished on that long trek that he even ate some "pollack", (beef wellington being the other option). It was surprisingly OK, tasting kinda like chicken as he recalled how that used to taste. The French wine (complementary) and the cognac (also on the house) was a nice touch, even it it now seems in retrospect that they might have been setting him up for the encore du vin of the RCV landing. We can learn something from these people he thought.

Across the English channel and into Exeter, eyes swollen, heart rate near max, back on fire. Bus into city center. Walk (with four bags feeling like a sherpa) twenty minutes to the Backpackers Hotel (cleverly disguised as a hostel) and check in. A private room tonight is the perfect reward, even at 40 pounds, which as far as he could tell was about $110 US. when they said that the dollar was weak over here, he never thought that it was anemic as well. The rest of the stay (in a bunk) is only 15 (40). Part of the good RCV karma for spending over 3 large on air fare.

Exeter is very cool. Old Roman outpost transported into the present via shops, jobs and affordable housing. Photos to follow as tomorrow he would brave the trail towards Oxford and the race as a dress rehearsal. He could hear the joke now as he asked the inevitable question in the morning, "How do I get to Oxford"?

Three possible punch lines:

"You"?
"Study, study, study"
"Born into the wrong family son, gotta smoke?"

weirdness

So So many things (10,000 to be precise) seem to be wrestling for the center of the stage (where the eye involuntarily goes and the lights are brightest. Maybe it is simply the magnetic tug of awareness bringing things towards the light. True North or not, they come and for a splendid moment in this time and space, exist as a result of our perception. Did I bring them here? Or are they here so I will notice? Have they always been here, but I was too blind, busy or bored to see? Or do I need to respond to their presence and use them much as a magpie dines upon the roadkill du jour? Let's play this out, he thought, see if any of this makes any sense.

Yesterday was a weird one. In a series of weird ones. It HAS been a long, strange trip, he sang, remembering that not once in the maybe 50 times she saw the Dead, did they (I think it was Bobby's 5th) ever manage to get that harmony right. Lately it occurs to me....what a long.....

The list of chores needed to get done with efficiency, as there was precious little time between Boise and SF. Two days. The visit to the Kitsap Health Center for the physical had been booked for weeks, and today was the dreaded day. Every man knows the why of this dread. Especially those over 50. The lubricated, gloved, sterile finger up the exhaust pipe testing for rust, carbon deposits or signs of abnormal wear and tear. It had been eight years since the last check, so the question needed an answer, worse, the test is digital, and not in the current primary usage.

After the testing, across the Highway to pick up my income tax return. yes we filed an extension, but I needed to face THAT music next. I never even considered what the RCV retainer would mean to my taxes, especially that rediculus bit of extortion known as the "Self Employment Tax". So for the first time in almost as many years as the time between my checkups, good ol PMX5 actually showed a profit in 2007. I was not prepared for the amount I was being asked to pay. Or the amount I was being asked to pay for the service of being told how much to pay. The cosmos is doing a thourough job of testing today, he thought, suddenly feeling a second stinging sensation in an already tender area.

Off to Central Market to get a present for a friend celebrating her 47th birthday. A hundred dollar gift certificate will help put some good food on their table. Let's do some math so far.

Visit to doctor: $222.00
Visit to accountant: $4,812 for IRS, $450 for accounting firm
Visit to store: $116.55

Man, it's not even ten in the morning and I am out over 5 large. Better get back and book the UK/France trip while I still have some credit.

Too late.

SeaTac to Exeter to Nice and back: $3,200.
I book two hostels to compensate, no rental car, I'll ride the bus or walk.
I check e-mail
Things are getting stranger by the gigabyte.
I transfer funds to cover the IRS check.
So much for the new sound system.
I try to write a sensitive response to a delicate domestic scenario, fail miserably and feel worse as a result. I try once again to make sense of all the ramdomness, chaos and heartache. Is there a message here? Is someone knocking? WFT?

I still need to pack for SF. Don't forget the ointment.

1967

1967

Did you think that RCVman gave up the ghost? Broke a femur? Got thrown in the slammer? Was on a week long bender? Doing a hippie sabbatical on top of Mt Tam for a few? Nah.......

I must apologize for being out of touch for what seems like an eternity (or life without parole). The disgustingly ancient (not even close to quaint) Travel Lodge wanted ten bucks a day for internet access, a graft I consider excessive, so I relied pretty heavily on gmail, totally global on the version one iPhone. Sorry to be cheap, but apparently it is in my DNA, even if I could write it off as a business expense. GP, ya know?

I love SF. Always have. Walkin' in the Mission (in the rain), hangin in North Beach. The Wharf. The Stinking Rose. City Lights Bookstore. That big red bridge. The Presidio. Attitude. The City has it like no other. I wish sometimes that every year could be like 1967. Maybe 2009 will be.

The Accenture (they include mentions in the contract so you hear this a thousand times) Escape from Alcatraz triathlon is a blast. As SF is to every other city in America, this race is to every other swim, bike and run. Start your day by jumping off a ferry in the middle of the bay and swim the 1,500 meters in 56 degree shark infested waters to the SF Yacht Club. Run a mile. Saddle up and ride 18 of the toughest, most technical, challenging and scenic miles known to the sport and then do a mostly trail run of 8 miles, on sand, up stairs, under that big red bridge and finish at the Marina Green in front of what seems like half the cities population. Sound like 1967? A lotta fun. Almost free love.

Had a pretty decent shoot, captured the energy and explosive excitement of the bike leg and feel confident (I am downloading the video as I master Boise), that this one will be what we have all been waiting for: The Real Deal. The roads are pretty rough and the out and back thru GG Park is like a mine field which will test the smooth cam software like never before, but I think I will be OK. As in very OK. As in fucking great. Just like 1967.

You will be the first to know.

I head out again tomorrow morning for the UK 70.3 on Sunday and then IM France the following week. Don't know what type of WIFI will be available so this might be another test of your (and mine) patience. That said, I will do my best to keep you informed, entertained, and updated. As always.

"Sometimes the lights all shinin' on me
other times I can barely see
lately it occurs to me....."

you know the rest.

28

28

Twenty-eight years ago. It was 1980.
Jimmy Carter was in his last year as POTUS soon to be replaced by Ronnie R
GPS was introduced and launched
Omar Romero was assassinated in San Salvador
Rosie Ruiz wins the Boston Marathon (NOT)
Mt. St. Helens implodes
John Lennon is shot by a fucking lunatic
The Phillies beat the Royals in the WS
Empire Strikes Back is released
Iran and Iraq go to war over oil
Alfred Hitchcock dies at 81
We finally find out who shot JR.

And now my comments on the above:

I always liked Jimmy Carter because he was honest and sincere. Not a great statesman, not a typical Southern diplomat, not a super orator, but you knew where you stood on the big issues. He didn't get a lot of help, not to mention respect.

I wouldn't be writing this is it weren't for GPS.

There was some bad shit going down in the jungle, and when the Sandanista's, CIA, Contras, and Russians were all out there trading AK-47 rounds, you needed a scorecard to tell the good guys from the bad. You don't shoot priests, under any conditions. Rule of engagement number one.

Rosie, Rosie, Rosie. How could you?

I was in a Boeing 707 30K feet above the Grand Damme when she blew her top. It is another story altogether as the WHY I was there, but I was. An amazing sight to be sure.

Stupid.

Rose, Bowa, Schmidt best Brett & Co (there is yet another trivia connection here)

This was a fun movie experience back in the day

A war in the Middle East? Over Oil? This is news?

One of the greats. My personal faves are The 39 Steps, and Rear Window

I had already turned off my TV set by this time, so to this day, I have no clue as to whom did this dirty soap deed. Or was it a favor?

Photos: You KNEW there was a connection. Strange tales at SEA-TAC upon return from the Boise 70.3. Triathletes are a weird (but fun) bunch. Sometimes we keep our race numbers for days. In this case a very talented local lady picks up her luggage with her age showing on right calf (photo used by permission).

When I picked up my "gear case" somebody (between the Boise airport and the Seattle baggage claim) had attached a official Boise 70.3 medal to it. This is quite possibly the strangest thing I have seen, since, well, 1980, 28 years ago.

Guess I owe somebody a thank you.

Theme Music

And a big hey there howdy to ya'll this beautiful first Monday morning of June. The clouds above Boise are light and fluffy with streaks of pink and orange lining their bottoms with fine detail. I look over the Boise State campus from the ninth floor of the Grove and wish that this sunny morning could have been yesterday. Because as good as the bike leg was from the Lucky Peak reservoir to Flying Hawk, the typically sporadic high desert rains clouded my camera the last ten miles back to town. Just when you think you got something hot in the bag.......rain. After looking at most of the video last night, I didn't have the heart to look at the rain footage, so I'll do that on the capture fly this afternoon while down loading. You might be able to hear me scream from wherever you are.

One good note was a comment from one our Multi-Rider coaches from Salt Lake City who suggested that the full course RCVs (Kona, CDA, Louisville and even Arizona) are TOO LONG for the vast majority of his clients, as in, they don't want to do a FIVE HOUR coached training ride, they want (and need) something shorter, like from 45 minutes to 90 minutes. Wow, a constructive comment about us giving them TOO MUCH product. Could be a first.

It also opens up the opportunity to use some of the course footage that is "the best of" several of the events that have an equal amount of less than perfect footage. and package them as shorter training rides, e.g. A thirty minute ride of Steelhead, 45 minutes of climbing in Lanzarote, 60 minutes in Switzerland and 75 in, TA DA: Boise, Idaho!!!!!!!! Just before the rains. The best part. Why not??

Hope springs eternal deep in the heart and soul of the Man from RCV. (cue theme music and fade to black).

Photos: Old Boise street mural. Head Referee Ed explaining drafting (again) at the pre race brief. A bridge column mosaic quote from Mr. O.