Was going to ride into work today, but the weather forecast has made me chicken out. It's sad how long it's been since I've pedaled in.
***Thursday GMT***
- Thread starter Pesqueeb
- Start date
Was going to ride into work today, but the weather forecast has made me chicken out. It's sad how long it's been since I've pedaled in.
Morning!
Last day before vacation + board meeting + crapload of customer interactions + crapload of marketing activities + instructing laymen how to perform some of my jobs while i am away + leaving for the airport later today -> a day from hell.
Last day before vacation + board meeting + crapload of customer interactions + crapload of marketing activities + instructing laymen how to perform some of my jobs while i am away + leaving for the airport later today -> a day from hell.
is it the weekend yet?
Mornin!
Man selling and buying stuff on Craigslist is a pain in the ass. It almost makes you want to pay full price for things or throw them away by the time you get done dealing with flakes who don't show up.
Picked up my rock sliders last night. Unfortunately it's going to be a few weeks before I can get them prepped, primed, and installed. That will most assuredly test my patience.
Man selling and buying stuff on Craigslist is a pain in the ass. It almost makes you want to pay full price for things or throw them away by the time you get done dealing with flakes who don't show up.
Picked up my rock sliders last night. Unfortunately it's going to be a few weeks before I can get them prepped, primed, and installed. That will most assuredly test my patience.
Went exploring at a local state park 15min down the road from me that I thought had some trails to ride based on the Googles. First 10min seemed promising as I found a tiny section (maybe 1/8 mile) of singletrack that was fast and fun, and definitely had tire tracks. I was disappointed that it brought me back onto the main rail trail running through the park, and did not see anymore entrances onto singletrack the entire length of the rail trail. According to the GPS, I parked at the exact west end of the park, and rode the trail all the way to the furthest point east in the park.
Somewhat disappointing, but I'm thinking I just need to know where to look. On the bright side, my homemade phone (GPS) stem mount worked amazingly well. 9.5/10 would bang.
Somewhat disappointing, but I'm thinking I just need to know where to look. On the bright side, my homemade phone (GPS) stem mount worked amazingly well. 9.5/10 would bang.
Sore knee is sore.
Had one of these dreams were you feel like it really happened when you wake up. Gotta shake it off with some reality.
Had one of these dreams were you feel like it really happened when you wake up. Gotta shake it off with some reality.
I installed the sliders on my Jeep in the middle of the winter when it was single digits. Never in my life have my fingers been so cold. Add that to the task of drilling 9-10 holes through each rocker pinch seam and getting them to line up with the tapped holes in the slider to mount it....LOTS of swearing.
Luckily mine use factory holes with bolts, washers, and nuts. And I'm doing it in August.
So a dose of HTFU is in order?
More of a SIUP.So a dose of HTFU is in order?
this is a jeep related product. you're making a bold assumption the factor holes are in the right places.Luckily mine use factory holes with bolts, washers, and nuts. And I'm doing it in August.
another 100 degree day driving the short bus
Nah. It's going on a Tacoma. I have a little bit more faith in the Japanese.
well aren't i the ass then
Went out riding four wheelers with my buddy yesterday, not much planned for today other than a shower and laundry
Spooky solo night ride last night.
I got a little lost looking for a new climbing trail that had apparently been built. I rode some of it (I think), then it turned into some great descending... This meant a very steep hike back up to the main trail to get on with the rest of the ride.
Not many people out, a few hikers, a couple of riders. I managed to exchange friendly "hellos" with the hikers, the bikers on the other hand, were pretty annoying. One dude had music blasting out of his phone for us all to enjoy. So generous of him.
The other guy was having a lovely time dabbing his way up a fairly major artery to traverse the mountain. I had been gaining on him slowly and giving him lots of space. We were both making a fair amount of bike noise (little skids, shifting derailleur sounds, the odd grunt) to the point that I was quite sure we were aware of each other's presence. He was approaching a really tough part of the climb so I gave him even more space (15 bike lengths?) while I spun along and he gave it a good go. He spun out and dabbed again, then dismounted in the middle of the narrow trail, then looked over the edge of the trail, then looked at his bike. I ran out of room as I caught up to him and dismounted. Asked him if he was alright and knew where he was going. No response.
Headphones. I'll never understand how people do it.
"Rock out" all you want, but then keep your head on a swivel to stay aware of what's around you.
Once he heard me after I asked him again if he was alright, he was all smiles. Not apologetic in any way, just enjoying life.
Good for him.
Idiot.
I got a little lost looking for a new climbing trail that had apparently been built. I rode some of it (I think), then it turned into some great descending... This meant a very steep hike back up to the main trail to get on with the rest of the ride.
Not many people out, a few hikers, a couple of riders. I managed to exchange friendly "hellos" with the hikers, the bikers on the other hand, were pretty annoying. One dude had music blasting out of his phone for us all to enjoy. So generous of him.
The other guy was having a lovely time dabbing his way up a fairly major artery to traverse the mountain. I had been gaining on him slowly and giving him lots of space. We were both making a fair amount of bike noise (little skids, shifting derailleur sounds, the odd grunt) to the point that I was quite sure we were aware of each other's presence. He was approaching a really tough part of the climb so I gave him even more space (15 bike lengths?) while I spun along and he gave it a good go. He spun out and dabbed again, then dismounted in the middle of the narrow trail, then looked over the edge of the trail, then looked at his bike. I ran out of room as I caught up to him and dismounted. Asked him if he was alright and knew where he was going. No response.
Headphones. I'll never understand how people do it.
"Rock out" all you want, but then keep your head on a swivel to stay aware of what's around you.
Once he heard me after I asked him again if he was alright, he was all smiles. Not apologetic in any way, just enjoying life.
Good for him.
Idiot.
The worst are the people who run or walk in high traffic areas with headphones on and music up loud. They are oblivious to the fact that you are behind them even when you announce yourself and get all kinds of surprised and even angry when you pass them. It's annoys the poo outta me.
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still trying to figure out what i'm going to do in therapy. I started it to help me deal with the girl's bipolar swings, but now that she walked away, i'm not sure what to do with this. $200 a week for sessions could add up to some sweet retail therapy, and lots of tips at the peeler bar instead. i'll give it another week or two. i'm sure my head needs a tune up and moar shimz, but I've sorta adapted to riding this sloppy jalopy.
Figuring riding upon the local ski resort has free night session at five. Group ride style thats good, when racing single speed the hardest thing is riding in the pack. I think this weekend cat 2 is having the race and next weekend is another. I should win that thread by this afternoon. I have been stretching my legs more and more they have feelings. On the other half of stuff I have a magic problem and I haven't the pure girlfriend ever in my life on my arm so my hocuspokeus its lame shouldn't it be hokispokis.
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Cool SR-71 story: https://plus.google.com/u/0/+ToshiClark/posts/GBZ8xVtqmzC
I am working. Like 'squeeb the threat of rain kept me off the bicycle. Maybe tomorrow?
I am working. Like 'squeeb the threat of rain kept me off the bicycle. Maybe tomorrow?
damn! link blocked by AIG 
so many blocks from the RM posts
so many blocks from the RM posts
There's a photo of an engine, and a little more text, but here's the story, with paragraph whitespace added by yours truly:
>>>>>
There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this planeintense, maybe, even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot who asked Center for a read-out of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground." Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the "Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed in Beech. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren.
Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check." Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a read-out? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground." And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be donein mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard itthe click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request.
"Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground." I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money."
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, "Roger that Aspen. Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one." It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there."
>>>>>
There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this planeintense, maybe, even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot who asked Center for a read-out of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground." Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the "Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed in Beech. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren.
Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check." Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a read-out? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground." And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be donein mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard itthe click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request.
"Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground." I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money."
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, "Roger that Aspen. Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one." It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there."
my high school football coach once told me, no matter how big and bad you think you are, there is always a guy out there who will eat your lunch. it has got to feel good to have that kind of flex.I like the story but I believe there's no way to know what kind of aircraft from the radio chatter besides inferring after the fact from the reported groundspeed. As it is, it's a better story, though.
Don't know about you, but I choose wisely. Started raining pretty good right after the fog lifted. Would have been an uncomfortable morning on a bicycle.
my high school's football coach started yelling at a friend of mine during PE. he yelled for about a minute. then his dentures fell out. he picked them up and walked away without saying a word.
That was me getting my ass handed to my on the channel by a little 16' boat with a lot more ass than mine.
I told my girl "No matter how fast you think you are, there is always someone faster". I still find great joy in smoking $60k+ ski boats in my $3k special.
Just don't roll this one, too.I still find great joy in smoking $60k+ ski boats in my $3k special.
I must get a backshave... it feels awkward
I haven't taken too many high speed turns in this thing because it sits damn low and you could drag a hand while turning, but I leave the speed to the straights.Just don't roll this one, too.
Made the mistake of looking at the weather at home today. Should be a nice upcoming weekend with temps in the 70s. It will be in the mid 90's here with the ever present 95% humidity.
Welp.
I took a demo bike for a spin tonight. It was about 7-10 pounds lighter than mine, which was awesome. Too bad the 11 speed chain snapped twice. Screw that crap.
The look on their faces when I came walking back was pretty good, though.
I took a demo bike for a spin tonight. It was about 7-10 pounds lighter than mine, which was awesome. Too bad the 11 speed chain snapped twice. Screw that crap.
The look on their faces when I came walking back was pretty good, though.