Hi, Bobby! It’s your old buddy, Adam. Remember me? You called me last November and asked me to vote for you, and I said I wouldn’t because you were promoting that ballot measure that the I’ve-Got-Mine Homeowners association was pushing? Of course you remember me. We’re buds!

Anyway, remember how we were talking about the county ballot initiative to raise the sales tax for transportation, and how I was pretty sure we were going to get federal funding for a Westside subway extension, and you said it wasn’t going to happen in our lifetimes?

The MTA is going to start exploratory drilling in Santa Monica this week.

It’s still got a ways to go, but there will be a subway from Downtown to Santa Monica, and it’ll happen when we’re both alive and will be able to use it. And when it opens, I’ll be happy to pay for your first ride. See you on the train, Bobby!

Filed under: Politics, Santa Monica






    

Last year, I cracked open Joel Friel’s Cyclist’s Training Bible to design a training schedule. The first step was to define goals for the season. They had to reasonable and reachable. I chose finishing mid-pack at Brentwood and the CBR finals and doing the state ITT in 1:05.

Yesterday was the CBR finals, and I got dropped like a bad habit on the second lap. I was in the front with the mighty Ian Grimstad and tried to get a few wheels back, and I just couldn’t muscle my way into a gap. I wasn’t dead last, but I certainly wasn’t in the middle of the pack. Same thing happened at Brentwood, and my ITT time was 1:06.

On the other hand, I now have enough starts to upgrade to category 4, which is supposed to be smoother sailing. And I’ve got all winter to train.

Right now, I feel completely shagged out from this morning’s ride (and still a little squicked out by the elderly Irish gentleman who sat near us; he started out by talking about cycling and Oscar Wilde, and then began downloading his life story of travel, illness, and celibacy, including his longing “to hold a nude woman to my penis,” which he pronounced pennis. There are some things man was not meant to deal with before nine in the morning when the coffee hasn’t had a chance to kick in), and I’ve got a mountain of work to climb (starting with editing Windswept; now that it’s time to wade into it, I’m a wee bit frightened). The tomatoes have given their last fruit, and the weeds are threatening to make inroads in the roses, and I still have no goddamn idea what kind of creature is laying these monster turds by the composter…

And that’s a season. And this is a life. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Except a morning free of that Irish dude. shudder

Filed under: Complete Wastes of Time