Dave's Blog

Trixie The Poetry Car

This woman in Oregon has covered her car in Really Big Words, and blogs about it. I especially liked this letter she got from a passerby:

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Trixie! I have found you! I thought you were a figment of my imagination...

One day, long ago (ok, it was June 9, 2006, around 3 pm) I had a magic moment with you... right there by Powell's Books. I was so deep in thought, on the cusp of a huge decision, and caught in nightmare traffic in downtown Portland on the eve of the Rose Parade. And there you were... all filled with poetry. You were in the left lane, I was in the right. I saw two fragments of poetry that spoke to me so deeply, so accurately that it was almost as if the heavens had opened and rained the answer down on me. Really, one of the most awe-inspiring events of my life.

Now, to preserve my identity I'm going to be an anonymous little Elf, and I'm going to keep the exact events and fragments to myself... it's very private and personal.

But I thought you would like to know how much Trixie affected me... and that is TRUE ART. You have achieved something special and I thought you should know. I hope Trixie is still flitting around, all gussied up in poetry, and I hope to run into her again. Thank you, Trixie! I'm so glad I found you. For some odd reason, today I googled one of the fragments and you popped right up on my screen... amazing!

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Recently someone stole a bunch of Trixie's magnets, so we sent replacements gratis. Long live Trixie, and bad Karma upon you, thieving bastard!

Conviction.

Wow. Just wow. As many of you know, I normally regard Republicans with a somewhat jaundiced eye, but I love this guy. Good for you, Jerry, good for you...

Pedal Pusher

Just got back from the big Chequamegon Fat Tire 40 weekend, which was great, and grueling, as always. The Chequamegon 40 is the nation's largest mass-start mountain bike race, attracting 2,600 riders and a whole lot more family, friends and fans to Hayward, Wisconsin. The Saturday race starts with riders lined up like very colorful, lycra-clad sardines over several hundred yards of main street Hayward, and with the starting gun at 10 AM begins to ooze through and out of town and onto Highway 77, where all hell breaks loose. Here, everyone opens up the throttle and tries to establish position before the mess dumps into the famous Rosie's Field, and then onto the narrow 35 mile trail of, quite literally, blood, sweat and tears. The trail is mainly logging roads and cross country ski trails, rugged, rocky and very, very hilly... some of the hills are so steep that you wouldn't think it possible to ride a bike up them, but ride we do, or at least try before getting off and running. And then we scream down the other side, jackhammering over rocks and gravel at 40 MPH, loathe to use the breaks because we worked so hard to store all that potential speed. There are horrific crashes every year; I narrowly avoided one that scared the hell out of me. And then two to five hours later you crest the back of the hill at Telemark Ski Resort in Cable, WI, and fly down a run to the awaiting crowd, cowbells, finish line, beer, brats, band, party, friends, stories, sweet relief.

And Sunday is a day of rest. There are some fun events oriented toward kids and family, which is where I saw this little tike serving up some rad wheelies. He was a local, small-town kid, and his mom was a volunteer for the event. I sent her this picture this morning.