On Sunday I rode the 100K Strawberry Fields Forever bike ride. The route cuts a gorgeous swath through Santa Cruz County over roads both urban and rural, through fields of strawberries and lettuce, past sloughs and ocean, redwoods and eucalyptus, with a stop at Gizdich Ranch where pie and a live three-piece band sweetened the day.
Midway through the ride, just before lunch, there are two HARD hills. The grade on the first must be 15%, and it maintains that for longer than I care to think. I nearly broke down and joined the parade of people who were walking their bikes up those hills, but pride kept me mashing the pedals and sucking air like an old horse.
Pride’s a sucker’s game. The effort I expended on those hills sapped me: when I got off the bike at lunchtime, I saw black spots in front of my eyes and felt dizzy, and near the end of the ride, going up Hazel Dell (a moderate climb of several miles duration that I’ve done on shorter rides without problem or stopping), I stopped three times to rest before continuing. Pride be damned.
I didn’t buy a jersey, but here’s an image from the club’s website.
Jersey for the Strawberry Fields Forever XX ride, 2009
I saw J.J. Abrams’s new Star Trek movie this morning.
It’s hard for me to explain what seeing this movie means to me. When I was a kid, the original TV series was in its first run, and I watched each episode religiously.
“Religiously” is not a metaphor here: I worshipped the show. All throughout each episode, I sat in one spot on the floor in a rigid position, double-jointed knees bent so that my legs were arranged in a V pressed flat on either side of me. Somehow that uncomfortable position made me worthy, made me part of the action.
I clipped the episode descriptions out of the guide in the daily newspaper and taped them into a log book. I arched my left eyebrow and murmured “fascinating” at every opportunity. I bought Leonard Nimoy’s records and played them over and over. I made up Mary Sue fanfic stories to tell myself as I fell asleep at night.
My younger brother called me Spock.
Brian thought of himself as Captain Kirk. Several times before he died of ALS last year, we watched Star Trek Generations together–the movie in which Captain Kirk dies. Brian made me promise to tell the readers of his blog that his last words to them were the same as Kirk’s last words in the movie: “It was fun.”
Anyone who knows anything about ALS knows that Brian wasn’t referring to the disease.
My dearest, deepest wish is that my brother could have seen the new movie. Seen fearless Kirk, fists flying in the face of death, more than forty years after his first incarnation.
Maybe (*spoiler alert*), in some alternative universe like the one in the movie, Brian lives and is watching Kirk and Spock and our beloved crew resurrected on screen.
Maybe when Brian’s young son, Joey, watches the young, fatherless Kirk drive hellbent for that yawning crevasse in the plains of Iowa, he’ll think of his dad. And know what Brian meant.
Friday nights on Fox. Record it. Watch it.
Here’s a synopsis of the first season so far.
Claudia Comay and I drove to Santa Rosa yesterday, bikes strapped on the back of her car and ready to ride in the Santa Rosa Cycling Club’s Wine Country Century, but the rain made the prospect just too unbearable, so we turned around and drove back home. Oh well. Better luck next year. Unless this strange weather continues. 🙁