New Wheels

It's been a long time since I've posted, so I'd better give a little update. We're almost half way through the 3rd year of dental school and Ginna is getting close to finishing her MBA. There is a very dim light at the end of our school tunnel, so we're getting slightly anxious. We're still trying to sell the house, but that's not going so well. There isn't much interest in it or any other house in the area. Again, there are more leaves on the grass than I could have ever imagined. Each year I forget about the volume of fallen leaves. It is depressing to look up at the trees in the yard and realize that half of the leaves still remain on the branches.

Thanksgiving is a good time of year for us. It's the time when we like to spend money on cars. A little more than 2 years ago we bought the subaru forester. Then, I promptly backed it into the neighbor's car while pulling out of the driveway. That was a nice way to start out the festivities. This year, we bought a new car for our Thanksgiving drive to Utah. It's a Land Rover Discovery. It gives us a little more room for the crew during the long drives. Here is a picture of the same car with some idealized off-road extras. Maybe we can add the roof rack and brush guard some time in the future. For some stupid reason I can't post an actual picture of the one we bought, but you can imagine us in the linked picture in Moab, on our way to Thanksgiving dinner in Utah.

Meanwhile, Max has been doing his best to teach us why it's called the "terrible twos". He's about as opinionated as it gets. His current favorite interest is CDs. We burned him some music and put a little CD player in his room. He really likes to listen to his favorite songs again and again and again and again and then cry when we stop it. Then he carries his CDs around the house, constantly requesting that we listen to them.
He is also in love with the new car. For example, today we dropped off the Rover at the shop for some expected maintenance before the Utah drive. As we were getting ready to leave the shop, Max looked over at the Rover in the parking lot and said, "let's all ride in the new car." We were surprised because Max is just beginning to piece entire sentences together on his own.
Max also loves the red car and will be very sad when we try to sell it later this month.

The most boring blog ever

So this is the most boring blog ever because it is never updated. The reason: check out my latest projects at http://www.pattersondentalcycling.com/
And check out our blog at pattersondentalcyclingblog.blogspot.com

Do I Actually Want To Be A Pediatric Dentist?

I'm back in school now after a small break. Actually, it was a long break but I had to waste 3 weeks of it studying for boards. And it's a good thing I did or else I may not have passed one of the sections. It seems I really suck at anatomy. I new I would have a hard time with it and I was right. Fortunately, I realized before the exam that I sucked at anatomy and I studied enough for it. While the anatomy section lowered my score overall, it wasn't so bad to do any real damage.

Now the question remains: do I really want to be a pediatric dentist? While in Utah, I spent a day at the University of Utah Children's Hospital with the pediatric dental residents. I have to admit that I really liked it. You couldn't help but feel bad for the little kids only 2 or 3 years old in need of full mouth reconstructions. I think it would be really rewarding to do cases like that.

Today I observed in the OR at Children's Mercy Hospital here in KC with UMKC's residents. Again, I really liked it. I have to admit that I would really like to go into a pediatric residency. The problem is that in admitting something like that I have to take on the responsibility of trying to make it happen. I have to hope again that I can get into a competitive program and try to solicit myself somehow.

I guess we'll just have to kind of see how things go for the next little while. Should be interesting.

The Floyd Lowdown

The Velonews posted a decent explanation of some of the legal issues involved in the Landis doping case. You can clearly see there was some shady moves on part of the UCI and the Lab--just further evidence for the Mustache and Beard Conspiracy.

Keep the Faith: Floyd's Real Explainations

Floyd posted a plea on his website asking us, the fans who thought we saw the most amazing cycling comeback ever, to Keep the Faith.

Well Floyd, I'm keeping the faith for you. And not only that, I'm going to offer Floyd's exclusive explanations for the positive tests--soundly based on reliable web research.

Let's just take a quick review of physiology and answer the question of what testosterone does.

"In general, androgens promote protein synthesis and growth of those tissues with androgen receptors. Testosterone effects can be classified as virilizing and anabolic effects, although the distinction is somewhat artificial, as many of the effects can be considered both. Anabolic effects include growth of muscle mass and strength, increased bone density and strength, and stimulation of linear growth and bone maturation. Virilizing effects include maturation of the sex organs, particularly the penis and the formation of the scrotum in fetuses, and after birth (usually at puberty) a deepening of the voice, growth of the beard and axillary hair. Many of these fall into the category of male secondary sex characteristics." Wikipedia

Just based on this description it is obvious to anyone who's seen Floyd that he is the only rider in the pro peleton who displays secondary sex characteristics consistent with high levels of testosterone. Floyd is the only rider sporting the mustache. In fact, the stache is so well developed and strong it frequently spills down onto his chin. So why don't we see more riders sporting the stache? Easy, it takes all the testosterone they have to keep them fit to ride--no excess for intimidating aesthetics.

Additionally, Floyd's cycling bibs are stuffed ful--leaving little to the imagination. The above mentioned hormonal effects are clearly in effect. This guy clearly has a lot of testosterone.

The failure of the test is clearly due to Floyd's physiology. And the French are jealous. The true conspiracy is that the French authorities are actually upset because, although they host the world's greatest cycling race, they haven't been chosen to host a World Beard and Moustache Championship. The French lack the needed testosterone to meet the stringent requirements of a host nation. After years of American domination in their premier sporting event--the US is hosting the 2009 World Beard and Moustache championships--the French can't take it anymore. Floyd is the fallguy.

#12

Second year of road riding: time for a new ride. The Allez was fun, but I couldn't even dream of being competitive. After a few more mechanical disasters Ginna decided to just get a new bike for me. She did the research and found a used Giant OCR for me. Now really, that's a great wife who not only finds a bike for you, but buys it too.

It's hard to complain about the Giant because I really liked it. In fact, I liked it so much that it stoked my cycling fire and things began to escalate out of control. Before I had the Giant my idea of a long ride was 25 miles. And for all my casual rides under 25 miles, the Giant was perfect. What I realized soon however, was that 25 is just a warm up and bikes are completely different beasts before and after the 50 mile mark. Post 50 the Giant struggled.

Additionally, racing really taxes a bike mechanically. The Giant was a great entry level bike, but it couldn't handle the work load I putting into it. It started to struggle and crackle and pop. I was again getting tired of the same old story--my bike in constant malfunction.

The frustration peaked at a race in Kansas, when I couldn't get into the pedals at the beginning of the criterium, which caused me to fall behind from the start. Once I was in a position to catch up, the derailluers gave up and so did I.

My next move had to be a pro level bike, one that could respond during the intensity of a race situation. It wasn't going to be easy, that's for sure--or cheap.

Gear Bane Part 2

Bike #11 was a black specialized Allez, pronounced al-ey, but I called it an al-ez for at least 6 months. It had a big gel seat and the tires were all dry and cracked apart. It had STI shifters (shifters integrated with brake levers) and 700c wheels, which made it good enough. I did what I could to clean it up and get it ready to ride, but I knew so little about road bikes I only created a greater monster.

I took the bike to Zac Doyle's shop in St. Louis, where we tried to fix some of the most obvious problems. First, the bottom bracket was bent. I don't know how that is possible, but it was. In fact, the crank was hardly turning. Zac didn't know anything about removing a bottom bracket although he was technically a mechanic at the shop. Since the threading on a BB isn't super obvious, we broke several tools and got the cup hopelessly stuck. Zac "hooked me up" with an new-old-stock eliptical chain ring which looked cool, but was actually designed for use with toe cages and was super out dated. It made the bike ride and shift much worse, but I believed it made me fast--for a while.

Later, I found about 10 yards of brown thread in the rear hub. I also didn't own a functional pump, so I could only pump up the tires with a crappy hand pump from Wal-mart. Road tires are supposed to run at 100+ psi and I probably never had mine above 60!

I took the Allez to club rides in Waldo, where I always got pounded by a really weak field. On my first ride, I was relieved to find a rider who I could keep up with, only to find out that she was about 40 years old and overweight. As a 25 year old male, I was embarrassed.

Ultimately, I took the Allez to a legit shop. They almost died when I showed it to them. It was dubbed the Frankenbike because as I found it, the shifters and derailleurs weren't made to cooperate. Nonetheless, the shop made it rideable.

I decided to race in the Tour of Kansas City. I bought the cheapest padded bike shorts I could find and wore a t-shirt to the race. The Allez and I got dropped in the first lap of just 4. I remember vividly as I was struggling up a hill and a kid from the junior's heat was beating me up it. I was standing with my hands in the drops, so was the kid. I heard his dad yell, "get your hands out of the drops, hold up high!" I just kept in the drops, so I didn't look like I didn't know what I was doing.

As soon as I could afford it, the Allez had to go.

Gear Bane Part 1

Today I may have put closure to an issue that has complicated and frustrated my love for cycling since the beginning. (It's cycling season, so bear with some more cycling chatter) Let me first shed some light on this subject with some personal history.

Bike #1: My first bike, a schwinn BMX style bike. It was a nice bike, but my neighbor had a bike with hand brakes and a freewheel. I was jealous.

BIke #1.5--the bike I never had. I used to covet a BMX bike with a lot of plastic on it I saw in a catalogue. I kept the picture under my pillow and used to pray that I would get one. I showed it to my dad and he said it was a piece of crap, but that I wouldn't get it anyway.

Bike #2 was another BMX that had been my uncles. My dad bought it from him as a favor and probably overpaid him for it. All the same it was pretty cool. I enjoyed it until my dad decided that he didn't think I was riding it and it was donated to the Goodwill one weekend.

Bike #3 was a mountain bike from Walmart. It was blake with neon green paint splashes on it. It was a 18 speed without indexed shifters--they never really worked. One day at the local dirt hills I learned that cool bikes had center pull brakes, which my bike didn't have. I was bummed.

Bike #4: I never really had this bike, because it was my moms. Dad bought two identical bikes for himself and mom, hoping they could ride together--I'm about 95% sure Mom never rode more than 30 yards on that bike. They were Schwinn criss-cross bikes, which means they were not really road bikes and not really mountain bikes either. I remember being at the bike shop with Dad and trying to tell him that the dedicated mountain bikes were much cooler, but Dad has an aversion to owning cool things. No mountain bikes.
I spend the next few years pretending that the criss-cross was a legit bike. I used to ride it back to visit friends my family had moved away from and to rode to school. Still, it was technically my mom's bike.

Next came the dark years when I should have been developing my cycling, but instead chose to roller blade. Oh well, my friends would have killed me for wearing spandex back then.
Meanwhile, all of my siblings got new bikes which were all cooler than the criss-cross, but since I had been riding it as if it was mine, there was no reason to get me a new one.

In college--at CU--I really wished I had a mountain bike. Of course, I was busy playing Tbone and being lazy. On one occasion a girl I was interested in let me borrow her bike to run some errands for her around campus. It was the awesomest bike I had ever ridden. It had working shocks and grip shift. I took some long detours that day.

Bike #5: It took until Osnabruck for me to get my next bike. It was a Spartan brand with a basket on the back. That wasn't so embarrassing in Europe. Unfortunatly, Oliver Kusch, the crazy German loved cycling and had built up a bike for himself, which I would spend the next 6 months chasing. One night, my crank arm broke off when we were 10 km from home. I had to work it with one leg and no clip in shoes.

Bike #6: Still in Osnabruck the Spartan was replaced with a aluminum mountain bike of unknown brand. All I remember about this bike was that it was a lot more nimble than the spartan and I liked it. Oliver and I rode almost endlessly for our 6 months together.

Bike #7: In Herne I got another Dutch made city bike not too different from the Spartan. I spent some time and money to make this one a little more aggressive. I also began using a helmet, which I got from a friend who had reshaped it into a custom fit. I'm sure it was structurally compromised.
While in Herne, I met Dave Reeder, who had worked at a bike shop and raced BMX. Together we dreamt up bikes in catalogues and talked about how I was going to get into racing as soon as I got home. I would also build up a bike from scratch.

So, I get home and my parents give me the criss-cross to take to school. I ride it to work for about a month, but it doesn't shift, it's inherent lack of coolness has only been compounded by the fact that it is now getting old. After a month, I abandon it to turn into a pile of rust in the bike rack behind my apartment complex.

Bike #8: What luck! the girl I'm dating (and would eventually marry) owns what appears to be a sweet bike. It's a yellow/Orange Haro with a blue suspension fork. I borrow it and take it mountain biking. Within 10 minutes, I've flatted and have no way to fix it. I hike it back to the car and later replace the tube before returning it.
After we were married and had returned from living in Vienna, my desire to ride was again ignited. I began commuting to school and back on Ginna's Haro. I also started trying to mountain bike on it.
The bike was small and light, but that was also the problem. Ginna had just pulled the bike from the rack at the shop and bought it. The frame was a small, probably 15inches at the most. It was quite uncomfortable and also not made to be ridden hard. Soon it was falling apart in about a million ways. Commuting was getting hard.

Bike #9: It's about time. I get my first bike that I can lay claim on since I was in elementary school. Ginna's pulls off a miracle and gets me a Trek 4500 MTB. I wasn't surprised because a day or so before I got it I had a dream that I got that exact bike for my birthday and sure enough, I did. I downplayed the dream, so Ginna wasn't bummed by the lack of surprise, but it was cool.
The Trek was actually the right size and functionally sound enough that I could get going with the hobby I had wanted to get into for years. Within 6 months I had SPD pedals and shoes, not to mention a real helmet, not customized/compromised. I had a blast with this bike.

Bike #10: In Kansas City, there are not a lot of mountains. Enter Peugot. The Tour de France was on TV and I absolutely was dying without a road bike. The problem was, I had no money. Work was all but dead for Ginna and we had blown our savings on moving. I remembered that when my Grandpa was running the DI thrift store in Delta a Trek road bike came in; I thought I might find a similar treasure. I drove to every thrift store in KC that claimed to have a road bike, eventually buying a $15 Peugot from Savers. I took to the bike shop and tried to buy some upgraded parts on it, so I could hit up some of the local club rides. The guys at the shop laughed at me, when I brought the bike. The Peugot was not a road racing bike, rather an old ten speed. I didn't even know there was a difference at that point. Embarrassed, I pretended like I knew the Peugot was a joke all the time and I started driving to pawn shops.

Bike #11: Specialized Allez. Still no money, and a burning desire for a bike. I did the irresponsible. I busted out the credit card at the pawn shop, haggled a price (which scares me to death) and bought the Allez, telling myself I would pay it back with what else, student loans....this is just getting good, but I have to go to bed.

Stay tuned.

L'Alp d'Heuz learning curve

Lately, my life's learning curve has been exhaustingly steep. In the clinic every task is something I am doing for the first time. Here's the formula: patient making a financial sacrifice to get treatment + student doctor who has never performed any of the treatments before + lots of sharp instruments and needles = überstress. Did I mention that academic board exams are coming up?

Additionally, we are trying to sell our house and buy a different one. There are problems on every side of this issue. No one wants to buy our house. The house we want needs a new roof among other things. At every corner I'm intimidated by the tasks that have to be done for this deal to work out.

And I sold a trombone and bought a disaster of a race bike. Great bike, great wheels, great parts, but they don't play well together. A case of the sum of the parts being much greater than the whole. Meanwhile, I'm racing it anyway, with more or less success, depending on how often I need to change gears.

Speaking of cycling, building a cycling team has been surprisingly difficult. Last week alone we learned that our contacts at our 2 largest sponsors were leaving their jobs. We were also informed that our jersey order was going to take an additional month due to errors on their part. (never use Atac sportswear) Now we have to try to get payment for everything before our contacts leave their companies.

I guess there are periods in life when you make a lot of changes and every step you take has to be in uncharted territory. Good thing there is Max to help me remember that all this stuff means very little--not that he doesn't add to life's challenges. Ha.

Journal Entry

I've become the prototypical Elder's Quorum leader. After lounging around all morning, I realized as I was getting ready for church that I was going to be teaching our quorum's lesson today. Naturally, I didn't do anything about it right away, rather opting to study during sacrament meeting and sunday school. I enlisted Max to make sure I had some time to get prepared--well, not really, but he was so impetuous during church that Ginna took him home after one half hour and put him straight to bed. I then had plenty of time to get ready.

Today's lesson was about keeping journals. It shouldn't have been, but we, the presidency, got confused about which lesson was up and we skipped one last month--go figure. For me the lesson begged the question: does blogging count as keeping a journal? My answer is that it can, if you let it. And I hope to do some more journaling here at the Gesamtkunstwerk this week. But for now, it's bedtime.

Babies Actually Learn To Talk

"Holy Crap!"
Max exclaimed as he fell out of his little car. Where did he learn that?

In teaching Max to talk, we practice the alphabet, important phrases and courtesies, but we've never focused on exclamations--let alone when to say them.
What I can't get over is that we've told/attempted to train Max to say "help me please" instead of just screaming when he needs something. I couldn't possibly count the number of times I've forced him to say "help me please" and it just doesn't seem to ever happen without one of us provoking him to say it.

I understand that children learn by hearing examples and repeating them. Obviously, either Ginna or I must have exclaimed "holy crap" one or more times in his presence so he could learn it. It is especially amazing that he was able to take that phrase and apply it to his own unique situation--falling out of his car--at exactly the right time. It's not like we are falling out of plastic cars all the time so he could learn a good time to express some explicative.

So, babies really do learn to talk. It's amazing and fun to watch. And I suppose it will always remain a mystery why kids can instantaneously learn what they want and don't learn things you want without a ton of work.

The Midnight Century And More Reason To Hate Opossums

Cyclists revere their first century ride as a significant rite of passage into the world of the hard core. Any poser can shave their legs, but only real riders ride centurys. A century is cycling lingo for a hundred mile ride. In preparation for next weekend's Dirty Kanza, a 200 mile endurance MTB race, Jeff and I decided to take on a century. Then, just to prove that we were real men, we did it at night.
Here is a timeline of exciting events:

8:30pm we finally start down the trail
Mile 0--8:31pm the sun goes down
Mile 1--8:32pm we turn on our lights
Mile 2--we're bored because you can't see anything
Mile 14--an opossum jumps out of the woods and I hit it, crashing, breaking my light and computer
Mile 25--first break, temperature had dropped 10 degrees since start
Mile 35--we see human life at a riverboat casino in Boonville
Mile 40--jeff nearly misses a road crossing guard rail: no more resting your neck
Mile 48--we go through a really scary tunnel and hope we don't meet any new friends
Mile 50--12:30am we take a break but get too cold and don't get to stop moving again
Mile 60--are we there yet?
Mile 75 lots of pain, not many memories + we're freezing
Mile 98--the longest mile ever
Mile 100--5:06am we arrive at the car. The sun comes up

Sounds like fun, huh??

Check Out All The New Pictures

We've added a bunch of new pictures to the kris and ginna gallery on the hendricksfamily smugmug page. So look at them.

Special Olympics--Finally A Grown Up Perspective

This year for Kenny's birthday I volunteered with the Special Olympics at the dental screening station. There were a series of activity tents that the athletes would go to between their events. Our tent provided oral screenings for the athletes, brushing instruction and a goodie bag with a toothbrush and stuff. In addition, we had a football toss where the athletes could throw footballs through a hole in a big piece of plywood with a Chief's player painted on it. Once they got the ball through a couple of times we gave them a stuffed animal.

I haven't had much exposure to handicapped people. In fact, the last time I really spent time around handicapped kids was when my Jr High school jazz band went and played a concert at a school for the handicapped. Unfortunately, Jr High kids usually aren't very good people and we were no exception; we mostly made fun of the kids who were at that concert.

The good news is, I'm not the same person I was in Jr High. I think being a parent has made it easier for me to understand and enjoy the Special Olympics' athletes. Although some of them were chronologically as old as I am, they were still little kids. I could see a little bit of Max in each of them. I got to spend most of my time helping them throw the football through the hole in the board. They were so pumped up when they got the ball through. Then, pulling a prize from a trash-bag of cheap stuffed animals was even more exciting. Some of their bodies were misshapen and twisted, others, whose bodies appeared normal, just couldn't control them correctly. Still, one thing they all had--which a lot of "non-handicapped people don't have--was joy and happiness in life and the things that they could accomplish. If I ever run into my Jr High self again, I'll certainly give him a slap in the face for being such a jerk.

I felt good about Kenny's birthday this year. For the first time I was actually able to see and understand handicapped people for who they really are. In church we talk about how they are Heavenly Father's special children, but it means more to experience that first hand. This experience helped me learn a lot about myself too. What do you know? The Special Olympics is special.

Hanging On To Birthdays

In your life, in your family, there are traditions. Like rainbow jello at Christmas, traditions get woven into your life's tapestry--they become colorful parts of who you are. Birthdays too are traditions, a day when you remember a person and celebrate them.

For the last 20 years, April 23 has been a tradition in our family. How sad it would be to see that slip through our fingers the way Ken did. Ever since his death, I've been asking myself the question, "how will I remember Kenny and what can I do to make him a part of my family's life?" I think it is too easy to simply tell myself that I can't forget because he's my brother and there will always be pictures and memories. That just seems so lame. I still think about Kenny quite a lot, but if I'm honest with myself, I must admit that as time goes on, I reminisce increasingly less.

So now it's Ken's birthday. Last year, we had a great plan to make some of his favorite cookies and ship them overnight, so he could eat them at what he considered to be their most flavorful time: one day old. Of course, we "got busy" and didn't pull it off. As usual a phone call had to suffice, but people don't usually have time to talk much on their birthdays. Regrettably, it seems like that was the last time we got to talk to each other. In hindsight, you always wish you had called more and old excuses like school and "he doesn't call me either" are embarrassing and painful.

I decided to do a better job of celebrating Ken's birthday. So, from this year on, I've decided instead of thinking about how much Ken would like day old cookies, I'm going to give a real gift--service. I want to turn April 23th into a service day by serving above and beyond what I would normally do.

My hope is that by doing this, not only can I provide positive service in the world, but my family and I can take time to remember Kenny in a positive way.

A Bluegrass Oasis

Toady, on my way back to school from lunch at crown center, I ran into a bluegrass jam outside Hallmark headquarters. It was such a rare sight; a group of about 10 musicians playing bluegrass standards from memory. Besides the man playing washboard--who looked like he hiked up from the Ozarks--the entire group was neatly dressed in business atire. Obviously employees of the businesses located near crown center, they all had their name-badges hanging from their skirts and slacks.

There were 2 mandolins, 2 or 3 guitars, 3 banjos, washboard and voice. The musicians ranged in age from early 30s to almost retirement age. Best of all, the music was tight. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw a woman, whose plain attire would make her blend unnoticed into any crowd, step forward and play a really hip banjo solo loaded with really great notes.

It's so refreshing to find an oasis of creativity, passion and excitement during the middle of the day. There was almost no one watching, it was just music for the sake of music. My hat goes off to these musicians, who despite the confines of their corporate day jobs, find time to make some awesome music.

Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Plight of Potency

Here is a paper I published back in my glory days as a German major. It's a fun paper and rather risque for BYU.

Hillsboro-Roubaix: beyond adverse

For Jeff and me the Hillsboro-Roubaix was pure adversity. We had nothing but trouble every step of the way. I couldn't help but think with all the trouble, it was a sign that we weren't meant to race. Still, the faith in me kept a spark of "hey, maybe it's so tuff because something really great is going to happen".

We got an email three days before the race informing us that we were not properly registered (I wrote earlier about how we registered in cat 4 because 5 was full) so we would not be able to race. USCF rules restrict the cat 5 field to just 50 racers. We contacted the race director, who said he was unable to help us and we could only race if some of the cat 5 racers who had pre-registered didn't show up. Of course, we couldn't know if there was going to be opportunity to race until 1/2 hour before the race would begin. We decided to fly standby.

Friday afternoon, we drove out to Jeff's grandma's house: 2 bike racers, 1 german shepherd, 1 2-year old, and 1 surprisingly patient wife. Jeff's grandma had prepared us a dinner, which was very kind, but unfortunately represented the antithesis of pre-race fare; chili, hot dogs and beer. We decided to go out for pasta.

Two hours later, we were still trying to go out for pasta and we were still lost looking for a hip italian joint on St Louis' "the Hill". It would take many cell phone calls and a few gas station stops before we found someplace to eat, but it was too late. The restaurant marked the beginning of a really steep downhill skid. Max allowed us only 20 minutes inside the restaurant--15 of those were spent waiting on a table--before the baby time-bomb exploded into tears and screams. With the appetizer on the table we were forced to leave. The grocery store would have to suffice.

Outside, the temperature was also headed downhill. In the time we were in the restaurant the temperature dropped at least 15 degrees. Winds speeds were however on the rise.

Max could not be tamed. We sat up until past midnight trying to calm him and coax him into sleep. When he was finally calm enough to stay on the bed, he was still a monster, trashing and forcing me out of bed. Ultimately, we got a little bit of interrupted sleep; Ginna and I were each clinging to the edge of the bed with Max sleeping perpendicular between us.

Come 6:30 it was no problem for me to wake up. I went in to Jeff, who was on the couch. I woke him and asked if he slept ok. "This couch is killing my back," was the first thing Jeff said. I knew that wasn't good. I felt bad for him. I felt guilty that having us around had kept him from being able to eat right and sleep well before the race. Still, he was patient and anxious to get to the race.

We arrived at the race soon after registration began. We described our situation, put our names on a wait-list and were told that our chance of riding was slim. Frustrated, we drove to a Denny's for a poor pre-race breakfast. We ate plain bagels with jam, while Max ate a cheeseburger.

At 10:30 we went back to the race to check out status. We were shocked to find that despite early indications that we would not get to race, many pre-registered racers in our category hadn't come. Suddenly, we had less than a half hour to get prepared for the race. Under pressure, we hurriedly put on our stuff and put the bikes together; there was not time for proper warmup.

Due to poor race organization we stood in line waiting to race for an hour. We were shivering in the bitter cold wind. Jeff and I looked around our group, sizing up the competition. Hopes were high, but we were cautious, realizing that we were some of the only racers not riding with a larger team.

We expected the racers to start slowly and pick up speed as the 44 mile race went on. The riders in our group had other plans. The leaders took off at criterium pace right from the whistle. Jeff and I, stuck starting in the rear of the group were put in a position to try to fight our way to the front. The riders were jerks for the most part, swearing at other, shoving and never letting anyone into the peleton's slipstream. I saw an open line early and took it, propelling myself up near the front group of riders. No sooner had I made it, then we hit a climb, which gave me another opportunity to climb to the lead. I lead the group for about a mile after the climb, but was passed on every corner.

The road was pitted and rough. The pace was furious. The wind relentless. I felt like I was riding on a roller-coaster without a seatbelt. I wanted to look back and see where Jeff was, but I couldn't for fear that I would wreck or fall behind. For the rest of the first lap I clung to the front group, almost never capable of looking back, never able to drink or eat and in constant threat of being dropped.

About mile 30 a group of riders tried to make a breakaway. I watched guys from my group bridge the gap one by one. Soon the group was 4 riders strong. I couldn't tell how many we were, but I suspected my leading to group to be no bigger than 10 or fifteen. I started to worry that the breakaway would escape the peleton and win, they were about 100 meters ahead. I feared my only chance was to go for it and try to finish with the breakaway group. A rider jumped ahead to gun for the breakaway and I followed with everything I had. About 50 meters from the group, the guy I was drafting lost power and started to decelerate. I knew I needed to pull, if we were going to make it. I pulled out and yelled at the rider next to me, "come on!" He couldn't and after a few minutes in the wind, neither could I. The lead peleton rushed past me, leaving me fighting just to stay near. The roads worsened and I was dodging pot holes and gravel pits, trying with all I had left to catch the lead peleton again. I was mad that I hadn't been able to catch the breakaway, but things were going to be much worse if I couldn't catch the group again. I started riding at a cadence of over 120, shifting into higher gears to get enough speed to catch up. Again, a climb saved me. We had to make a hard climb and as the group slowed, I was able to pull myself back into the middle of the riders. Once there, I realized that the breakaway had been captured while I was in the rear.

I suspected the last climb would be the point when the riders would go for the win and I was right. I didn't have the legs to do anything great. I positioned myself into 3rd place going into the climb and then just rode as fast as I could up the hill. Some riders past me, but I passed others too. Once I crested the climb, I raced to the brick roads near the finish. There was no sign of a peleton anymore. There was only individual riders spaced out along the roads. I gave it all I had left to get to the end. I was unclear of the outcome because there were other riders from other categories scattered along the roads near the finish, but Ginna and Jeff counted and had me close to top 10. It was without question the hardest ride of my life.

Speaking of Jeff, his back froze up and he had to call it quits after the first 22 mile lap. But, he lived to ride again, with a fantastic finish in the Sunday criteriums in St. Louis. If we had been together on either ride, I'm sure we would have done better than we did alone. I was bummed after the Roubaix, because Jeff and I had prepared so well as a team that when one of use didn't make it, it still felt like a loss, despite my great finish. After hearing about his criterium success, I was able to more fully enjoy my success. It was a good weekend of racing after all...but not without plenty of adversity.

Welcome Team Patterson Dental: Hillsboro-Roubaix & Dirty Kanza

It looks as if this could be the year of the bike. On Friday, we (Jeff, Marucs & I) had lunch with a branch manager from Patterson Dental--a national dental supply company--to start the formation of our new cycling team. Patterson has committed to be our number one sponsor and we also have commitments from a few other businesses. The new team jerseys will be ready by the middle of the summer. As Jeff put it, "this is the first time that being a dentist has really paid off." It's hard to believe that people are going to actually pay for us to ride our bikes.

But before we hit the streets in our official garb there are a few early season suicidal races on the schedule. Jeff and I are going to take our first serving of humble pie this coming Saturday at the Hillsboro-Roubaix Road Race--a 44 mile ride over cobblestone and rolling hills. The beginner's category, aka cat 5, was already full by the time we signed up, so we have to race with the cat 4 men. This is bad for a couple of reasons. First, the last race Jeff and I were in was the Tour of Kansas City, where we both raced cat 5. (That race was before we even knew each other). We were both dropped from the peleton about 1/4 of the way into the race and were left to fall embarrassingly far behind. I was so slow that Ginna was worried I had wrecked. The other reason for concern is the fact that we are certain to be racing in a field of cat 4 riders with a significant number of cat 3 racers, taking it easy early in the season. Our stated goal is to finish with the peleton. Secretly, we'd love to win a sprint for the finish and take home a trophy, but just as much as we want this, we also fear we could once again get dropped and forgotten about.

The next race on the suicide list is the Dirty Kanza. This is a 200 mile adventure endurance race through the Flint Hills of Kansas. The race has a 24 hour time limit and the goal is just to finish. The course is entirely on service and access roads. I've heard it is going to be very steep and difficult. This could be a punishing ride.

It's going to be a hard start to our first season with the new team, but the transition from almost sedentary dental student to amateur bike racer can't be easy. We've already began by taking long training rides, mimicking race situations. In the next few weeks we are going to incorporate some long, late night rides on dirt roads to get ready for the Kanza.

Still, with all of this, we still have to get through finals.

How not to take a 2-year old to church

Remember Papa of the Berenstain bears? I liked him because he was always teaching by bad example. You always need someone to mess things up so badly that everyone watching can't help but say, "I'm never doing it that way."

This week, Ginna and I decided to take over sacrament meeting with a show of how not handle a 2 year old. We started by selecting a bench before the meeting started, which was wrong in two ways. First, the only available benches are always super close to the front (older people covet the rear side benches so much that they practically camp out for them, forcing those who come late to either sit on plastic chairs in the rear or be disruptive up front). Second, the fact that we got a bench means we got to church early--that's bad because babies are like time bombs and every minute counts.
By the time the meeting had officially started, Max was already swimming back and forth across the bench. We started with toy cars as entertainment, but they only worked if they were making noise. Next, books failed. Who wants to whisper their ABCs anyway?

Food is always a last resort, but an entire family size box of cheerios couldn't have kept Max quiet today. He squirmed and thrashed and screamed as he spilled his cheerios, smashing them into the fibers of the cloth seats. All the while he was continually tugging and pulling on Ginna's clothes; there was hardly a moment when she wasn't indecent. Everyone knew he wanted to be running free. The rows of retired parents behind us cheered for him secretly, hoping we would haul him out.

As the end was nearing Max played his final ace: terradactyl-like shrieks in a last ditch attempt to get sent to the penalty box foyer, but it was too late. We weren't giving in. We forced Max into kissing his stuffed fish relentlessly until the final amen had sounded. With an exhausted sigh of relief, even his most obnoxious sounds disappeared into the din of the exiting congregation.