tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50242639732258423682024-03-13T21:57:50.197-06:00Primrose's BlogWelcome! I'm Paul and this is my all-purpose blog.Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-79605739464587188732011-09-26T21:33:00.003-06:002011-09-26T21:34:46.891-06:00This Isn't the Blog You're Looking ForNo, seriously. I'm moving this blog over to <a href="http://kathrynandpaul.wordpress.com/">our shared blog</a>. It only makes sense, really.Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-60728032802637561392011-09-07T21:23:00.001-06:002011-09-07T21:23:58.590-06:00"I'll take 'Poor Planning' for 500 please, Alex."I mostly refrain from using sports metaphors, especially in education discourse. That said, a former principal came up with one of the best analogies I've ever heard. "Teaching is like baseball," he said, "because on any given day you might be mediocre or even awful, so you have to measure your success by looking at the whole season." Which is another way of saying that even the good teachers sometimes aren't.<br />
<br />
Now, today wasn't <i>that</i> bad. But it certainly could have been better.<br />
<br />
Last night was rough. I had a metric ton of grading and was zinged by a cold to boot, and subsequently I didn't do enough planning for today. Oh sure, I had a general idea of what I wanted to accomplish in each class, but none of these ideas really gelled until I got to school this morning. And after five years of teaching, I know better than to try to plan in the morning. One must plan well in advance, because if one walks into the classroom without a plan, Very Bad Things will happen. Teenagers can smell a lack of planning from three periods away.<br />
<br />
Now, let's be clear. I'm exaggerating. But I talked way too much today, a sure sign of poor planning, and I even cracked very stupid jokes which, if you don't know me or my sense of humor, could be mistaken for stupid <i>and uninformed</i> jokes. Luckily, my students get me and forgive my stupidity. Usually.<br />
<br />
And so tonight I'm reviewing the unit plan and next week's activities, and I'm regaining that sense of control. Unfortunately, my ability to write cogently has apparently left the building with Elvis, so this-here post is getting cut short.<br />
<br />
Onward!Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-4912307563412487332011-08-21T09:23:00.000-06:002011-08-21T09:23:05.193-06:00Day 5: Burgess Junction to Basin<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">We’d slept well that night, snuggled deep into our bags, and when I woke up at 5 the world felt more subdued than usual. It was as if we’d agreed that we wouldn’t be in a hurry today. Other cyclists were certainly up and moving, but I didn’t get a sense of urgency. I only had to reach for the tent flap to understand why.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Instead of the pliable fabric I was used to, the tent was stiff from frost. I now understood why I’d wound up curled fetal in the sleeping bag, lumpy ground and sore back be damned. I stepped outside, into a world of ice and breath clouds. It wasn’t a winter wonderland – the ground wasn’t caked with ice, for goodness sake – but our camp chairs, my street shoes, and our bags had a layer of frost straight from October’s windshield. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d been toying with the idea of making this my last day. Our overnight stay in Basin would be a mere 30 miles from Worland, and although the last night of the Tour apparently has some fun traditions, we were both ready to return to Lander. I therefore wanted to take it easy this morning – no huge rush to get on the bike; no huge rush to set up camp after the ride. Just complete the ride and call it a Tour.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s only a month later, and I can’t remember breakfast from that morning. I know I didn’t get on the bike until somewhere around 7, far later than previous days. It was a very chilly ride, even with my riding jacket. Today’s route took us from Burgess Junction to Granite Pass and then plunging down Shell Canyon. We’d emerge on the west side of the Big Horn Mountains, pedaling through Greybull and then turning south to Basin. 50 miles? 60? It didn’t matter; it was the last ride and I was going to enjoy it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Burgess Junction to Granite Pass is only 10 miles or so, climbing somewhere around 800 feet. Not a big deal. It feels like you’re going west when you’re on this road, but in fact you’re shooting almost due south. The climbs here are nothing more than high country rollers: enough to make you work, sometimes even stand on the pedals, but not enough to make you question your sanity.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By the time I’d reached Granite Pass, after nearly an hour on the bike, I was sweating in the jacket and getting a bit sore in the shoulders. Kathryn had passed me a few miles back and was waiting at the pass. However, Granite Pass is weird. Heading south, there’s no road sign indicating you’re at the pass, you just crest a hill and then blaze down. Kathryn apparently learned this the hard way. There is a road sign on the other side of the road, though, so when I stopped to have Kathryn take my picture, I had it taken from the “wrong” side. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Kathryn took my jacket and graciously hung around to take pictures of other cyclists. I noticed that others weren’t shedding their outer layer, and although I knew the ride would get cold, I welcomed it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Descending Shell Canyon was one of the highlights of the entire Tour. I’d become more comfortable on downhills by this point and opened it up, pedaling hard in top gear on straightaways, tucking on the turns. A cyclist in front of me kept a great pace and I tried to keep up with him. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The cold wind numbed my shoulders. It felt great. This stretch, no more than a few miles from Granite Pass to the day’s first rest area, made me appreciate everything about the Tour, not to mention cycling.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">More descending after the first rest area, and many of us stopped at Shell Falls. Remarkable. And terrifying, if you’re afraid of heights like I am.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">More descending, and now car traffic was picking up. You could hang with them on the turns but the polite thing to do was get out of the way on straightaways. Between the altitude and rising sun, it was warming up. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Descending out of exposed cliff faces and into vegetation and tree canopies. The river on your right, and if you weren’t so preoccupied with not getting smoked by cars, you’d stop to scope out fishing holes. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And now we were out of the canyon, one moment gliding through pleasant shade, the next moment cranking away in Wyoming high desert heat. This was a long stretch, mostly because of the heat but also the scenery. Somewhere on a gentle downhill in here my CO2 pump fell out of its straps, forcing me to stop, pedal back up the hill a ways, and figure it out. Roadkill. Rough shoulders. Passing some, getting passed by others. Just keep pedaling.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t remember where it occurred (it may have been in the town of Shell), but on this last day, three kids stood by the road and cheered us on. They weren’t selling lemonade or looking at us like we were freaks – they were cheering us on. They literally jumped up and down, clapping, as you rode by. You’ve heard the phrase “I can live two weeks on a compliment?” This was better. It was easily my favorite off-the-bike moment of the Tour.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That gave me enough fuel for rest area two. Kathryn was waiting, and I debated just calling it good right then and there. We hadn’t reached Greybull yet, but we were close. A few more miles, a left turn to the south, and an eight mile burn to Basin. Kathryn pointed out that I only had 10 miles or so left of the Tour. With that, I got on the bike. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I followed a small group into Greybull. They stopped for lunch, and as I swung left at the main intersection, I realized it was over. All of that work, those cold rides in April, the early mornings out on Baldwin Creek / Squaw Creek loop, the sweat and snot on the Sinks Canyon asphalt, the innumerable explanations to family and friends about just what exactly this Tour thing was – done. Eight miles and it was over.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t sprinting exactly, but it was the strongest I’ve ever pedaled on level ground. Some part of me just wanted to prove that I belonged on a bike, that despite all my insecurities and paranoia about getting passed, that I knew in my heart it didn’t matter. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So for this last eight miles, I went like hell. I sliced through the wind and heat. I stood on the pedals because I could, not because I needed to. I clicked into my top gear, found a cadence, and flew. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My bike computer had been acting up for the past two days, occasionally freezing or indicating I’d traveled all of two miles after three hours on the bike. So, I don’t know what my average speed was for those last eight miles between Greybull and Basin. Certainly in the upper teens. Possibly, though I doubt it was this awesome, over 20.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I rolled into Basin, took a right on one of the main streets, and found Kathryn parked by the high school. She snapped a picture, we loaded up the RAV, and headed for home. No fanfare, no dramatic goodbyes to other cyclists – mostly because I suspect I’ll see them again.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">---<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s a month to the day since I rolled into Basin. Would I do the Tour again? Depends on the route and family schedule, but the short answer is yes. I came back to Lander as trim and fit as I’ve been in a long, long time. Coworkers noticed; former students noticed; close friends congratulated me. And then for weeks I did nothing but bake bread and learn other family baked-goods recipes. The weight’s creeping back up and the flab is getting worse daily. I can quite literally feel my leg muscles atrophying. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been on a few rides, about once a week, but the fever is dying down. In fact, riding almost seems like a chore. I desperately want to fall back in love with cycling, but a part of me, that sniveling, petulant, lazy part of me that kept me depressed for years, keeps finding excuses to stay off the bike. I was going to ride this morning but made coffee and surfed instead. Oh, sure, that meant getting this post written, but a moment ago I snapped at Kathryn when in fact I was upset at the dog. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We all carry around suitcases of emotional gravel and scree; someone says something hurtful and we put that pebble in our pack. We haul bricks of insecurity in there, too, and some of us have rocks we don’t even remember. The only way to lighten the load is to dissolve the rocks, and the only liquid that does that is sweat. A few times there, on the climb between rest area two and Powder River Pass; on the last broiling five miles descending into Buffalo; on the Story and Granite Pass downhills; in the camp chairs at Dayton, soaking in the view with Kathryn; a few times there, my luggage was well and truly lost. Can’t say I missed it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I see now the moral imperative in getting on the bike. We can get as poetic or emotional as we want, but the fact remains that cycling changed me for the better, or at least offered a glimpse of what could be. I spend an awful lot of time chewing on myself. Cycling channels that crap into something useful.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And with that, I’m going for a ride.<o:p></o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-46666284289093443512011-08-15T08:58:00.000-06:002011-08-15T08:58:15.453-06:00Day 4: Dayton to Burgess Junction <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> <w:UseFELayout/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We’d arrived in Dayton fairly late, and after bickering a little (okay, I was being <strike>not particularly helpful </strike>crabby) we finally set up camp on a ridge between the road and the school. Our tent faced west, toward the mountain, and it was a gorgeous evening. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After getting a quick lesson in bike tube repair from the ridiculously cool and nice guys from the Pedal House, I joined Kathryn at the tent and we sat in camp chairs, soaking in the view. I couldn’t help gazing at the diagonal scar running up the mountain, the highway. We’d be climbing that thing tomorrow. As so often happens on the Tour, bedtime came early.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A few seconds (actually 3 hours) after I closed my eyes, the tent fluttered a bit as the wind picked up. Rain pattered. The wind grew stronger, and the tent popped and shook. Now, outdoor sounds are magnified in a tent for some reason, so what feels like a hurricane is actually a strong breeze. Kathryn had very wisely staked down the tent, and with our weight there was no chance of actually getting blown away. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But it sure felt and sounded like we might blow away. At one point, I got out to secure some straps that were slapping around in the storm, and that’s when I noticed an oddity: there was a large, empty tent next to ours. Holding it in place was a big pile of . . . our gear. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Huh?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Either the tent had tumbled our way and somehow gobbled our stuff and then flipped over, or more likely, the tent blew away and rather than try to haul it back to from whence it came and then stake it in, the tent rescuers just grabbed the nearest heavy stuff they could find . . . namely, our camp chairs and our heavy luggage bags. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Another example of Tour Etiquette: in a crisis, it’s okay to borrow someone else’s gear, even if they don’t give you permission. At least, I think that’s Tour Etiquette. Regardless, I’m just glad we could help even if we were asleep at the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The storm finally blew through, and Kathryn and I got back to sleep. At five, I found a portapotty and the breakfast line and hit the road. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Once again, we had a few miles of gradual climbing before the real effort began. Something was easier this time, though. I was still down in lower gears, cranking quickly and moving slowly, but the anxiety about climbing a mountain was gone. The obvious answer is that because I’d climbed Ten Sleep Canyon two days before, I knew I could pedal up this mountain.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Soon we were climbing the switchbacks. These are unusual in my book, since they sit near the base of the mountain, unlike other switchbacks that sit near the top of mountains. Again, not as hard as I thought they’d be. I was even making good time here, passing quite a few folks. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Cranking away. One turn after another. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On one of the longer stretches, a cyclist came up next to me. We’d been pedaling for an hour or so but car traffic was still incredibly light; you could ride two abreast and have a nice conversation, which is far better than having a conversation with someone on your back tire. I mean, for all you know, that voice back there is not another cyclist but your subconscious because you have finally, once and for all, gone crazy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So it was nice to talk to someone I could see. This guy was on a very nice bike and decked out in high-end cycling clothes. I can’t remember his name – in fact, I’m not sure he ever told me – but we were talking about how healthy cycling is when he mentioned he’d lost close to a hundred pounds since he first started cycling three years ago. What?!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I used to weigh over 300,” he said. I surreptitiously glanced at him. Average build, not slim, but beneath all of it, solid. Endless-hours-on-a-bike solid.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“One day my doctor said I had to change,” he continued, “and something finally clicked for me. I went out and bought a bike at Wal-Mart and also started eating healthier. I lost something like 20 pounds in two months, and I’ve been hooked ever since.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Incredible, I tell you. It’s incredible what cycling does for you. As I said before, I never had any true epiphanies on the Tour, but I have come to focus on what matters: a supportive spouse, a healthy lifestyle, kindness towards oneself and others, and an abiding and profound appreciation for shade and water.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We rounded a bend and there, tucked into a nook in the very scar I’d been eyeballing last night, was our first rest area. It felt good, as always, but I was eager to keep going. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">More pedaling. Several hundred yards past the rest area we rode into the black cloud of death-smell. Another cyclist was passing me at this point. “Mmmmmmmmm,” I said as we rode past a particularly gruesome deer carcass, “breakfast.” Heh. I crack myself up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He looked at me, puzzled, and kept pedaling. Well, at least someone thinks I’m funny, even if it’s just me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I stopped at Sand Turn because Kathryn and I had agreed to meet either at the rest area or at the Turn, but she wasn’t there. More pedaling. I should mention here that this highway is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever been on in my life. Just for the record. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">More pedaling, up near what I thought was the top of the mountain. These are old rocks up here, people, and to occupy my time I thought about how many billions of years it took for these rocks to become part of western South Dakota’s topsoil. How many cubic feet of grit is blown from these mountains into South Dakota in a year? Not much. Not much. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The second rest area sat in a bend just below Steamboat Point. Approaching it, I realized I had a slight problem. I was cramping up. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Okay, just get there. Drink some water, eat some food, relax. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I remember someone, a Tour veteran I’m sure, singing as she passed me here. I think I sang along to take my mind of the cramping.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Regardless, this rest area felt much, much better than the first one. In fact, this may have been the second-best rest area of the whole Tour, behind the second rest area at Meadowlark Lake two days before. I slugged down fruit, water, and Gatorade. I stretched out my legs, making small talk with the others, immensely proud of what I’d just done. I thought, incorrectly, that we were close to the top.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That’s one of the worst possible mental mistakes you can make. No one ever said this to me, but if I ever offer advice to rookie cyclists, I’m going to tell them: <i>never, ever tell yourself that you’re near the top unless you can </i>see<i> the top.</i> By saying crap like, “Okay, this has got to be the last climb before the summit,” you’re just setting yourself up for heartbreak. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rather, the cyclist should find a mental happy place where pedaling becomes as natural as breathing and pain is nature’s reminder that one is alive. Just enjoy the ride. Come to a Zen-like peace with the agony, the bugs, the sweat in the eyes, and the bloated deer carcasses. Surrender to the suck.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And so the stretch between Steamboat Point and Burgess Junction turned out to be the hardest leg of the entire Tour for some reason. I put myself in the wrong frame of mind and paid dearly for it. Even the hair-on-fire descent wasn’t all that enjoyable. There were a few lakes and creeks up here that looked eminently fishable, but mostly I was getting pouty. I’d done what I’d come here to do. I just wanted to get to camp and get off the bike. These turns and small climbs were getting old. Very old. <i>Hey look, more trees! And another climbing turn into trees! Greeeaaaaaaaat.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In fact, at the last turn to the southeast, with Burgess Junction a mere two miles away or so, I got downright ornery. The grade wasn’t terrible but I was in my lowest gear. Other cyclists blazed by me, slicing through the wind while I clawed and scraped through it. I was angry. I darn near got off the bike.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But I didn’t. I just kept pedaling, calling myself crude names as a last resort of motivation. How silly would I feel, SAGing in the last mile? Silly. Very silly. That, and ashamed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Kathryn had set up camp at the lodge where we were all staying, and because I could fill many pages with the descriptions about life at this lodge, I’ll just say this: if you’re ever in Wyoming, don’t miss Bear Lodge on state highway 14. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This afternoon and evening’s activities included a dip in the indoor hot tub and pool, watching other people fish in the small pond, drinking beer in the bar, catching a nap on the deck, reading in the shade, getting a massage, and snuggling into our bags on what would be the coldest night of the Tour by a very long way. </span><o:p></o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-86867984520453591402011-08-05T13:23:00.000-06:002011-08-05T13:23:55.234-06:00Day 3 – Buffalo to Dayton<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> <w:UseFELayout/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">AKA, Harry Potter and the Cyclist’s Soreness</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Another morning in the tent, listening to zippers zipping and grass swishing. Breakfast was in the school, so we all trekked up the hill and queued up. As at dinner (which I forgot to describe yesterday), BHS students served. They were remarkably cheerful for ambulatory teens at 5:30 in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That morning marked my first true repair: my back tire went flat in the night. Luckily, in the course of training, I’d spent enough time (and money, God knows) at the local bike shop to learn a thing or two about fixing flats. In this case it was nothing more than using a CO2 pump for the first time. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Once aired up, I hit the road. The day’s route was a mix of high plains interstate, old back country highways, and traffic-heavy maneuverin’ at the halfway point in Sheridan. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My body felt creaky. The ride through Buffalo, north to the I-80 onramp, felt like pedaling against the universe’s will. Once on the interstate, though, the ride improved – WYDOT is pretty awesome about maintaining shoulders and we had a broad, relatively smooth shoulder for several miles. We eventually exited at Piney Creek and angled back toward Story, hitting the first rest area of the day. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">College representation makes up a large percentage of cycling jerseys. The first two jerseys I bought, for example, were from the universities of Illinois and Wyoming. And I’m compelled to add that I wore that Wyoming jersey with this weird blend of pride and authority on Day 2. You know, some insecure part of me probably wanted to show off; “I’m from Wyoming, I belong here, blah blah blah.” Sheesh, we’re such children, aren’t we? What would Socrates think of this behavior?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And so at our first rest area, I noticed an older gentleman in a Wisconsin jersey. I’d seen a few Michigan jerseys on the previous days but never got around to making pals. <i>I say, my good man, I see you’re supporting a university from the Big Ten Conference. Might I induce you to discuss how awesome we all are? </i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What I really said was: “On, Wisconsin!” Nothing like sucking up to start a conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But Wisconsin didn’t say anything more than, “Right.” And that was it. He and his chums just stared at me for a few seconds. Feeling as awkward as I’d ever felt on the Tour so far, I exited stage left and pedaled out some embarrassment. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A mile or so down the road, Wisconsin passed me with very little conversation. Several minutes later, one of his friends passed me. “Are you an Illini?” he asked. We struck up a conversation, and as it turned out, he’d gone to Minnesota. “You shouldn’t have said anything to my friend,” he said. “We’ve learned not to encourage him with that ‘On Wisconsin’ stuff.” Okay, well, that explains it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On to Story, and the morning was turning well and truly painful. Check Google Maps and you’ll see that Story is tucked into the tail of an east/west hitch in the otherwise north/south Big Horn Mountains. This hitch is visible from the Garber’s place – in fact, it’s one of the dominant features in our wedding pictures. Cycling here felt like a homecoming of sorts, and some family had hoped to meet up with me at rest area two, between Sheridan and Big Horn.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The highway just north of Story turned into a huge downhill. Roy had told me that once we made it to Story the rest would be mostly down hill, but I hadn’t envisioned this plunge. Having gained a little confidence from lots of downhill practice the previous day, I opened it up. The fastest speed I saw on my bike computer was 45mph, but that was just the fastest speed I saw. I didn’t exactly have time to check the computer that often during the descent. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Although I was in familiar territory here, I wasn’t enjoying the ride once it leveled out. In fact, I was in a lot of pain. Frankly, I wanted to see <i>Harry Potter</i>. And was that one of my notorious headaches I felt coming on?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That sealed it. Somewhere around the Meade Creek intersection I decided that if Kathryn really was at rest area two, and I had little reason to doubt she would be, I’d call it a day. It’d be nice to spend the day with her, and I could use a break. I’d lived through the previous day, pedaled my sorry butt from Ten Sleep to Buffalo, and had the second most important goal of the entire Tour tomorrow. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Would there be shame in not pedaling from Sheridan to Dayton? No. Not one little bit. I wouldn’t miss that stretch at all. And frankly, I wanted to see <i>Harry Potter</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here was “The Junction,” an intersection with a gas station and convenience store just north of Big Horn. At holidays, this is where we buy our wine. A right turn. A few miles of pedaling with what was most assuredly becoming one of my notorious headaches. And I wanted to see <i>Harry Potter</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Kathryn and Nancy were waiting for me at rest area two. Dismounting the bike, standing there in the heat, I’ve never been as sure of anything in my life: I was done riding for the day. My stepbrother Chad showed up too, and it was really nice just talking to the three of them. Chad headed back to work, we took off my front tire and put the bike in Nancy’s car, and headed to the Garber homestead.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I took some ibuprofen and passed out on the Garber couch. This wasn’t mere sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The headache woke me up a few hours later, and I spent the next few hours in and out of consciousness, watching yard improvement shows and contending with the armed gnomes inside my head. <i>Harry Potter </i>was at 4:00, and if I wanted to see it, I’d need to overcome the headache. Time for the big guns. Why hello, Maxalt. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">To <i>Harry Potter</i>! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And can I just say that, given the trainwreck that was the <i>Half Blood Prince</i> movie, it would have been easy to screw up Harry’s death scene. They didn’t. This movie took a few liberties but nothing as odious as the flaming fiery firesome attack on the Burrow in flames. And somewhere around Hogsmeade I realized my headache was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We drove up to Dayton, waltzed into the dinner line with five minutes and plenty of food remaining, and set up camp. All told, a lovely evening. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-52810041386252221022011-08-04T12:23:00.003-06:002011-08-04T12:34:20.133-06:00Day 2: Ten Sleep to Buffalo (Part 2: The Descent)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Other cyclists weren’t celebrating to quite the same extent as me. Sure, they’d stop for pictures next to the Powder River Pass sign, or they’d just get off the bike and soak in the view, but they weren’t as emotional about it. If anything they were nonchalant. <i>Yeah, well, good for you. You’re used to this after years on bikes. I’ve been cycling since April.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Eventually it was time to head down. I crossed the rest of the sizable parking area, took in the larger panorama for a moment, and pedaled hard for ten strokes at the crest. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When you tell people you’re cycling over a mountain pass, they tend to marvel at how tough the uphill portion will be and then invariably say something like, “But wow, going down will be fun!” And truthfully, before I cycled regularly I thought that all downhill bicycle riding was easy. You weren’t working; you were on an amusement ride. You just pointed the bike and coasted in glee. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And so a note here about downhills.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In some respects they require more effort than climbing. No, you’re not necessarily pedaling as hard or as consistently, but the amount of focus shifts dramatically. Instead of giving yourself an ongoing pep talk or managing the balance between pain and self-pity, instead of coming to Zen-like peace with 10 foot stretches, instead of trying to take your mind off the ride, you’re <i>consumed</i> by the ride. You’re confronted by a wave of hazards on big downhills – at speed, reaction times drop to nothing, and on 700 X 25 tires, darn near anything can take you down. Puddles, rabbit carcasses, stiff winds from passing vehicles, stiff winds from Montana, and wee pebbles all become deadly. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And then there’s the specter of equipment failure. Imagine a tire blowing at 40 mph. Imagine taking a corner too wide and into the scree. Imagine sliding into a guardrail or delineator post. Imagine putting the bike over, still clipped in, leaving an epidermis trail hundreds of feet long. Imagine the worst, and I promise you it can happen on a downhill.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So you’re taxed, physically and intellectually. Yes, you’re cooled off and ain’t no bug alive can land on you doing 40, but the fear and focus are acute. Oh, and did I mention the new spectrum of pain? Yeah. Downhills hurt your neck and wrists a lot. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That said, you’re going really fast, and going really fast is fun. No melodramatic litany of perils can change that. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The downhill run (“. . . from Papeete. . . “ No, no, no. Not here, Stephen Stills, although that song was on an endless loop for portions of this ride) to the first rest area was a zippy affair. I have a mirror clipped to my helmet, allowing me to monitor traffic, so I rode in the smoothest parts of the road I could, checking the mirror every few seconds. But not for long. Dancing, prancing Moses, don’t take your eyes off the road for more than a half second.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I didn’t hang out at the next rest area for more than a few minutes, and on the pullout I was clumped together with a few other cyclists. Mostly I passed people for the next mile or so, but some wackjobs whizzed by me – and I was in my top gear, cranking hard when the conditions allowed. At the end of another healthy stretch of downhill, we bottomed out and began a climb.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We knew these were coming. Anyone who’d studied the route or traveled this road knew that the descent was actually a series of downhills interrupted by climbs. Some Tour vets referred to them as “rollers,” which in any other circumstance means small series of hills – you know, four or five strokes and you’re at the top.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But if this was a roller, it was a roller for the gods. “Roller, my butt,” another cyclist said a few hundred feet into the first one, “this is another $&$^* climb!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Indeed. The first uphill on this section was at least a mile long. Or maybe it just felt like it. I’m having trouble remembering how many, in what order, and how steep each climb was. But I do remember a particular stretch where I almost just up and quit. I’ve no idea how long we’d been pedaling by this point, but it was before the series of small, steep hills near the final descent into Buffalo. Those of you familiar with the road might recall a long, straight portion of road that descends heading west, making for a long pull when you’re heading east like we were. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was somewhere several hundred yards from the top of this sucker that the heat and pain and exhaustion really piled up. I’d been pedaling with a stich in my side for miles by then. Other cyclists passed me frequently, but one guy stayed on my back tire for a long time, eventually pulled next to me and looked over. I must have looked like I was in bad shape, probably because I <i>was</i> in bad shape.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You okay?” he asked. I either grunted or gasped.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You’re doing fine, man,” he said. “Just keep going.” With that, he pulled ahead and into a blissful future of downhills, rest areas, and air-conditioned lunch in Buffalo. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>It’ll be a miracle if I live to see any of that. I’m about to die here, people. Screw this whole stupid Tour.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You know that line in Paul Simon’s “The Boxer,” about crying out in anger and shame? Yeah. I literally cried out a few times before I finally reached the breaking point. I pulled off at a dirt road, barely able to clip out of the pedals. I put my hands on my knees and almost puked. I poured water over my head, then drank, then poured some more. If I did quit here, the SAG (support) vehicle would eventually find me and I could get a lift to the next rest area. There would be minimal shame in SAGing, but it would mean forfeiture of bragging rights about pedaling from Ten Sleep to Buffalo. So there would be shame nonetheless. And so I got back on the $*#&@ bike.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Finally – allelu, allelu! – we reached the top of that hill and coped with the resulting downhill, along with others. Eventually a long downhill rounded a corner and there was rest area four. From there, we looked down to our last series of climbs, smaller climbs, familiar and friendly terrain. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">If I'd overcome my earlier hissy fit and didn’t quit, there was no way I was going to quit now. A few small climbs and it was time for the final descent into Buffalo. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">From the 80s, maybe even mid-70s, in the mountains to a scorcher in Buffalo. It had been four and a half hours to the top and two hours down. The final stretch out of a canyon and into Buffalo took us through some road construction and other menaces, but mostly I remember the sheer joy of seeing Kathryn sitting outside a café. She recommended a berry smoothie of some sort, so I went inside and ordered the smoothie and a can of root beer. I downed the root beer in one toss, hands-down the best soda of my life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Kathryn and I weren’t impressed with Buffalo High School’s accommodations. Campers were relegated to the soccer field, which isn’t a big deal, but it was 200 yards from the school and thus showers and food. I showered as Kathryn, trooper-like, set up camp in oppressive heat. Hanging out in a broiler wasn’t our idea of a good time, so we drove back into town and found a decent spot for lunch. We hung out in town for a bit, killing time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Kathryn’s folks were near Buffalo on business and stopped by. Sitting there on the soccer field, we passed time chatting in what turned into an utterly gorgeous evening. I called my dad, who was so excited about me accomplishing this ride that he lost the ability to speak coherently for a bit. My stepmom, too, was excited and proud. Back at the tent, my in-laws said they were impressed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You gotta be tough to do that ride,” Roy said. I’ll take that, thank you very much. Roy knows from tough.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Off to the Occidental Hotel for a nightcap. The bartender was a little grumpy about being out of food – thanks to the Tour – but he was nice enough when we told him we just wanted drinks. I drank water and listened, in some sort of bliss, to Kathryn and her parents chat over beers. The night couldn’t have ended more perfectly. Sitting in a comfy chair, finally rehydrated, I started to fade. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I remember walking across the street to the car, but I don’t remember anything after that at all.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-1346949088743828502011-08-03T16:43:00.004-06:002011-08-03T21:40:55.477-06:00Day 2 – Ten Sleep to Buffalo (Part 1: The Climb)Once again, at 5:00 sharp, we heard tent zippers and swishing grass as people woke up and headed for the porta-potties. Breakfast was served at the park again, so Kathryn walked with me over there. I didn’t finish my breakfast burrito, fearing too much food would make me puke somewhere on the ride.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I was one of the first 25 cyclists or so to leave that morning. The first two miles were easy, low-grade foothill affairs, past mansions sitting on or near great fishing on the Ten Sleep River. This stretch of road always makes me wish I were rich. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I made small talk with another early starter. A mile or so before the climb really began, we came up on a cattle drive. Cows were being herded up the road the same direction we were riding, and we really didn’t know what to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">A lot of us eat cows regularly. When they’re not showing up in cellophane, they’re showing up in commercials, usually portrayed as pastoral creatures of the plains. And really, cows are fairly stupid animals. Put yourself in the middle of a herd of cows, however, and suddenly one appreciates just how big they are. On pavement, you can feel one cow’s stride from several feet away. A mama cow and her calf shake the earth. A freaking herd of cattle gives you a whole new perspective on the dangers of cowboy life. And riding into a herd of cattle on a bicycle brought visions of very nasty cyclist / cow interactions.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Weaving past a few cow stragglers, we approached a cowboy mounted on his horse. Not wanting to upset either the cows or the cowboys, whose livelihood we were interrupting here, I asked if it was alright if I passed on the left. He nodded, and I zipped into the gravel, preferring to risk going ass over teakettle rather than slipping in a cow pie and getting trampled. Speaking of, the cow pies were fresh out of nature’s oven. Another mounted cowboy would call to us, as we finally pulled ahead of the herd, “Don’t forget to wash your legs tonight!” Yeah. No kidding. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And then it was time to climb.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Within a few hundred yards we were on a 6 or 7% grade, and I downshifted to my last ring very early in what was to become a very long day. The first few miles of uphill, through Ten Sleep Canyon, were certainly difficult, but it was the kind of difficulty I’d learned to deal with in my training rides. Uphill rides are grinds, man, and all you can do is keep pedaling, drink water, and take breaks if you need them. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My cowherd partner was a big, tall dude from Jackson (a remarkable number of cyclists are tall, by the way) who blazed ahead as soon as we were past the cows. I was more or less alone, occasionally passing someone but usually getting passed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I made more small talk with a few other cyclists on this stretch, but mostly we were all focused on the climb. We all knew it was going to be an exhausting day, so those of us who’d seen the canyon before just put our heads down and pedaled. In that respect it was easy to pick out the non-Wyomingite cyclists: they were the ones stopping to take pictures. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">After about seven miles and 2,500 feet of elevation comes a single set of switchbacks (so, two sharp corners). Above this is a large parking area, and this was our first break. In training, I’d used imaging to help me feel what this climb would be like – “Okay, I’ve climbed 2,000 feet, and this is about where the first rest area will be in Ten Sleep Canyon” etc., etc., etc. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Arriving at this first rest area was therefore something of a milestone. I’d envisioned it many times, thinking about how cool it would be, and here I was . . . rolling up to it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I drank some Gatorade, ate some fruit and cookies, and took in the view. I allowed myself to gawk – Wyomingite or not, Ten Sleep Canyon is truly something – and even to congratulate myself. I let myself take an extra five minutes, and then I was back on the bike. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And here the ride started to get painful. It was getting hot for one thing, but it was the climbing, the endless uphill slugging, the false promises of bends that might reveal a lesser grade or a flat stretch or even a brief downhill but never do, the sheer crawling, that wore thin. I took a few breaks in this part. I’d pour water over my head and drink a little, and would soon be descended upon by hordes of mosquitos and horseflies. My head and neck were a grimy mixture of sweat and DEET. I’m guessing I smelled pretty bad.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">This section, between rest areas one and two, continued on, and on, and on. I passed at least one cyclist who was walking her bike. Another rode with me for a while, asked if I knew whether we had a downhill anytime soon, and I said I thought we did in another mile or so. This cyclist fell off my pace before I could apologize for being wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Five miles an hour. Eight miles an hour if you stand on the pedals to alleviate sit bone pain. And that’s how fast you travel for ten miles to the next rest area.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I remember a downhill by Meadowlark Lake, thinking that after this big right turn we’d see our rest area. I also remember the downhill not being all that rewarding – I just wanted off the bike, not a downhill. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">More climbing for a few hundred yards before I saw, there at the bend, rest area two. And if I wasn’t mistaken, that was our RAV4 parked among the vehicles. Hallelujah.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I got off the bike and laid down in the shade of our car. Kathryn asked me about some stuff, but frankly, I don’t remember our conversation. This may very well be the closest I’ve ever been to “bonking,” a cycling term for “running out of energy and collapsing.” Having cooled off a little, I stood up and drank some water. Kathryn snapped a picture of me, and we headed off to the food table. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I couldn’t stop eating bananas and peach slices. I literally could not stop eating. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Eventually I refilled my water bottles, drank some water and Gatorade and more water, and did some quick math. We were eight miles and 1500 feet of elevation from Powder River Pass, the highest point of today’s ride, the highest peak of the Tour, and the single most important goal of mine since I’d signed up for the Tour. I could miss some rides if I had to, I could be the last cyclist to make it, but by God, I would pedal my bike all the way to the top. That was the goal. Make it to the top.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The first half mile out of rest area two was easily 8% grade. Nothing like reality to check your motivation level.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Near the top of this stretch another cyclist cranked by me. I may have met her before or maybe it was just Tour etiquette – you know, vets are supposed to encourage rookies, etc. – but as we reached the top of this hill she looked over at me and said, “Nice work.” Alrighty. Thank you. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">More climbing. The bugs were getting particularly bad. Endless pain. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">But at altitude! At some point in here I realized we were at about 8,000 feet above sea level, and the Big Horn Mountains are particularly gorgeous. I didn’t have some dramatic epiphany or anything, but I did suddenly appreciate where I was and what I was doing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Closer. Powder River Pass was closer. An older cyclist asked me if this next hill was it, and I assured him it wasn’t. I didn’t need a bike computer to tell me we were still three miles away or so, and having made this drive several times, I knew that those three miles wouldn’t be terrible. They wouldn’t be easy, but they wouldn’t be terrible. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Swatting at bugs. Bugs up the nose. Bugs in the mouth, sometimes spit out, sometimes swallowed. Sweat. More bugs. More pedaling.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">One mile to go. I could see the pass, a big left turn at 9,600 feet or so. Head down. Just pedal, Paul. Just pedal the stupid bike. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The final climb, a steep one, gently turning left. Our car is up there. Okay, seven delineator posts and you’re there. Six. Pedal. Three. One. Here’s the parking lot. Wow, dude, you’re going to make it. You’re there. You did it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I pulled up next to Kathryn at Powder River Pass, put my head down gasping for breath, and to be perfectly honest, I almost cried. It was a weird feeling. Exhaustion? Yes, that, but also . . . reward. Some blend of triumph, pride, and nausea. And let’s not forget agony. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">We spent a lot of time up there. Kathryn took some great pics, and apparently she volunteered to take pictures of other riders as well. Very surreal, standing by that sign. I’d been training since mid-March, bought the road bike on April 1, and had been envisioning that moment at least once a day, during rides or not. I’d done it. I’d freaking pedaled from Ten Sleep to Powder River Pass. Now all I had to do was ride down the other side.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Which would in some parts be even harder. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-86400282826753984652011-07-27T11:17:00.001-06:002011-07-27T12:55:57.793-06:00Tour de Wyoming Day 1: Worland to Ten SleepMy watch alarm finally went off. I’d set it for 5:00, since breakfast was served from 5:30 to 7:00 and I’d planned to be on the road every morning by 6. As if on cue, the sounds of camp breaking down floated across the field. Everyone else had the same idea I did. <br />
<br />
We lined up in the community center’s hallway, filing through the old cafeteria for a breakfast of stale pancakes and sausage. I’d hear later that they ran out of food, so the early rising bit was a wise idea. <br />
<br />
Amber had announced at the orientation meeting that the Worland mayor wanted to ride out with us in a mass start. At 6:00 I was in front of the building, waiting to go, and other cyclists took off in small groups. Kathryn snapped a picture and I decided the hell with it – I’d skip the mass start and just go. <br />
<br />
A few turns in Worland put us on 789 north, heading to Manderson, where we’d have our first rest stop and make our first turn. It was a gorgeous morning – low 70s, the Big Horns a dark ridge to our right. Those mountains, of course, were on our route. The following day we were scheduled to climb Ten Sleep Canyon and ride all the way to Buffalo, and we all knew it. As the sun rose higher and the dark ridge became defined by snow-covered peaks and other mountainy features, some folks stopped to take pictures. <br />
<br />
Yours truly just kept pedaling, averaging somewhere around 15 mph. The shoulder was good and it felt great to crank away some miles. There was a palpable sense of relief, too – I’d trained hard for this, the day was here, and riding felt great. <br />
<br />
It was on this first stretch that I first detected a trend that will shape my future training: even moving along at 15 mph, riding strong in higher gears, people – old, chubby people – blew by me. “Your left,” someone would call, and invariably I’d see white hair flowing beneath a helmet or a beer gut stretching a bike jersey beyond its normal capabilities. <br />
<br />
In Manderson we climbed a small ridge, and at the bottom was a café with portable shade tents and a group of cyclists. This was clearly our first rest area. That’s one of the truly cool aspects of the Tour: every ten miles or so, Tour volunteers have shade tents, snacks, and fluids. All part of the Tour fee – you just show up, lay your bike down in a safe place, and fill your bottle with Gatorade and eat bananas, cookies, or Fig Newtons. It’s a great time to hit the porta-potty or just chat with other cyclists. <br />
<br />
Onward to Wyoming 31, taking us east toward Hyattville. I’d made the rest area by 7:30 or so, and by 8:30, somewhere on 31, the infamous Basin heat made its appearance. The wind, too, picked up as the morning progressed. Whatever romantic notions I’d had about riding Wyoming back roads disappeared. I pedaled, sweated, pedaled, sweated, pedaled, climbed small hills, took no pleasure from the downhills due to the wind, sweated, and pedaled some more. Finally, the second rest area appeared on the horizon. <br />
<br />
More bananas and cookies. I ran into Linda and Monte, fellow Landerites I’d been introduced to by the aforementioned Tour veteran, and we chatted a bit. Then it was time for another leg, to a rest area roughly halfway between here and Ten Sleep.<br />
<br />
This next stretch on the Lower Nowood Road is hazy now, just over a week later. I remember an increase in hills, heat, and roadkill. For the uninitiated, death has a particular smell. Dead squirrels in a corner of the yard smell bad; you know something’s wrong and it usually doesn’t take too long to find the fried little guy. <br />
<br />
But large animals next to a highway are something else entirely.<br />
<br />
Depending on the wind, you smell them for a long, long time before you reach them. Time is relative on a bicycle, especially when you’re in pain, so “long, long time” in this case means something around a minute. But that’s long enough to make you pedal faster, which means inhaling sharper, which means accidentally breathing through your nose if you’re not careful, which means damn near puking.<br />
<br />
Sometimes you see the blackened, bloated carcass on or by the road, and you’re suddenly upwind and free of it. Sometimes the winds are so damn contrary that even if you pass the carcass, you’re not necessarily out of its clutches. Sometimes you never see anything at all, you just pass through a cloud of death smell. <br />
<br />
The last rest area, 8 miles or so from Ten Sleep and thus shade and chairs, appeared on the left. There wasn’t much traffic, so crossing the road wasn’t a big deal. At this point I was broiling – I remember filling my bottle with Gatorade and hanging out in the shade of the U-Haul truck being used as a supply vehicle. <br />
<br />
The final leg seemed like it would be nothing, or at least not a killer; another hour or so of small hills and roadkill. Oh, sure, I was sweating and my wrists, neck, shoulders, sit bones, and ankles were all a bit sore, but my lungs and legs were fine. I still had gas in the tank, as they say, and I was eager to put the first day behind me. <br />
<br />
Technically, it was 8 miles and about an hour. Emotionally, it became a kind of crucible. The soreness became acute pain, and on a bicycle there is no way to alleviate that pain. You can stand on the pedals to help the sit bones, but that makes the pain in the shoulders worse, not to mention stressing the legs. You can take one hand off the handlebars to help the shoulder, sitting upright, but that makes the sit bones and other shoulder hurt worse. You can’t do much about the neck pain, and you can’t do anything at all about the ankle and foot pain. <br />
<br />
With around five miles to go, the heat and pain became personal. Cyclists were still blowing by me, the wind was constant, and the only inspiration I could find was in the form of self-flagellation. I’d feel pretty stupid, I told myself, if I quit now. I’d feel especially stupid if I quit because of mere pain – getting hit by an RV or running into a cow and breaking the bike, those were good reasons for quitting. But not pain. Especially not when other cyclists were clearly dealing with the same pain and not, apparently, bothered by it. <br />
<br />
One final climb over Nowood Creek, outside of Ten Sleep, and then – puhRAISE Jesus! – we turned onto the downhill into town. It was somewhere around 10:15, and Kathryn would later tell me I came in sooner than 75% of the others (not that I was keeping track, not that it was a race, not that there was a certain amount of ego involved in this whole thing for me . . . ). One of the first businesses in Ten Sleep, coming from the west, is a café. As I pedaled by it, Kathryn called from the deck “Hi, Honey!” <br />
<br />
I stopped, clipped out of the pedals in the gutter, and barely got off the bike. I laid down in the shade of a tree in front of the café. I could barely hold a coherent conversation with Kathryn. <br />
<br />
Though it was technically morning, we got beers at a Ten Sleep bar, watched some of the U.S. women’s World Cup match, and took a stroll through town. Throughout this whole trip, Kathryn was a champ about setting up and breaking down camp, and camp at the Ten Sleep high school was a rather crammed affair through no fault of hers.<br />
<br />
But you learn, on a bike tour, to disregard that which really doesn’t matter. Tent proximity doesn’t matter when you’re asleep, unless someone snores, but you’re usually too tired to notice anyway. Adolescent locker room or toilet anxieties don’t matter when you’re all old and bald and you just want a freaking shower. <br />
<br />
Ten Sleep High School’s hallways were lined with bikes and people. It was relatively cool in there, so people just found a spot where they could. Some folks chose to “camp inside,” which meant setting up sleeping gear in the gym or just out in the halls. After the beer and food, I was ready for a nap. I found a great spot beneath an empty trophy case, threw down my Thermalite, and rested my face on the tile. I fell asleep like that, face down, arms at my sides, and slept for at least an hour. Kathryn, meanwhile, set up one of our camp chairs and read her Kindle. It was a lazy afternoon.<br />
<br />
Dinnertime is 5:30 to 7:00 on the Tour, and ours was served at a park a few blocks from the school. We lined up, chatted with other cyclists, and got pelted with rain. It was a welcome change. Jalan Crossland played for us, a Tour tradition, and when the rain became a true gullywasher, Jalan invited everyone into the shelter to make it a more personal affair. <br />
<br />
To bed in the tent. I slept well.Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-89102898029616848352011-07-23T08:35:00.001-06:002011-07-23T08:55:33.699-06:00Tour de Wyoming - Check-inThe Tour lets you pick your accommodations. Communities are generally supportive of the Tour, and more often than not, schools are home base. You can purchase breakfast and dinner plans, and students often help prepare and serve the meals. The quality of meals varies quite a bit, but the truly cool thing about this approach is that it gets the community involved. Imagine a rolling horde of 400 people descending on small Wyoming towns – it makes quite an economic impact.<br />
<br />
Speaking of economics, if you’re looking to do the Tour on the cheap, you can camp outside on school grounds, camp inside in the schools’ gyms (or hallways under trophy cases, as we’ll see), or anywhere else you can find a spot. Those with a little more cash can opt for hotels or indulge in services like Shuttle Guy, who lugs all your crap and provides a tent for you. Shuttle Guy also does cool things like have shade tents and treats set up at the end of the day, and you might be surprised by just how valuable a patch of shade can be during the Tour.<br />
<br />
This year’s Tour route began and ended in Worland, a town of 5,000 or so in the Big Horn Basin. If the words “Big Horn Basin” instill romantic images of the West, think again. Oh sure, you can see the Big Horn Mountains to the east, but Worland is notorious for its awful summer weather. The Basin often claims statewide record highs. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UzwXKChbkDw/TirfsxaMP6I/AAAAAAAAABQ/JK4KPLNWitY/s1600/tdw+worland+comm+center+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UzwXKChbkDw/TirfsxaMP6I/AAAAAAAAABQ/JK4KPLNWitY/s320/tdw+worland+comm+center+sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Kathryn and I had headed to Casper on Friday night to see my dad and stepmom, who were in town for a friend’s memorial service. Chad, Melissa, and Parker came down from Sheridan and we all had dinner at a steakhouse that used to be a fancy-pants Casper dining experience.<br />
<br />
A note here about Casper. <br />
<br />
I shudder every time I go there. Passing landmarks from my adolescence and young adulthood is very strange, and although it’s not unpleasant, whenever I drive by Smith’s Food and Drug, cruise downtown, or go to Eastridge Mall, a flash of something funny and tragic and slightly pathetic pierces me. I think it’s my youth.<br />
<br />
And there’s a new note to these feelings. Casper’s always had an element of terrestrial and social grit to it, thanks largely to wind and energy jobs respectively, but a more malicious edge is evident now. Tough-looking dudes in black baseball caps lurk in every restaurant, and huge, loud diesel pickups are everywhere. I’ve never thought cops have an easy job, but in Casper it must be especially awful.<br />
<br />
We spent the night at a hotel on the east side of town, had breakfast, watched my nephew swim and got Vicki on Facebook, and then it was time to head out. After lunch at Hardee’s (another old haunt), we were finally on our way to Worland. That’s not a particularly pretty drive unless you like high deserts and gas wells. <br />
<br />
At Shoshoni, however, the drive does get nice as you turn north and head into Wind River Canyon. That place blows my mind every time. <br />
<br />
We rolled into Worland around 2:30, far too early for the 4:00 check in, so we scoped the Worland Community Center (formerly Worland High) and decided to set up camp on the old football field. It was broiling hot – somewhere in the upper 90’s – and once the tent was up, we headed back inside, where other cyclists trickled in. <br />
<br />
Registration was easy: you went to a table and found a bag with your name on it. Inside the bag were some maps, wristbands if you bought meal plans, a t-shirt, and a jersey if you bought one. In February, when I’d first registered, I purchased an extra large because I’d heard that bike jerseys fit notoriously snugly. I’d since lost 10 pounds or so, or at least shifted some fat to muscle, and the extra large was going to look like a parasail. One of the Tour volunteers very kindly let me trade down a size. <br />
<br />
At that point we had some time to kill, so Kathryn took off in the car to find wireless somewhere – anywhere – in town, and I just hung around inside the building. A few hours later Kathryn returned, having successfully parked in front of the public library and borrowed their wireless, and then it was time for an orientation session. All 400 of us crammed into the old, non-air conditioned gym, and after some safety instructions and demonstrations, we were done for the night. <br />
<br />
The meal plan didn’t include dinner on that first night, so Kathryn and I went to Arby’s. As the sun set lower, it was finally starting to cool off on the field, so we hung around the tent. Night finally arrived. We left the rainfly off, enjoying the stars and a huge moon, and I had one of the most restless nights of my life.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G9e2RPKtPKQ/TirgX9YddvI/AAAAAAAAABU/xqs0wKJZhqg/s1600/tdw+worland+camp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G9e2RPKtPKQ/TirgX9YddvI/AAAAAAAAABU/xqs0wKJZhqg/s320/tdw+worland+camp.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MdCOGcEW7Mg/TirgrdAJKMI/AAAAAAAAABY/mrWiwn_1fP0/s1600/tdw+worland+camp+sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MdCOGcEW7Mg/TirgrdAJKMI/AAAAAAAAABY/mrWiwn_1fP0/s320/tdw+worland+camp+sunset.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-4159360896966819932011-07-22T12:12:00.002-06:002011-07-22T12:12:58.817-06:00The Tour de Wyoming - TrainingOnce I was officially registered, I started researching and thinking about training. The same Tour veteran friend said that if I could pedal up to Bruce’s, I could do the Tour. Bruce’s is a parking area at the top of Sinks Canyon, seven miles beyond and 2,000 feet above town, and I remember the first time I saw cyclists up there. At the time I’d thought to myself, “You crazy &%*ers.”<br />
<br />
So one training goal would be Bruce’s. Another would be the Baldwin Creek – Squaw Creek loop, a hilly rural stretch 10 miles west of town. The ultimate training session would be to Bruce’s and then climb another 1,000 feet on the switchbacks above Bruce’s for a total elevation gain of 3,000 feet from town. Throw in some longer rides on local highways and I’d have both the climbing and the endurance training I’d need. The way I figured it, if I could climb 3,000 feet and still not be good enough for the Tour, then good for the Tour. <br />
<br />
By March I was chomping at the bit to ride. My first ride of the year, four miles or so up the canyon, was a blustery, slushy affair. I’d turned around, discouraged and cold. By late March I’d tried the Baldwin Creek loop, and although the weather was warmer, the ride was brutal. I was out of shape, certainly, but the bike itself was cumbersome and particularly unstable on steep descents. <br />
<br />
So on April 1, I bought a new road bike, relegating my 10 year old REI hybrid to in-town errands. The new bike, a Giant Defy, felt nimble. You know how some cars just feel like they want to go fast? That’s what this bike felt like. <br />
<br />
On weekends, then, I’d ride the loop or the canyon and I gradually improved my fitness. <br />
<br />
I’d planned on serious training once school got out, but then I was convinced to teach summer school. It was great money but I’ll never do it again; it gobbled up June and thus ate into training. Oh sure, I was still putting in some good rides on weekends and riding the loop almost every morning, but I couldn’t easily do 3 or 4 hour rides. <br />
<br />
That’s what I told myself, anyway. The reality is that I was home by 2:15 every day and although I took some afternoon rides, I should have taken many more., and the rides I did take should have been longer. My training definitely prepared my legs and lungs, but it did very little for my heat tolerance. More on that later. <br />
<br />
By mid-June I’d made it to Bruce’s. Some of that road is 6 or maybe even 7% grade, and it smoked me. I had to take breaks every 100 yards or so, but I made it. I remember sitting on a rock at Bruce’s, chewing a Cliff bar and thinking that I’d officially become one of the crazy $&#*ers. <br />
<br />
One Saturday in early July, the Tour veteran friend and I rode up to Bruce’s and then up the switchbacks. According to me, I was ready. <br />
<br />
According to me.Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-85967496017782018642011-07-22T12:10:00.001-06:002011-07-22T12:11:54.981-06:00The Tour de Wyoming - Introduction<link href="file://localhost/Users/paulcprimrose/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <link href="file://localhost/Users/paulcprimrose/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_themedata.xml" rel="themeData"></link> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The Tour de Wyoming, or just “the Tour” for short, is an annual 6-day bike ride in Wyoming. The route changes yearly, and it isn’t strictly limited to Wyoming; routes often dip into neighboring states. It averages somewhere around 300 miles, meaning that it’s basically five or six 50 mile rides. Some days are shorter than others, but what those days lack in distance they make up for in elevation. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I’d heard about the Tour for years but didn’t get serious until last summer, when I began thinking about some sort of extended bike tour. Cheyenne to St. Louis seemed (and still seems) eminently feasible, but it would take too many weeks out of my precious summer. During the course of researching that route, I stumbled across the Tour website, and I was hooked immediately. It was local, it was only six days, and heck, the pictures showed people having fun. I began researching the Tour in earnest. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Now, the Tour has been steadily growing in popularity since its official inception 15 years ago. I believe the Tour’s organizer, a very cool Laramie woman named Amber Travsky, did some unofficial, personal tours on her own before creating an organized ride. As legend has it, what started as a small group of friends eventually grew to one of the best-kept bicycle secrets in the nation. It’s now to the point where participants are chosen by lottery, and Tour veterans seems to resent its popularity. Hell, I feel guilty just writing about it on a blog that no one reads. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The lottery was held in February and I wasn’t selected. A Lander friend and Tour veteran, however, let me in on a secret that won’t be revealed here. It was all above-board with no strings pulled, and it got me in. At that point, I was committed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">A note here about commitment. Anyone can commit to something like the Tour in February; you’ll be huddled around a pitcher with a group of friends in the Lander Bar, commiserating about winter, dreaming up summer schemes. Suddenly a friend will say something like, “You can totally do the Tour. I’ve done it a few times and it’s really not that bad.” Having no frame of reference for what your friend considers “not that bad,” you say to yourself, “Yes. Yes. I’ll successfully ride the Tour de Wyoming.” And thus you commit to something that may, in fact, be way the hell out of your league.</span></div>Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-76908982546332860412011-07-12T10:18:00.000-06:002011-07-12T10:18:15.018-06:00On Teaching Seniors, Part 2<link href="file://localhost/Users/paulcprimrose/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <link href="file://localhost/Users/paulcprimrose/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_themedata.xml" rel="themeData"></link> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It’s the height of summer, and that means morning and evening tours of my garden, biking whenever possible, and thinking about how to improve my teaching. The garden’s fine: tomatoes coming along nicely after a poor attempt at trenching, peppers growing at an alarming rate, cukes finally starting to climb the trellis. The biking, too, is progressing: I’m in the Tour de Wyoming this summer and on Saturday, a friend and I biked from town up to Frye Lake. That’s literally uphill for 16 miles and 3,000 feet of elevation.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The thinking about teaching bit? Yeah. That’s complicated. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I’ll start by saying that all the systemic reform in the world doesn’t matter if the teacher isn’t willing to change. For intensely reflective people like me, change isn’t a problem. Teaching is either the ideal career for perfectionists, or it’s a nightmare. Teaching forces you to be creative and constantly reinvent your art, but that means you never get it exactly right. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And the kicker is that you never <i>will</i> get it exactly right. You reach 100+ students in a year, and there’s simply no way your class will live up to every student’s expectations. This is especially true in AP. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And here we delve into some sensitive stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">For some reason, and I don’t know why this is so, I’m particularly irritated by know-it-alls. Oh, I have some ideas about why intellectual snobbery sends my Rage-O-Meter up a few tics, but I’ve been thinking about this since my undergrad days at Illinois, 16 years ago now, when fellow students literally peered over their John Lennon specs at me in literature classes, parroting some crap they’d read elsewhere but not actually thinking about the text in question. So far the only conclusion I’ve arrived at is that pretense is, at its core, an expression of power. Some people feel better when they demonstrate that they’re smarter than the other people in the room. Why people choose to express power in this way is beyond me, and I’ve met plenty of folks who most certainly are smarter than other people in the room but don’t use their intellect as an instrument of power. My friend Chris comes to mind, as does my father-in-law.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Advanced Placement classes draw the know-it-alls. The vast majority of students aren’t like this, and some graduating classes don’t have any. I’d put them at about 1% of the population. However, if they exist anywhere, you’ll find them in AP. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The course evaluations for my AP classes arrived yesterday, and some of the comments were particularly snotty. Now, the structure of the evaluation required students to provide specific feedback about how to improve the class, and some of those ideas were valid and truly helpful. Some of it I saw coming from miles – or in this case, months – away. Clearly, my students want me to lay off the netbooks, and I couldn’t blame them one little bit, although I maintain that everyone’s attitudes toward the paperless classroom would change for the better if we’d been on Macbooks instead of $300 netbooks. But I digress. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The overwhelming feedback on the evaluations was positive, and of course that made me feel good. But lordy, I can’t let go of the small percentage of snotty comments. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I wonder if this has to do with students being told all their lives that they’re awesome, that their writing is wonderful, that they’re brilliant at everything they do. I wonder too how much of this is on me, how much on the student, how much on systemic flaws in public education, how much on home cultures that privilege being smarter than everyone else; that enable snobbery. (For what it’s worth, <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/07/how-to-land-your-kid-in-therapy/8555/">this article</a> addresses these points in ways that I’ve suspected but couldn’t put into words.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Biking to the hardware store yesterday, I realized a little perspective was in order. Children are parents’ most valuable possession. <i>Of course</i> parents want their kids to receive the best education possible, and <i>of course</i> it’s incumbent upon me to ensure that happens. And of course my class evaluations are going to reflect dissatisfaction – no class can be all things to all students, remember, and let’s not forget that we’re dealing with young adults here. Their brains have literally not yet fully formed. I’ve come to realize that teens take their shots where they can get ‘em. Course evaluations are the equivalent of open season permits.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And that, I think, is why teaching seniors is such a challenge. They don’t know what they don’t know; they’re forced into significant decisions at a young age; they’ve been led to believe that education is a product rather than a practice. And what do consumers do when a product doesn’t live up to expectations? They complain. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Seniors, then, need reassurance, guidance, and support. I make no apologies for taking class time to discuss those anxieties that manifest in strange ways in October or so, when friendships fray and students frequently burst into tears during one-on-one conferences in the hall. Sure, we’ll talk about their APA research papers, but we’ll also talk about why the college application process is so stressful. I firmly believe that everything that happens in a high school building is curriculum, and I therefore try hard to keep my politics and religion out of my teaching, but I think discussing the realities of life after high school is entirely valid. Yes, sometimes I give college advice ad nauseum and bore some kids to tears. But as long as I’m teaching seniors, I’m going to provide them with a framework for dealing with What Happens Next. If some students would rather discuss courtly romance etiquette and thus demonstrate their awesome Renaissance knowledge, well, that’s not what the majority of AP students need. Not at this school anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Ultimately, once these seniors leave high school, parents’ and students’ focus shifts away from me and my class anyway. Maybe some know-it-alls will have epiphanies in college that convince them to stop expressing power in hurtful, self-aggrandizing ways. Maybe some will realize that they’ve been transparent all along, revealing insecurity rather than insight.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Or maybe not; maybe they’ll get smoked by professors who simply don’t care about their relationships with students. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Regardless, I’m going to make it a point this year to ask students what they need from AP and LA 12. That’s harder in AP for various reasons, but it is reasonable and feasible. I’m also searching for the magic bullet solution to parent contacts. I hate telephones and suspect that a lot of parents would prefer email anyway. I used to do email updates to parents who’d opted in, so I might tweak that and make them mandatory – let folks just delete the thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Meh. There’s a solution here somewhere. Just gotta find it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It’s a gorgeous morning out here on the porch. Rigby’s curled up on the couch, the cat’s wandering around here someplace, and we’re all catching some lovely breezes. I’m still trying to recover from last night’s show; the band played over in Riverton and we didn’t get home until 12:30. Our trombone player is leaving, which is a bummer, and last night was his farewell gig. As for whether or not teachers should be in bars playing funk music, well, that’s for another post. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Onward. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-82773202468087288922011-05-05T17:45:00.003-06:002011-05-05T21:13:24.055-06:00On Teaching Seniors, Part 1I thought I'd update my blog. Because, you know, it's been months and months.<br />
<br />
The school year is ending, and that means a few things. First and most importantly, it means reflecting on the year's successes and failures. Which assignments worked? Which failed? Which adequately engaged and challenged students? Most importantly, which assignments truly prepared students for the realities of post-high school reading and writing?<br />
<br />
Second, it means witnessing the exhilaration of graduation day. As I tell my students, I'm not excited for graduation because I want them out of my life, but because I'm excited to see how they turn out.<br />
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Third, it means my Facebook friends list will soon grow. I never "friend" students or discuss politics or religion until the day after they graduate, at which point it's all fair game. I really get a kick out of former students' Facebook posts, and I find myself reposting Internet gems from them all the time. The Honey Badger comes to mind.<br />
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Fourth, it means I can pay more attention to my garden soon. But that's for another post.<br />
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Seniors are, systemically speaking, odd ducks. The battery of standardized testing occurs during the junior year, so the senior year is (or should be) about transitioning students out of high school. The curriculum, therefore, must be truly preparatory in nature. In AP English, this is straightforward despite the myriad agendas and requirements influencing the syllabus. State standards, district standards, AP College Board, CWC's concurrent enrollment program, parent expectations, and yours truly all have agendas - mostly reasonable - that filter into the class design. Regardless, we all have the same goal: replicate the college freshman composition and literature experience as closely as possible. After all, the vast majority of my AP students take the class for college credit, not in preparation for the AP exam. AP English, therefore, is about college, pure and simple. And I'm awfully proud to hear former students tell me they're blowing the doors off of their Honors English classes at UW.<br />
<br />
Language Arts 12, however, is a different beast. Students enrolled in this class want to graduate from high school, and often, that's about the extent of their goal. A sizable percentage are heading to college but certainly not all of them. What's more, previous years' LA 12 curricula did not emphasize writing. When I taught it for the first time two years ago, using the district-approved curriculum, I was floored at how much we relied on worksheets - worksheets! - as a means of learning. And the state-mandated Body of Evidence papers were, I promise you, not up to college writing standards.<br />
<br />
In fairness, parents, teachers, and administrators recognized the problem and wanted change, and as a result, yours truly was asked to rewrite the LA 12 curriculum for this year (I didn't teach LA 12 last year). My emphasis has been on relevant, post-high school writing. We wrote an APA research paper, three different literature analyses, a persuasive essay, worked on email etiquette, and the list goes on. The goal at all times was to ensure my students had exposure to "real world" writing requirements, especially if they were heading to college.<br />
<br />
And therein lies the challenge.<br />
<br />
Part of the larger discourse in Fremont County School District 1 right now is our students' rate of enrollment in "remedial" classes at college. A certain percentage of our students either wind up in remedial classes or never graduate from college at all, and the working assumption is that our school's curriculum - and by implication, my class - is not rigorous enough.<br />
<br />
Well, shnookums, I take that accusation personally.<br />
<br />
A few months ago I contacted the University of Wyoming in an effort to begin parsing this out; I wanted to figure out what specific skills our students needed and change the curriculum, not to mention my instruction, accordingly. As nice as they were, I didn't get very far. UW couldn't even give me a working definition of "remedial" classes. I have yet to contact community colleges, and when I do, I'll be curious to find out how they define "remedial." I don't use quotes here because I doubt the existence of such classes . . . I only question the meaning of the data.<br />
<br />
Such numbers don't address two broad points: first, a student can pass my class with a 59.6% and then be accepted into college (probably not Yale, but certainly into a community college). A bloody awful percentage like that in either AP or LA 12 represents many things, a poor work ethic being near the top of the list. It's either that, or a well-entrenched attitude of "I don't care about this class." And then, a year later, after the student enrolls in community college . . . he struggles because he didn't care and didn't pay attention. So I question how much of this is curriculum and instruction, and how much is student motivation.<br />
<br />
The second broad point is that enrollment in remedial classes is a lagging indicator, and a darn sketchy one at that. Do our students struggle solely in writing classes, or do they struggle in all content areas? Are these the students who <strike>partied</strike> made poor choices in high school and are now making poor choices in college?<br />
<br />
I can see how filling out worksheets would not have prepared our students for success. My concern is simply that, as we investigate the "remedial class" issue, we take all factors into account.<br />
<br />
And with that, I'm outta here. I've been honored by an invitation to the FFA banquet tonight, and Kathryn's finishing up some last-minute assignments before she - hallelujah! - walks in Laramie this weekend for her MBA.<br />
<br />
Onward!Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-73490669191300882412010-10-26T21:21:00.002-06:002010-10-26T21:21:55.379-06:00Why Primrose Hates Phones<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">We ate at 6:00 every night. My dad and stepmom both worked at the Wyoming Medical Center in Casper, and unless Dad had a screwy shift, he was usually home by 5:15 or so. We always left him alone for a bit while my stepmom cooked dinner - he needed time to decompress after working in the ER. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A house with three boys is a chaotic place, but dinnertime was absolutely sacred. No eating in front of the TV. No radio in the background. No grabbing your plate and heading off to your room. We all ate dinner at the kitchen table, held reasonable conversation, did the dishes, and then moved on with our lives. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, don't imagine <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leave It to Beaver</i> or an overly stern, hear-a-pin-drop atmosphere, because that's not the case. We held heated political debates, talked about the Broncos, and always made sure to compliment my stepmom's cooking. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But one thing would bring conversation to a screeching halt. The table would go from lively and bright to deadly in less than a second. Someone could be in mid-sentence, about to reveal some inner truth about Elway's passing ability, only to have the wisdom rendered utterly moot . . . by the telephone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When the phone rang during dinner, Dad's face would fall. It was anger, yes, but I realize now there was sadness there, too. My brothers and I would invariably glance at each other, wondering which idiot friend of ours violated Rule #1: No calls between 6 and 6:30, ever, for any reason, even if it's about a girl. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> made us think to ourselves, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh God, please don't be a girl calling.</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dad was brutal. Just mean. It didn't matter who it was - wrong numbers, best friends in grave peril, charity for three legged cat shelters, all were treated with equal disdain. Calling our place during dinner had to be one of the most awkward experiences of your life in the 1980s, up to and including velcro shoes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, in fairness, when Dad was in a good mood, he'd just toy with the caller for a while before handing the phone over to one of us, smirking. And as he's aged, he's changed his tune a bit. These days he's practically friendly with random callers - I think he enjoys stringing along telemarketers just to see how long they'll stay on the line <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">after</i> they realize they're not going to make the sale. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So now, when I think about calling students' homes in the evening, I think about how my dad used to react and I wonder: Am I that caller, ruining someone's dinner? What domestic traditions am I interrupting? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I've been a better writer than speaker since childhood, so when possible, I'll stick to what I know. </div><!--EndFragment-->Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-29854025066310113102010-10-10T17:44:00.002-06:002010-10-10T21:24:25.037-06:00And Now a Little Something for AP<div class="MsoNormal">It is so utterly pointless to say anything about how long it's been since I've posted here that I'll refrain from doing so, mostly. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
It's been a productive day, and as I take a break from writing up my next AP unit, it occurs to me that my students are probably stressing a little bit about this APA research paper. Rightfully so, to some degree, but sitting here on my porch I'm reminded of a story from my Phoenix days.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Oh, my Phoenix days. Post-Champaign, pre-Seattle. Definitely a lost year. Phoenix is a city without a soul, and living there bothered me a great deal. How I got there in the first place is a story for another post, Dear Reader. For now, what's important is insight from a guy named Jim.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
My second job in Phoenix* was slinging lattes for the Scottsdale elite. Tucked into a strip mall on Hayden Road, Java City is no longer operational in the Phoenix metro area, but you've probably seen the kind of place I'm talking about: smallish cafe and bakery chain, catering to the stay-at-home middle to upper class types. If I sound bitter, it's because my customers could be nice, had they chosen, but were usually snotty.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
A few doors down in the strip mall, a crafty Bostonian and former flight instructor named Jim opened a lobster business. Replete with Red Sox cap and "pahk yah cah" accent, Jim's entrepreneurial spirit found him peddling live lobsters to uppity Phoenix foodies at roughly a zillion dollars per pound. His store was furnished with exactly five pieces: two enormous lobster tanks, a rickety table, a stool, and a cash register. How Jim went from Boston flight instructor to Scottsdale lobster wrangler was never clear.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
One day Jim and I ran into each other in the shared alley behind our stores. I was breaking down boxes and he'd just finished unloading a shipment of lobsters from the airport. I'd had yet another stressful day - spills, snippy customers, rude, Porsche-driving high school kids, etc. I must have said something about losing my mind.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
"Paulie," he said, "let me tell you something I used to tell rookie pilots about losing your mind."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
This should be good, I thought to myself.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
"The first thing I used to tell pilots to do, when they lost control of the aircraft, was to set their watch to the clock on the instrument panel."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ooookaaaay, I thought to myself . . . because, you know, when you're in a tailspin at 14,000 feet, it's important to know the precise time of impact.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
"And do you know <i>why</i> I would tell them to do that?"</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
"No idea."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
"Because it gave them at least a little control. It gave them something to go on." </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I must have looked confused, because he continued.<br />
<br />
"Whenever your world is caving in (whenevah yah wahld is cavin' in. . . ), you need something to cling to. Start with whatever you can. In a pilot's case, it's setting a watch. In your case, I dunno, maybe sweep the floor or something. Find something you can control, and control it. But whatever you do . . . <i>do</i>."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
The cynic in me was speechless for a minute, no small feat when I was 24 and angry at the world. But you know, Jim was and remains absolutely right.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
AP students, as we head into what will likely be a stressful unit, I encourage you to remember Jim's advice. When your lives get stressful, take action, however small, on that which you can control. You cannot write an 8 page APA research paper in one night. You can, however, spend 15 minutes trying to track down a source or two. You cannot reasonably expect to understand every nuance of APA style by checking a website in one sitting. . . but you can check how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> citation should work in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> particular instance.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Alrighty. It's been a looooong day of staring at the computer, and I'm cooked. Sorry I didn't get the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do It the Hard Way</i> essays graded. That should happen this week. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Onward!</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>-------------- </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">*My first job is also a story for another post.</div>Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-66069775655368095252010-02-15T14:11:00.000-07:002010-02-15T14:11:02.999-07:00On the off chance that people still check this blog. . .It's been almost a month since I last checked in, so I thought I'd summarize our lives:<br />
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Wake up. Shower. Attend work. Return home. Eat. Study. Sleep.<br />
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Repeat ad nauseum.<br />
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Kathryn has it much worse than I do, but we're both pretty much hermits this semester. The good news on my front is that we're in the "literature" semester of AP, which is my stronger suit, and we're having a good time in LA 9 and Honors 11 as well (as far as I can tell, anyway).<br />
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Meanwhile, my two classes are interesting. I'm always astonished at grad classes . . . to be honest, after my undergrad stint at Wyoming I was used to being one of the smartest people in the room on a regular basis. Grad school? Not so much. There are some wicked smart people out there.<br />
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We have the day off and so far I've spent a few hours grading and several hours playing online games. Kathryn has pretty much studied the entire time. Yikes.<br />
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Onward!Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-62099730415836912352010-01-17T09:04:00.001-07:002010-01-17T09:06:45.655-07:00Why 9th Grade Will Be Better This SemesterI don't have much say in which classes I teach on a yearly basis, but I did volunteer to take a few sections of Language Arts 9 this year. LA 9 is just as challenging as you might think; it asks for solid grammar chops; it requires clever lessons in order to keep students engaged; it demands infinite patience for reasons that should be obvious.<br />
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Keep in mind I was awarded a cool grant at the beginning of the year that resulted in a class set of netbooks. The paperless classroom has always been a professional goal of mine, so we spent the first semester test driving various web technologies like blogs, online word processors, and we even did a little web design. These skills are mostly useful in today's world and jived nicely with a district initiative concerning 21st century skills.<br />
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They were not, however, always relevant to the English classroom. Worse, I didn't always assess in meaningful ways, and worse than that, my online grade book didn't reflect the realities of our hard work. Perhaps worst of all, I tried a new grading scale that resulted in very few points available (not to mention displayed in the book).<br />
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Now if this sounds like typical (if routine) self-flagellation, I'll admit that I'm my worst critic. However, I'm also pretty disappointed in how LA 9 went this semester, especially considering how much fun I've had with that class in the past.<br />
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So after tomorrow's professional development, Tuesday brings changes to E 203. I've never been a fan of workbook learnin', but as with all content areas, some language arts components simply require memorization and repetition. Therefore, my LA 9 students can expect old fashioned pen-and-paper assignments. Does this mean worksheets? Yes, but they'll be tailored worksheets, and I assure you my worksheets are hilarious in a dorky English teacher kind of way.<br />
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We begin with <i>Much Ado About </i><i>Nothing</i> and prefixes. Onward!Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-38436703697949354612010-01-07T19:20:00.000-07:002010-01-07T19:20:39.947-07:00stuff and stuffBack at it. This last week before finals is always a little sketchy, and I get really tired right about this time every year. That exhaustion shows up in weird places - forgetting people's names; forgetting whether or not I fed the cat; writing poorly. You name it.<br />
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In other news, it's cold out and I'm daydreaming about camping and fishing.<br />
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Semester 2, where are you?Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-78688761188627520122009-12-31T15:59:00.001-07:002009-12-31T16:12:07.194-07:00New Year's Eve: A ReminiscenceI know I've done this before on another blog, but for the record here's a catalog of how I've spent New Year's Eves, going back as far as I can remember.<br />
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95/96 - Champaign. Began the night in Murphy's Pub, ended in my crappy little one-room apartment.<br />
96/97 - Tempe. Matt Scholz and I scoured secondhand stores for polyester '70s outfits. Partied on Mill Ave.<br />
97/98 - Living in Seattle, but spent New Year's in Portland. Made out with a complete stranger on the street.<br />
98/99 - Seattle. Standing near the Space Needle when the new year turned.<br />
99/00 - Tucson. The details are too embarrassing (and hazy) to disclose publicly.<br />
00/01 - Lexington. Hosted a party at my apartment for some Amazonians. Truly pathetic, even by Amazon manager standards.<br />
01/02 - Living in Lexington, partied in Louisville. Louisville, if you're not aware, is a really cool town.<br />
02/03 - Lexington. Hung out at a coworker's house. Was a jerk to my girlfriend.<br />
03/04 - Edwardsville. Fell asleep at 10. Slept through the new year. Wheee.<br />
04/05 - Laramie. Had returned from Lander after an unfortunate sledding accident in Sinks Canyon left me in remarkable pain. Watched ball drop in my dorm room.<br />
05/06 - Denver. Jenn and Phil's. Good times!<br />
06/07 - Denver. Jenn and Phil's. Good times! Again!<br />
07/08 - Lander. Played Wii at Chad and Melissa's.<br />
08/09 - Denver. Jenn and Phil's. Good times! Again again!Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-23532416206647713962009-12-12T20:43:00.000-07:002009-12-12T20:43:17.496-07:00The Day We Would Like to Forget By TomorrowLander reached well into the negative 30's earlier this week, and on Tuesday (having missed Monday as my last mandated recovery-from-pneumonia day) I went outside to start my truck about 10 minutes before I left for school. That's the routine: when it's really cold I start the truck early - not to warm the cab but to give the motor a fighting chance.<br />
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So I went out and it was frigid, the kind of cold that doesn't feel too bad for the first ten second or so, but which suddenly pierces you. Normally the truck doesn't like to start in this kind of weather, though it does start. Let me repeat that: the truck always starts. Without fail, my '99 Toyota Tacoma will turn over regardless of weather. Sure, it moans and sometimes requires multiple tries and a little sweet talk, but it always starts. The sun will rise tomorrow, the Lions will not win the Super Bowl, and my truck will start.<br />
<br />
But on Tuesday the truck wouldn't start. Sputtered once or twice but didn't turn over.<br />
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<i>Hmm</i>, I thought to myself. <i>That's odd. Hopefully the Subaru starts or we're truly hosed</i>.<br />
<br />
So, I trudged back inside, grabbed the Subaru key, and returned to Dante's 9th circle. I should note here that while the Tacoma's always been left to its own devices, we thought we'd treat the Outback well and keep it plugged into a block heater on subzero nights. We even bought a little timer so that we don't warm the thing all night; it's set to come on at 4:00am or so and run until 9:00am, which should give the heater plenty of time.<br />
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But the Outback wouldn't start. Wouldn't even turn over. I sat for a moment, my breath puffing out in enormous clouds of vapor and my hands well beyond numb. This was one of those moments in which one's world is clarified sharply: <i>It's Very Freaking Cold, and we don't have an operational ca</i>r.<br />
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<i>Hmm</i>.<br />
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I tried it a few more times, and then something even more curious happened. The key would not turn. It would insert just fine, but it would not turn at all.<br />
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<i>Not good</i>, I thought to myself.<br />
<br />
Back inside, Kathryn informed me it was 20 below out. Okay, no problem, I've walked the mile to school in weather like this before, having set a personal record of 18 below two years ago. We formulated a plan: I'd walk to school and Kathryn would call her boss and let her know what's up. Meanwhile, we would just have to wait for the weather to warm up - say, to above zero - before trying the cars again.<br />
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The walk, however, proved colder than I'd remembered. Every inch of skin was covered except for a thin strip by my eyes, that that strip was stinging and remarkably painful within two blocks of the house. Luckily my neighbor, the school's band teacher, pulled up next to me and I jumped in.<br />
<br />
"Dude," he said, "it's 27 below. What are you doing?"<br />
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---------<br />
Throughout the week, we waited for the weather to warm up. On days when the temperature peaked in the single digits - and single digits really did feel warmer than one might imagine - I tried the truck. Still nothing. Worse, it didn't sound like a battery problem, it sounded like an electronic or firing problem. Worse still, the hood was frozen shut so I couldn't even see if anything was obviously wrong.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to today. At 11:00 this morning it was a balmy 9 degrees outside, so I went out to try again, armed with a jug of water and gloves with the right index finger missing, thanks to Rigby's mid-day snack on Thursday. I managed to get the hood up, and promptly called my brother over to see if a jumpstart would magically fix the problem. He arrived, we hooked up the wires, and. . .<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
Fast forward through two teacher friends trying to help us out: One of them gave Kathryn a ride to Napa for starter fluid while the other idled his truck next to mine, jumper cables hooked up just to ensure the battery was okay. Still nothing.<br />
<br />
Fast forward though another sharp moment in which I struggle to realize that I'm not a Sudanese refugee or Bangladeshi street urchin sniffing glue instead of eating; I am a middle class white dude whose cars are broken.<br />
<br />
Fast forward through a phone call to a towing service that agreed that I was screwed.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, the doorbell. My coworker with his '93 Mercury Sable that usually sits unused in front of his house - ours until we're squared away. Incredible.<br />
<br />
Fast forward through a trip to Riverton punctuated by a stop at the gas station (more frozen things - this time, the borrowed car's gas hatch) and McDonald's.<br />
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Fast forward to Walmart, which immediately gives me flashbacks to my college days in the Champaign store's toy department. After the first hour I begin singing, to the tune of <i>The Wheels on the Bus</i>, "This Walmart trip will never end, never end, never end. / This Walmart trip will never end - please shoot me now." Kathryn is a remarkably good sport, although we're both getting mopey.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to home. We try to replace bathroom fixtures in the basement and have major problems. We both begin to lose it.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to five minutes ago, when Kathryn yelled out the door at the neighbor's dog. Barley is a Yellow Lab and incredibly stupid, even for a Lab. His favorite trick is omnidirectional woofing with no pause.<br />
<br />
We're both ready to start over.<br />
<br />
-----------------<br />
<br />
We're not sure what we're going to do about the vehicles. Right now the plan is to get the Subaru towed, somehow, to our mechanic's place outside of town and get the Toyota towed, somehow, to the Toyota dealership because they do good work too. I don't even want to know what the damage is for either vehicle, although I will say this: Subarus are a dream to drive on snow, but maintenance costs are unreal. This is probably the last Subaru we'll own. The Tacoma? Well, it's been practically hassle-free for ten years now. If the motor's shot, I'll have a hard decision to make.Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-59601603042447807842009-12-01T15:11:00.000-07:002009-12-01T15:11:43.119-07:00The Recurring Sick Dream<div class="MsoNormal">After another eat-and-laugh-until-you-cry Thanksgiving Weekend spent in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Denver</st1:place></st1:city>, we returned home to a grateful cat and very grateful dog on Sunday evening. Monday morning arrived and with it, a cold.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, I suspected it might happen. Our adorable 6 month old niece spent the better part of Thanksgiving being a wheezing, slurping goo machine. But even with gallons of babysnot pouring out of her face, she was still adorable so we all took turns holding her. Can I really pin this illness on the kiddo? No, but children are usually to blame for my colds anyway, so it might as well be a 6 month old instead of a 16 year old. And as I always say: "When possible, blame a kid."*<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By 7<sup>th</sup> period yesterday I was in particularly bad shape. I managed to get across some instructions to my AP students, they humored me, and then we all basically took the second half of class off. 8th period was difficult, to put it mildly. Finally, I got home and crawled into bed in my clothes – didn't even bother to take off my stocking cap.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can always tell when I'm really sick (as opposed to "mansick," which we'll cover in a different post**) because I'll have The Recurring Sick Dream. And yesterday, bundled up in fleece and buried under strata of blankets, The Recurring Sick Dream came a-calling.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A touchstone of early childhood, The Recurring Sick Dream only happens when I'm in that diseased limbo between consciousness and la-la land. Set against a backdrop of bright space, it involves large piles of something indefinable shifting slowly. The piles move, in no particular direction, and the rate at which they move is somewhere between glacial and dead stop. They make a mushy sound. Interspersed in the space are tiny needles of light – my first impression is that there are many, but I'm only ever able to see one at a time. These needles emit a sound that is sterile and piercing; the sound is shapeless but deafening. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The piles and needles move through space hinting at an eternity of no relief.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It took me until I was eight or nine to realize that the piles' mushy sound is my head shifting on my pillow, that soft brushing sound you hear when the room is very, very quiet. The needles are my brain's way of dealing with the constant – though usually minor – ringing in my ears, which is undoubtedly magnified by illness.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So piles and needles haunted me from 4:00 to 5:30 or so, when I vaguely remember Kathryn trying to deal with our phone and Internet situation. She left shortly thereafter to use the library's Internet and I stumbled to the basement in search of some sort of relief – any relief at all – and definitely did not find it in Monday Night Football or old WWII footage (someone ask me sometime about my contradictory Military Channel addiction).<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This morning was an adventure in figuring out how to call in sick. I've never called in from home before; usually, I make it to school long enough to realize I definitely should not be at school. With no Internet, I was somewhat at a loss. But I figured it out, they found a sub, and I'm hoping the day in the classroom went well; I spent it asleep on the upstairs couch. Managed to finish an old Tom Clancy novel I hadn't read in 20 years, so that was cool.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I've requested a sub for tomorrow, too. Sitting here on the sofa, upright for the first time in hours, the aches are returning quickly. Not cool, niece. Not cool.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>-------- </o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">* I don't really say or believe this. But it sure sounds funny.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">** I wish I could claim coining this term, but alas, credit goes to Mary Ann.<br />
</div>Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-5600865322687081432009-11-18T21:13:00.001-07:002009-11-18T21:18:35.843-07:00Thinking Back on the 'Zon<div class="MsoNormal">In 2002 I was a low-level manager at one of Amazon.com's distribution centers. The title imprinted in my fancy-pants Amazon.com business card was Area Manager, but all that meant was that A) I was in charge of lots of people, especially during the holidays, and B) I was salaried.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>That "manager" bit is important because it allows me to retroactively rationalize being callous with so many people. Confession time, Dear Reader: we AM's used to sit around <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lexington</st1:place></st1:city> hangouts, laughing about the people we'd fired. Laughing. Some of that was because we didn't know how else to deal with the emotions. And Amazon.com in the late '90s and early '00s was definitely emotional: thrilling, exhausting, infuriating, exhilarating, and all tinged with a sense of "Holy crap, my stock options just tripled overnight." We'll save the discussion of P.E. ratios for later.</o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Mostly, however, we laughed because we were a tight group and absolutely no one – not the Operations Managers above us, not the team leads below us, not the HR lady in whose office we all had had at least one meltdown – knew what it was like, managing that many people in those circumstances for that company.</o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>We received and were responsible for acting upon well over 75 emails a day. Depending on your department ("area"), you probably had an employee not meeting production requirements and therefore had a write up looming, and you definitely had a crisis somewhere that you didn't know about. So while you had people scattered throughout the 700,000 sq. ft. building doing God-knows-what-but-probably-not-what-they're-supposed-to-be, you also had meetings and always a deadline of some sort. It never stopped.</o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>And so being an Area Manager was part cajoling, part data analysis, part grunt work, and part babysitting, and every now and then, an email from three weeks ago would result in you getting smoked by anyone from your OM up to some random MBA in Seattle (a little warehouse manager humor: Q: What does "MBA" stand for? A: "Manages By @&%"). If you somehow didn't adequately think through or respond to what was in your realm of the 'Zon utterly trivial but was a game-changer in someone else's realm, well, it wasn't pretty.</o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Education, thankfully, is not like that. Sure, sometimes I forget to disseminate an important piece of information to the department, or I'll space a meeting, or at my very worst, I'll forget that a student had provided a perfectly acceptable reason for not turning in an assignment on time, and that the lowered grade in the book is therefore entirely unfair and mean and definitely my fault.</o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>No, education is about soul, and passion for content, and being honest, and being kind to someone because they are alive and fragile and just plain deserve it – everything that was crushed out of me by the competitive, insecure shade of myself that still, occasionally, growls in the corners. Mostly I've got it tamed.</o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>This month marks the 10 year anniversary of my excursion to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">North Dakota</st1:place></st1:state> as a temporary Training Manager; it was in some ways a tryout for the managerial big leagues. I'd bought the truck just a few weeks before, having acquired an upward trajectory career at Amazon, and Shep is still running like a champ to this day, thank you very much.</o:p><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>I don't miss the 'Zon a whole lot. The place almost drove me completely and thoroughly insane, but that's a story for another post. For now let's leave it at this: my hardest, most exhausting day as a teacher is still far more glorious and rewarding than Amazon ever was, stock options, managerial salary, business cards and all. So on days like today, when I'm absent from class and find out that not all of my students were angels and that some classes clearly read my instructions and some clearly did not, I like to think back to my door desk and break-away lanyard and business cell phone and remember how happy I am to be a teacher.</o:p><br />
</div>Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-2724946889018808422009-11-11T21:26:00.001-07:002009-11-11T21:26:54.629-07:00And Now a Word About Seniors<div class="MsoNormal">The other night I was thinking about the cognitive abilities of my 9<sup>th</sup> graders, as compared to everyone else. Mostly I was trying to understand how best to teach expository writing in a way that actually matters to 14 year olds. Currently the debate in my little head is between selecting cool topics ("Boys are stupid because _____, _____, and ______") or just making transition sentences worth one million points each. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As this is my fourth year at LVHS, this graduating class was also my first group of 9<sup>th</sup> graders. I've grown up with this group; just as they've learned how to back up claims with textual evidence, I've learned that not having a lesson plan results in immediately unpleasant consequences. I plan better than I did that first year. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It's fascinating. Seniors, even the smartest of them, get weird this time of year. Friendships fray; great students start opting out of assignments for no good reason; parents report tension and moodiness far beyond their child's normal angsty levels. It's happened with every group of seniors I've ever known, whether from my first two years as Yearbook adviser, to last year's multiple sections of LA 12 and AP. Every year right around Halloween, seniors begin acting . . . oddly. It's not mutiny, exactly, although sometimes it feels like it, especially when they take cheap shots at me that they wouldn't have taken as recently as last year. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It's more like a manifestation of anxieties, and, the anxieties having multiple sources, the weirdness is omnidirectional – I may not be the specific target, but I am certainly in the path, as are parents, homework assignments, and friends.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I don't take it personally. In fact, I take it as a good sign: they're seeing beyond high school and are confronting the reality of "after." They realize that the big time looms; their scholastic career so far has been the equivalent of playing Chopsticks on a Fisher Price toy piano, and those heading to college are about to give a command performance on a Steinway concert grand. Some of them have worked hard in tough classes in order to mitigate that shock, and I like to think AP English is at the very least giving them some insight into college writing. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, I see behaviors that are contrary to success and wonder if it's because the senior is still essentially a high school kid, or if it's because he or she is letting the aforementioned weirdness surface.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">*<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don't remember too much about my senior year, 20 years ago, which is disconcerting somehow. I'm not concerned about the lack of memories, exactly – we had a screwy schedule at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Natrona</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place> because of asbestos problems at Kelly Walsh; I drove my beloved '79 VW Sirocco; I took chemistry in Mr. Stofflet's basement classroom – so the memories exist.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I'm concerned because I don't know how high school prepared me for success. I simply don't understand what transpired between graduation in 1990, and 1994, when I was writing for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Onion</i> at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">University</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Illinois</st1:placename></st1:place>, or even what transpired between 1994 and 1997, when I began working for Amazon.com. But all of that is for another post. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">*<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I don't know what to tell my seniors; how to provide guidance and assurance; how to convince them that being afraid of the "after" is normal. This has come up in AP a few times now, and students admit to feeling the excitement, dread, elation, hate, sorrow, joy, and freedom just beginning to gestate. But I don't know what to say. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sure, I stand at the podium and pontificate or hold intense one-on-ones with students (and that second one happens way more often than students would likely care to admit to each other), but ultimately those conversations strike me as informed prognostication, like reading road conditions before a trip: tell me I'm okay. Tell me I'm going to be okay. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It's late and I'm exhausted from the Pinedale trip. I'm not through with this topic, though, not even close. For now I'll settle for knowing that seniors hide emotions because they don't know what else to do with them, especially within the context of making rather important decisions.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Onward.<br />
</div>Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-58072853055497588912009-11-08T20:19:00.000-07:002009-11-08T20:19:09.145-07:00So. Tired.<div class="MsoNormal">Kathryn and I are sailing into the busiest time of lives (so far). October is often hectic at the high school, but November is crunch-time in college: UW's classes end during the second week of December, and that means writing end-of-term papers and projects in November. I have my 20 page paper and Plan B paper proposal (replete with annotated bibliography) to write, and Kathryn has a marketing plan to create for her marketing strategy and analysis class.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I suppose one could put off assignments due the second week of December until the first week of December, but that would be silly and unlike either of us.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so our weekend nights look a lot less like our undergrad days and more like our lives 30 years from now. On Saturday night we were both asleep in front of the TV by 10:30. Woooo.<br />
</div>Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5024263973225842368.post-46703310815146516522009-11-02T20:49:00.001-07:002009-11-02T21:07:21.659-07:00"Ah was runnaying!"So I get a call from Rothfuss on Saturday morning, right in the middle of a homemade tomato sauce experiment. Coincidentally, the recipe came from his wife, who's something of a culinary alchemist and has been feeding me in person and in absentia for over 15 years.<br />
<br />
Anyway, Chris was in the Phoenix airport for some reason that escapes me just now, and we briefly talked about Phoenix and the last time we were both there, which is another post for another time. Out of the blue, Chris said that he wanted to run a marathon.<br />
<br />
"You mean, like a half marathon?" I asked. I knew where this was going and my knees were suddenly on their knees, begging me not to do it.<br />
"No," he said, "like a full 26.2 miles. I want to run a marathon before I'm 40, and apparently the first step in running a marathon is telling people that you're running a marathon. You in?"<br />
<br />
And of course I said yes, because for one thing, I've wanted to do something physically challenging for a long time, just to prove that I'm capable of doing it. But beyond mere self-interest I wanted to do it because I can't think of anything cooler than running a marathon with my best friend. Well, playing Hendrix's interpretation of "Born Under a Bad Sign" on my Strat through a Marshall 100w stack with Rothfuss on drums might be cooler, but only just.<br />
<br />
Running a marathon next year means training now, and in truth, I have so far only committed to running the Lander Half Marathon. Kathryn, game soul that she is, is on board too. We begin tomorrow evening, adding .5 miles every week until we get to 13 miles.<br />
<br />
Onward!Paul Primrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11701206899452080030noreply@blogger.com1