Winter Larry's Improvisation

View from Roy's

29 April 2018

The roads were still damp from the overnight rain when I arrived in Cranbury for Winter Larry's springtime ride. He'd listed it as C+. I figured he'd wanted to keep the fast B people away; last year he wound up abandoned by his own riders and stopped leading altogether.

Given the rain, the cloudy chill, the steady northwest wind, and Bruce K's C+ ride leaving in an hour from down the road, I wasn't too surprised that nobody else showed up. 

Wanting to avoid a headwind, Larry had planned to head east. The only eastern route he has is to Battleground Orchards. It's no secret that I don't like that route. The rest stop comes too early, at 15 miles, the coffee is terrible, the food selection bad, and I'm never hungry at 15 miles anyway.

We'd head east. Larry knew of a bagel shop not far from the orchard. Right out of the gate it was clear that he was improvising. He wanted to ride on Schoolhouse because there would be more descent than ascent.

At the end of the first half, as we neared the light at Buckelew, I looked ahead and said, "You found all the hills!" Across the street a series of small rollers bumped off into the distance. Larry was going to turn right but when he saw me looking he changed his mind. "Wanna go straight?"

"Yeah!" 

So we did, and if we both hadn't been there with Tom three weeks ago we both would have been lost. Fortunately we remembered enough to know which way to turn so that we would continue east toward Englishtown. After that, Larry knew where we were and I had no clue.  I only knew that we were on Route 527 heading south.

We were climbing gradually. At the top we were next to a long, open field. On the other side, off in the distance, were two obvious hills. 

I tried to guess at what we might be seeing. The only hills I could think of out here in the flatlands were the ones near Millstone. Were we looking at the rise north of Clarksburg? I had no idea where we were.

One minute later I did. We were across Route 33 from where Kinney meets Sweetmans. We could see the mill from the intersection. "We're back on home turf," Larry said.

We turned onto Oakland Mills. Now the sun was out, the light filtering past the clouds in that way that makes every color pop.

We were facing west now, and the wind was picking up. Larry began to fall behind on the rollers. We passed Le Chatau de Ptomaine. I slowed, not sure if he wanted to stop there. "Do you want to stop here?" he asked.

"No!" I said. "It's Clarkburg!"  There was a group of cyclists sitting outside. We didn't recognize them. We moved on. "Roy's is only a few miles away," I said.

We continued along Route 524, past the Assunpink, past the Horse Park, looking at the houses and commenting on them. Larry notices every one, and he notices things I'd never pick up on, like the color of paint on a porch, or the size of a barn in the back yard. All ride long I'd been pointing out houses, as if he were on the market. I did my best to pull Larry through the wind to Roy's, four miles west of Le Chateau on the same road.

As we were turning in we saw a group leaving. While we sat outside a group from the Central Jersey Bike Club pulled in.

Roy's is the Sergeantsville of the flatlands. Roy's is the new Clarksburg.

We got talking and, after about ten minutes, the leader realized he knew Larry from way back. After that the rest of us witnessed a recounting of a who's who and where are they now. There was a brief discussion of big biking events that no longer happen, and of declining membership.

The breeze was making me cold. I hadn't worn a jacket, just arm warmers and leggings. I put my glove liners back on while we talked.

From where I was sitting I had a clear view of Route 524 and the field beyond. With proper framing and a moderate amount of zoom, I could make the road disappear, leaving two mailboxes to look as if they were standing in the middle of an open field.

We stayed put until the Central Jersey riders were ready to go. They went east, with the wind. We went north, towards the Assunpink WMA. Halfway up Imlaystown-Hightstown Road we found horses.

I'm a sucker for a horse with fuzzy feet.

To the right, a third horse stood, and, when I focused in on it, I noticed the stripes*.

Larry noticed the bird.

Then we both notices the miniature donkeys who were grazing their way toward us.

Larry was struggling on the rollers again. When I got behind him I realized that his seat was too high; his hips were rocking and they shouldn't have been. No wonder he had no oomph!

I told him what I thought right away, which might have been a bad idea. Getting this sort of information can really take the wind out of your sails because it's all you focus on for the rest of the ride.

Fortunately we were almost finished.

Larry confessed to having swapped saddles without thinking that the height from the rail to the top of the saddle might be different from what he'd removed. Now he's got a small homework assignment. The next time we see him I'm sure he'll be back to full strength.

We stood talking in the parking lot for a good 20 minutes before I finally begged off. I had to pee and buy bagels.

At home, yesterday's wide-open tulips were closed. I guess they don't open up until it's warm enough for my leggings come off.

(*I posed the question to a couple of equestrian friends, who told me that horses have a winter coat that comes in a different color than their summer one. With careful clipping, one can create stripes on a very patient horse.)

New Spring Fling

Morning fog at Tall Cedars Picnic Grove 

28 April 2018

Some Freewheelers were apparently griping about the traffic and hills around our traditional Spring Fling location, so we PFW Board members put our heads together and came up with Tall Cedars at the southeastern edge of Hamilton instead.

Tall Cedars was the starting point for Ride for McBride. The McBride family has scattered across the country, so we're not holding the ride this year. Instead, Ira let me beg for donations ahead of time and gave me permission to do more begging at the picnic.

As I drove towards Tall Cedars the morning fog got thicker and thicker. I wondered if anyone would show up Oh, sorry. I got distracted by Ken G. He posted a thing about a big Warren County hill* on the Freewheeler's Facebook and I got all map geeky. and was glad I'd grabbed a spare set of lights before I left the house.

Fog makes for good pictures. From where we were parked on the grass we could barely see the pavilion at the other end of the field, a few hundred yards away.

Ten people signed in for my ride, which was good, because with me that made 11 and I wanted to cap it at 12. There were a few regulars (Jack H, Ricky, and Chris), a few strangers, and a handful of people I only see when the going gets fast (Dave H, Phyllis G, and Bob W).

Jim, who had generously volunteered to lead a C ride so that he could spend some quality time with TEW, was looking nervous. TEW had called out sick, and Jim didn't know if he'd have anyone at all to lead.

My plan was to follow the 2016 Ride for McBride 50-mile route. I'd loaded it into my GPS but, in all the pre-ride chaos, I forgot to start the gadget. I'd written a paper cue sheet, though, and most of the J arrows from 2016 were still visible, if barely.

Eight miles in the fog was still thick. I let the group get ahead of me on Burlington Path so that I could take a few pictures.

At ten miles we turned south and the fog dissipated. At fourteen miles we had a collective strip break.

I wasn't paying much attention to our speed, just glancing down now and then. We had a slight headwind from the south. It wasn't enough to get in our way. The air was at that sweet spot between warm and cool. The ride felt fast.

When we got to New Egypt Dave asked Chris to take a picture of his GPS. His showed our average as being slightly above the maximum B limit, at 17.2 mph. A B ride isn't supposed to go over 16.9. I looked at my computer. "16.8," I said, "I'm the leader so it's mine that counts."

Jim and his crew of four or five pulled in.

Now we're geeking out on road names. The store across the parking lot from Scott's was once a bike shop. That lasted about half an hour. It was a yoga studio for about ten minutes. Now it might be something else. Or not. Anyway, about a dozen decrepit wooden doors were leaning against the place.

After I ate my cappucino peanut butter sandwich (yes, this is a thing, I took some pictures.

Dave and Chris ribbed me some more about our speed. "We'll be slower on the way back," I said. "There'll be a few hills."

And a tailwind.

I missed a turn. I zigged when I should have zagged. I didn't realize I'd missed it until we wound up back where Province Line meets 528. We'd already been there once today. We turned around and I got us back to where I'd wanted to be, which was Hill Road northbound.

During the climb out of the Walnford Mill valley some of the people who had been hanging in the back all day suddenly bounced up to the front. I had been leading; now I was chasing a third of the group.

As we passed a planned turn I called it out then said "Never mind!" We flew on into Chesterfield, over to Old York, and east on Sawmill. With one mile to go I was pushing harder than I'd planned to. "When did this become a race?" I asked Phyllis. She and I had been yo-yo-ing around each other for a few miles. Jack H and Prem were off the front.

I found out why when we turned into the gravel driveway at Tall Cedars. "I was trying to get my average up to 17," Jack explained. He didn't make it.

I looked down at my computer. "16.9. Still a B."

So that was it, my good day for the year.

After a quick de-griming I made my way down to the pavilion to stuff my face. Ira started announcing the annual listing of ride leaders and the handing out of leader jerseys. I usually get 15-17 leads in each year; 10 earns a jersey. Last year, because of our new calendar system, I listed 20.

Somehow that made me the top B ride leader. Something is wrong with the universe. I used the chance to beg for McBride scholarship donations.

There's always something amiss with the leader jerseys. Sometimes they're defective. Sometimes they don't arrive on time. Sometimes the sizes run small. And then there was today.

Carol came up to me and said she'd set aside another in case this one was too small. I'd asked for a large one because I like room to stuff stuff in the pockets. I held the jersey in front of me. It was ridiculously small. Child size small. I tried to pull it over my head; I couldn't even fit my arm in the sleeve.  Carol scurried off and came back with two more. I went into the bathroom to try them on.

Now, frequent readers of this blog will know that I have some serious body image issues. Trying on an extra large jersey and finding it too small did not help one bit. The XXL size was slightly better in that I could have gotten away with wearing it in public.  I folded and re-bagged both of them.

It's not a big deal. I have a closet full of jerseys. Carol said she'd find me the right size. I wasn't the only one. Ira had tried the sample large. It was too small. So the company sent an extra large. It was even smaller.

I'm fond of Business Bistro's Harvest Salad. I was happy enough to go home with the entire salad tray, barely touched.

When I stepped out of the car at home, I was knee-deep in tulips. They had all bloomed while we were riding.

As is customary, Moxie plopped himself down on my discarded leggings and sleeves.

Tomorrow I'm going to drive up to Cranbury. Surfing through the ride choices, I found Winter Larry hiding in the C+ category. Perfect.





(*About that hill:

.)

Bit Off a Bit Much

Route 579 at Route 523 Near Flemington,  NJ

21 April 2018

A handful of factors came together today that resulted in a herd of beat-up Slugs:

I've been doing more leg work at the gym this winter. My weight has been creeping up, which may or may not be related to the leg work and may or may not be related to my age. I didn't ride at all last weekend. The last time I was in the hills was at the end of March. I wanted to leave from somewhere other than Pennington so I chose Hopewell. I didn't have time to come up with a new route so I picked one from last year. I wanted a tough ride and extra miles.

Ricky, who, as far as any of us can tell, has never been tired on a bike, joined me and a somewhat trepidatious Jim, for an extra ten miles to Hopewell. Andrew rode in from home too. 

I feigned shock when I saw Pete had driven in. "I have no faith in the universe anymore,"I told him.

He said he wasn't up to long distance yet, and he wasn't yet into the complete exhaustion and inability to do anything else for the rest of the day that a long, hilly bike ride brings.

None of us had seen Bob N in ages. Jack H and Tom were there too. I almost asked Tom to bless us with his Holy Kickstand but I didn't.

While the guys got ready I took a picture of something stuck in a tree on the opposite end of the lot. I figured I'd be able to get a better look after uploading it at home (a flag maybe?).

We didn't have much of a warm-up before we hit the first little hills out of Hopewell.

At the bottom of Rileyville I complained that nobody was giving me any grief over my blindingly obnoxious polka-dot leggings.

For the rest of the ride they tried. In all honesty, though, they were pretty lame. 

The trouble started when we got closer to Flemington. Tom said his legs weren't cooperating. He was having a bad day. I've broken Tom before but never so early in the season. He'll get me back later, I'm sure.

The bastard hill where Route 579 climbs up from Route 523 west of Flemington finished him off. It didn't do wonders for the rest of us either. Tom stayed with us until we were almost in Frenchtown, then turned south on 519 when we turned north.

"That was almost like work," Jack said as we dismounted in Frenchtown. The Bridge Cafe was teeming with pooches when we got there.

I took a few quick pictures of the river from the deck of the cafe.

We lingered on the patio. The weather was perfect for a nap. Andrew eyed the benches across the street.

We took Horseshoe Bend to get up to the ridge again. After that we rolled up and down 519 almost to Rosemont. We passed the Sergeantsville General Store but nobody needed to stop again.

When I was getting close to 60 miles my back started to hurt. That's about when it usually happens on a hilly ride. My legs get tired, my hamstrings get tight, my posture fails a little, and I use every stop to arch my back while we wait to regroup or for a light.

Bob rode up to me on Stony Brook and said, "Some of you have ten more miles after this."

"Shut up," I sang.  "Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up!"

As we approached Hopewell Elementary, Jim said, "You know that hill on the way out?"

"Yeah."

"We can not do that again."

"It builds character."

"You know that other hill on the way back?"

"Horseshoe Bend?"

"Yeah. We can not do that again either."

"Builds character," I said.

Of all of us only Ricky didn't complain about being tired.

"Hey," I said, when we were finally back at my house. "Notice I didn't stop for pictures and make you guys wait for me?"

Ricky said, "I noticed."

So I took a picture of my neighbor's fire hydrant.

The three of us had 74 miles and about 4000 feet of elevation gain.

About those stats, Jim said, "It's a little early."

"Yeah, but the temperature is perfect, the air is clear, and there isn't much wind. Imagine if it were 20 degrees warmer. That would suck."

Head to toe, everything hurt as I wheeled Miss Piggy into the house.

I unloaded the layers I'd peeled off during the ride, took off my vest, and left everything on the bed so that I could go downstairs and stuff my face.

When I came back up, Moxie was sacked out on my clothing. He looked the way the Hill Slugs felt, only more comfortable.

Later in the day, Mojo took over clothes-sitting duties.

I went into the next room to try some stretching, and then down to dinner, where I tried my best not to eat all the things. Fearful of what the scale would say in the morning, I'm going to bed hungry.

Maybe I'll do a recovery ride in the morning, or maybe go to the gym and lift instead. It will all depend on whether or not I say "Oof!" when getting out of bed.

Embracing the Sound of Broken Glass

Wheaton Arts Glass Studio

18 April 2017

I: Sunday

I'm in a better mood this morning. The drive down to Millville starts in a mist. Eighty minutes later it's full-on raining. I enter the studio through the back door this time.

The vases along the shelf between the studio and the bleachers have been cleared away. In their place are four vessels of shiny, white glass and single-color swirls. 

I'm early so I walk around, taking pictures of the studio. One of the half-dozen glory holes stands ready.

Behind the heavy door of the furnace is the supply of clear glass:

And in the back, a black and white kitty! We're instant friends. She's so into head-butting that she tips her food bowl.

These plates had been in the annealing oven yesterday. Skitch said they'd made them for the museum.

The assortment of goblets stands where it had the day before:

Discarded glass is sorted by color. Perhaps it will be re-melted.

By the rearmost work bench is a pail of discards from a mold:

We break into our small groups again. Today we're down to three, B's wife having other plans. It's just me, B, and T with Skitch now. That means we'll all be doing something all the time today.

We're going to make vessels like the simplest one on the rear shelf, but in clear glass so that we can see what we're doing.

I find out that B is coming all the way from Morganville. That's an hour northeast of where I live, yet, somehow, it only takes him ten minutes longer to get here. I lament that there isn't anything closer to us.  B, who has his own protective sleeves, which signals a certain level of commitment, asks me, "How serious are you?"

"I don't know."

We're in the back, gathering glass.

He knows of a studio, still in deep South Jersey, but farther north than this, where he's been able to play around for $25 an hour, a little more if one wants an instructor. "I was there for four hours," he says, "and I didn't make anything."  I'm having trouble with this concept. "We just played around."

"I'm not ready to be by myself," I tell him, as I dip a rod into the molten glass. I'm still figuring out how to gather correctly. Having arm protectors and a heavy glove helps.

B makes his vessel first. It comes out looking something like an Erlenmeyer flask. Been there, done that, but smaller and lumpier.

My turn. I don't take as much glass as B did. I manage to control it on the marver table as Skitch instructs me to marver, blow, marver, and blow. Then I heat it up (it's a long bubble now) and let it hang until it's longer. With help I keep it centered and we flatten the bottom. We put a punty on and open up the other end. Here's where I mess up and make the mouth wider than I'd wanted. I hang it a little more, hoping to make the neck longer. That helps a little, but the shape is pretty much set.

"We're done," Skitch says. My flask is slightly less Erlenmeyer-y than B's. I don't much like how it came out, but at least it's almost uniform. I wanted a longer neck.

T gets a big gather. We could stand sunflowers in his vase.

Because there are only three of us we finish before the other groups. Skitch has us practice making punties. He wants us to gather the right amount of glass and marver it just so, with a perfect, pointed dome of glass at the end. At this point I'm feeling pretty confident about gathering glass. I even know which of the assorted rods are going to be hotter to the touch.

I tell Skitch I had a bad day yesterday. "I need to learn the rhythm of this," I tell him.

Lunch break. I try sitting outside, at a picnic table under a wooden roof, but it's too cold. I go back to the studio and sit up in the bleachers. Down below, a glassblower and his assistant work. Skitch sets up for the afternoon. I take pictures.

In the front furnace is black glass. Nobody has gathered from it all morning.

I'm glad for the dreariness outside. It means I have no bike envy today.

After lunch there are still more vessels to be made by the other groups, so Skitch sets us up with an assignment. He blows a bubble. One of us serves him a punty. He knocks the bubble off the pipe. The server now has the ball on the rod. He heats the ball and sits at the bench. The next person brings him a punty. And on and on it goes, the ball getting more and more misshapen with punty lumps, holes, and cracks. The goal is to keep the ball going as long as possible, serving punties from the top and sides.

We drop it. We spear it with a hot rod and punty it along. Pieces fall off. We learn how to keep it centered anyway. Eventually the thing collapses and shatters. Skitch blows another ball and we start over again. As the second ball gets full and misshapen I ask if I can keep the final product, ugly as it is. But Skitch has no mercy for the sorry-looking thing. He wants to keep it going as long as possible. "We can get a hundred on here." I don't know if we're that good.

We're not. It falls and bounces. B attempts to pick it up with a new punty. He gets it a foot above the ground and it falls again, shattering this time. We're laughing.

On to bubble number three.

Now a second group is also playing puntyball. I hear it drop. M throws up his hands in mock victory or defeat; it's hard to tell.

Meanwhile, at the bench by the furnace, a team of two has been attempting all day to clear a mold of solidified glass. The gaffer carefully blows into the mold, carefully lifts the bubble out, rounds it off at the bench, lets it cool, inspects it for extra glass, taps it off into the waste pile, and prepares another gather for the mold. They've spent the better part of the day doing this. They've made nothing but a glistening waste pile of intricately-patterned transparent spheres.

"How serious are you?"

B's question rattles around in my head.

"I didn't make a thing."

There's not much time for pondering. I'm either making a punty on the marvering table,

or heating the puntyball in the gory hole and keeping round at the bench while the next server gets ready,

or centering the punty before breaking it off my rod:

The puntyball gets warty fast:

This sad little Sputnik could have lived on my shelf next to a label: "This is a Punty Practice Ball."

Everyone has made their vessel now. There's an hour left, not enough time for each of us to make something. Instead Skitch is going to make a large cylinder out of black glass. We're going to bring him bits of glass that he'll stamp with either an antique Venetian raspberry or face. When it's finished he'll have us all sign it. "I'll ship it to you," he tells those of us who live far away. No way. I guess I'll be coming down here one more time. Once we've signed it he's going to put it in the museum as an example of what a group class can make.

The black glass, he explains, comes from an ashtray factory in France. Melting in the furnace now are twenty-two hundred pounds of black ashtrays. With his two trained assistants, Lauren and Katie, he gets to work, gathering and shaping more glass than any of us has dared balance on the end of a pipe. T gets to blow for him:

He has J, a Millenial whose parents have been watching him all day and who clearly has more talent than the rest of us, wield the propane torch to keep the bubble warm.

The glass is so hot and the paddle so new that flames leap from the paddle when Lauren holds it to the glass.

She brings him a gather of glass for a lip wrap.

The remains cool on the rod.

More flames as J is assigned the paddling.

The rest of us can only watch.

Katie turns and heats the cylinder while Skitch prepares the punty.

Now it's time to open up the other end and put a lip wrap on it.

Finally the rest of us get to do something. One by one we bring little gathers, "bits," he calls them, and let the glass drip onto the cylinder as Skitch guides it, cuts it, and pushes the excess away. Here's where the punty practice is paying off. Also, I've done this before, a long time ago in a studio far, far away in Hunterdon County.

When it's my turn, I say "raspberry." I don't want my stamp to be a face. It's too creepy.

The stamps accumulate.

It's almost ready. L, another advanced classmate who spends a lot of time at the studio, helps Lauren into a heat-proof suit that makes her look like something out of Star Wars or Doctor Who:

Or maybe Star Trek. Lauren is the High Priestess of Molten Glass.

When Skitch knocks the cylinder off the punty, Lauren is there to catch it

She hustles it away, to the back of the studio, where it will anneal forever and a day.

Class is over. I gather my stuff and head towards the back, where the assistants are talking to L. I walk past, invisible. At their feet is a gray and white cat. I follow her towards the high table where her food bowls are.

One of the senior glassblowers sees me getting friendly with Chirpy. He tells me the backstory of her and of Mona, both rescues, both free to a good home. They seem content here.

I wonder if I could be.

II: Monday

"How'd class go?" I share my office with two other technicians. The artsy one likes the lumpy flask, the off-kilter vase, and the slightly oblong ornament on the shelf above my desk. "What did you make?"

"Not much." Somewhere between the vase and the punty ball I reached another level. I'm not focusing on finished product anymore. I want to be able to control the glass, make whatever shape I'm aiming for look smooth and effortless. I try as best I can to explain what happened -- the bad day, the doomed Sputnik punty balls, my indecision. 

I give the ornament a tap. "Like, this little goober. It's not quite round." He laughs at the name. For the first time since I hung it up, I feel affection for the little goober.

Later in the day I pick up the flask for the first time in years. I have it turned good-side-out. It really is pretty bad. I think I did better with the one I made on Saturday. 

There's an email from Wheaton Arts. Our pieces will be ready on Thursday. They're thinking of letting us rent studio time at a reduced rate, whatever that means. They're offering more classes. 

I don't know. I just don't know.

III: Tuesday

"One of my clients is a glassblower," the trainer tells me. I'm at the gym, lifting weights before biking to work. 

"Where?"

"At Bucks County Community College."  Maybe it's closer to here than I thought. The college has come up before. Both times that I blew glass up in Hunterdon County, Don told me I should take a class there then come back to work with him. Both times I figured I simply wasn't good enough and was wasting his time. Both times I dismissed the idea. I have a demanding day job and enough after-school activities as it is. 

"Can you put me in touch with her?"  I ask him. "I need to figure stuff out. She'll probably get where I'm coming from. It's like I just went on a ride on a borrowed bike and now I'm trying to decide if I should buy one for real." 

In the early afternoon, still coasting on the morning's caffeine, I search for glassblowing classes at Bucks County Community College. I find one, for the fall semester, and the syllabus freaks me out. I walk away.

Later in the day I come back. I find the instructor's email address and send him a message:

Hi, K---.

I'm interested in taking your class in the fall. Maybe. 

I've done a little bit of glassblowing over the past several years. I've taken four intensive classes, two with Don Gonzalez in his studio, and two at Wheaton Arts with Skitch Manion. I now know just enough to know that I'm still not at the point where the glass isn't controlling me. I'm interested in sharpening my basic skills so that I can go back to Don or Skitch and not waste their time.

I'm not a Bucks County Community College student. I'm not interested in earning credits nor in getting a grade. Would your class be appropriate for me?

Thank you for your time.

I don't expect the answer so quickly:

I would love to have you join us. You are a little advanced for my beginning class but I think you will enjoy that class. So I recommend the intro class over the second level class. I hope to see you in the fall. 

Well, okay then. I spend the rest of the afternoon and early evening figuring out how I can do this and my day job at the same time without giving up my highly guarded exercise time (without which I am miserable). If I could choose the studio time on the same day as class, I'd only have to give up one day. To do that I'd need permission for time off. Might as well ask. I send the email before going to sleep.

I'd like to enroll in an off-campus class this fall. It's an evening class but it has a weekly studio requirement. Would it be possible for me to take half days on Wednesdays between August 22 and December 13? 

IV: Wednesday

There's a one-word answer in my in-box: 

Yes!

I can't sign up for the class unless I'm accepted as a student first. Before I leave for work I apply to Bucks County Community College. The online form asks where and when I went to high school (choosing between Bucks County and the rest of the known universe), what level of math I reached (calculus, not that I remember any of it), whether or not my last math class was more than three years ago (thirty-three years ago, but who's counting?), and what my high school GPA was (I don't know! I never knew!), and whether or not I'm applying for a degree (No! A thousand times no!). Have I had any college experience, and where? There's space to list the where, but not the what. Even if I want to, I can't tell them I have more degrees than I'll ever need.

All I want to do is blow glass. All I want to do is make the same thing, three times in a row, with confidence, and without messing up.

So now I wait.