Feeling Sluggish

Field at Twin Pines, Pennington, NJ

25 November 2017

Once every few years I get a chance to ride with Team Social Security. Friday was that day. Bob N and I started with Tom from Tom's house so that we could get in a few extra miles. Also, it's an easier drive to Tom's than it is to Etra.

I'd chosen to take Rowlf with me. The ride would be at a C+ pace; the extra weight wouldn't be a problem. My legs were fresh, but I hadn't counted on losing some of that by having come down with a cold after Thanksgiving dinner. Receiving the news that my 13-year-old cat was in acute kidney failure and would have to be euthanized didn't help either.

Al P had close to 20 people signed in. Ira's group had another half dozen. In our mob were the TSS regulars, as well as us Slugs (including Chris and Jim), and even a B+ rider (Peter F). Somehow Al kept us all together. 

The group was a little all over the road at times, despite many of us bellowing "car back" as loud as we could. 

We took a scenic route to the Minit Stop in Jackson. 

The road names out in Monmouth County don't tend to be as interesting as the ones in northern Hunterdon County, but there are a few that sound good together. By chance, on the way back, we stopped to regroup at the corner of Back Bone Hill and Stillhouse. It sounds very Hillbilly.

Before we headed back to Tom's house I took a few pictures of the field behind the gravel lot across from Etra Lake Park.

I didn't sleep well Friday night either. Between the shivering, sweating, clogged nose, and images of a dying cat keeping me awake, I had half a mind to somehow cancel my Saturday ride first thing in the morning. I didn't; I got dressed and drank coffee instead.

Jim started with me from my house. We met Ken G and Chris at Twin Pines. Ken decided he needed to get shoe covers and rode off towards home. We said we'd meet him near his house. We were about to leave when Chris noticed a bald spot in Jim's rear tire. Worn flat after 3000 miles, the tire was showing threads in more than one place. Jim nearly turned around for home, but Chris had a spare tire with him and I convinced Jim to take it. They made quick work of the swap and we were on our way. Ken didn't mind that we'd been held up. He had time to feed his fish, which he'd forgotten to do earlier in the morning.

I wasn't feeling ambitious. I didn't have a set route in mind either. I figured we'd go to Sergeantsville.

We took Pleasant Valley-Harbourton Road.

We turned on a newly micropaved (now Slightly Less Un)Pleasant Valley, and then onto Valley, where Jim saw the cat first.

This is what a happy cat looks like:

We climbed Woodens Lane, one of Ken's favorites. There is something of a car graveyard in a driveway near the top of the hill.

And also a "roach crossing" sign next to a three-wheeled car at the edge of the same driveway.

At this point I decided that I didn't have Sergeantsville in me. The guys were okay with going to  Lambertville instead.

We visited our Mount Airy cows.

I don't know what's going on with this gal's markings. They make her eyes look enormous, like an anime drawing, or, as one of my online pals suggests, a mime. In any case, it's a little bit creepy.

With the leaves down on Alexauken Creek Road, the old stone foundation in the woods is visible again.

The road is photogenic during any season.

At Rojo's, Ken made the bold move to ask a lone cyclist if we could join him at his table. This is why Ken knows everybody. The fellow, whose name I've already forgotten, had come in from Bridgewater on a five-year-old Seven that was painted to look as if it crawled out of the 1970s. Ken, Jim, and I spent most of the time regaling the guy with descriptions of Wheelfine Imports and the iconoclastic Michael Johnson within.

When we got back to Twin Pines, Jim and Chris swapped tires again.

Jim made it back to my house without a blowout. I made it back without falling asleep.

Burnaby Brewster, Lord Spotsworthy-Snout, 14 September 2004 - 24 November 2017

24 November 2017

Three days ago he was a happy kitty in the morning. By sunset he was not. He vomited in a way that wasn't typical -- no hairball, no scarf-and-barf. He didn't jump onto Jack's lap and knead Jack's neck. He loafed next to my chair, not jumping on my lap either. He didn't want his midnight snack of dental treats, which are a big deal around here. He didn't want to clean Moxie's head.

He curled up on the bed in that way unhappy cats do. He didn't purr. He climbed under the covers with me and put his paws on my stomach, the way he always does. But he didn't knead and he didn't purr.

He didn't want his dollop of wet food in the morning. Mojo and Moxie stayed away from him. He spent the day on the bed.

We took him to the vet in the afternoon. His urine chemistry was off. One of his kidneys was enlarged. There were crystals. It might have been crystals causing a blockage. It might have been a tumor. He'd lost weight; the vet suspected a tumor.

He stayed in the hospital overnight, getting fluids and antibiotics. In the morning he got appetite stimulant and more fluid. His urine chemistry looked a little better, but the BUN and urea levels were still high. He was eating, though, and he peed and pooped, which were good signs too.

He spent another night and got another blood test. At 7:00 a.m. the vet called again. His chemistry was worse. The BUN and urea levels had gone up, and now potassium had gone up too. His kidneys were shutting down. He was not going to recover. 

Jack and I drove to the vet to be there for the euthanasia. Burnaby was out of it. He didn't give us any head-butts. He had that faraway look that cats get when it's time for them to die. I lifted him onto my shoulder and the vet gave him a sedative through his iv line. He conked within seconds, his tongue sticking out, and he died from the pentobarbatol minutes later, his tongue still out, a goof to the last.

The decision was easy. Dealing with the outcome isn't so easy.

He was the friendliest, most easy-going cat we've ever had. He was a love sponge and a fountain of affection. Even the vets had a special notation on his records: "very nice kitty."

Mojo and Moxie were closer to Burnaby than they are to each other. Moxie would follow Burnaby around and get his head cleaned. Mojo and Burnaby would tabby wrassle on the bed in the wee hours of the morning. Moxie and Mojo know something is different.

We'll all miss Burnaby, and we'll all come to terms with it.

The King of Things is dead. Long live the King of Things.

Uncontrolled Glass

21 November 2017

The pieces I made at Wheaton Arts two weeks ago arrived in the mail today.

The ornament came out less translucent than I would have liked, and I don't remember putting blue in there. The shape is good, for once. I had help.

The last piece we made was supposed to be a mug. I'm pretty sure that, in our enthusiasm, we all gathered so much glass that not one of us created anything that could be considered a mug. Mine came out the size of a small planter. I have also maintained my record of being unable to keep a vessel centered on the pipe. Here, then, is my blobby planter:

I'd wanted a pattern of color that would give the appearance of a liquid running down from the top. That completely failed; the top color was supposed to be oxidized silver. We forgot to turn up the furnace to flaming hot in order to create the oxidation. I like the colors anyway.

The piece I like the most is the paperweight. Skitch wanted us to use an opaque color for the core. I didn't want to do that. I think I chose blue for the core and red and purple for the outside; maybe it was a red core. Anyway, this was the most fun to make. Twisting and cutting hot glass is fun. I got the air bubbles by indenting the twisted glass before gathering the final, clear glass layer. The pattern looks intentional but I assure you it's not. The last thing I have is control.

This, from the Wheaton Arts Museum of American Glass, is control:

Today I brought one of the Ornaments of Resistance into my office. This is my beginner's collection of off-center pieces. I must document the atrocity: 

Initiation

November Gloomth 

19 November 2017

"We won't be stopping for cow pictures today," Tom announced as we gathered at Twin Pines for my Hill Slugs ride.

I hadn't planned a route. I'd been preoccupied at the end of the week with painting molding, doors, and windows in an empty bedroom where the floor had been refinished and John W had painted the walls and ceiling. We've been living with a third of the house crammed into the rest of our space, and now that the floors are finished it's time to move the furniture back. But until the spare bedroom is ready, nothing else can be put back. Last out, first in, and I'd emptied the bedroom last.

It wasn't cold, exactly. We've certainly gone out in much colder weather. It was cloudy, clammy, and a little breezy; 50 degrees felt like 40, and some of us had dressed for the former.

We started with 8: me, Tom, Jim, Jack H, Bob,Ricky, Andrew, and Rick the New Guy. Upon seeing an unfamiliar face, the rest of us set in to explain Sluggishness, including the banter that, to an outsider, can seem a little harsh. I mean, "Shut up. I hate you" and "Fuck you" can sound jarring until one realizes it's code for "Love ya, buddy!"

I took a circuitous route that wound generally north and east towards the eastern side of Hopewell. We were less than halfway there when Ricky's bottom bracket called it quits. He turned around.

As we made our way up Carter Road towards Hopewell, Jack and Tom tried to guess how we'd be getting over the mountain. Tom had brought his Feather, not his climbing Cannondale. When it was obvious that we'd be climbing Province Line, Tom grumbled in resignation. Why he thought I'd be easy on the middle-finger-photo instigator is beyond me. I have a reputation to uphold.

I didn't have a set route in mind. When we got to Orchard Road, which is one of two that crosses the mountain out in the open on the northern slope, I finally stopped for pictures.

 

I caught up to the rest of the group by the feasting horses. I pulled out my camera again. "Those aren't cows," Tom explained. "They're h-o-r-s-e-s."

That was all for the pictures.

We stopped at Rojo's and took two tables. I was with Jack H, Andrew, and Bob, and we talked about home renovations. Jack H is a carpenter. Andrew likes to watch YouTube videos of projects he'll never attempt. Bob is in the middle of ceding his bank account to a new bathroom.

I'm attempting, for the first time, to lay shoe molding on a newly-renovated floor. The rest of my day would be given to my first try at a miter box and then to hammering in finish nails. Andrew gave me advice. Jack H said I wouldn't need a nail gun; I wasn't about to get one anyway. The lumber, saw, and miter board set me back all of $30. I had no plans to make that $300 by buying a tool I'd use only once. Should I fail, John W would finish the job at some point.

We were yammering away when Jim approached. "We got weather," he said.

"Shit." Rain hadn't been in the forecast when I'd checked last night.

"Let's go back the quickest way possible," Tom said.

"518?" Andrew suggested.

Been there, done that in the rain. "No; let's take Rocktown. Less traffic."

"It's always and adventure on a Hill Slug ride," I explained to Rick. The usual mess includes a dirt road and a closed bridge, but rain certainly factors in.

So we went back in a cold drizzle. It never got heavy, but it never let up. Andrew peeled off when we eventually crossed 518.

Tom and I tried to figure out if Rick had passed one of the rites of initiation, and it was agreed that he'd need to be with us on a dirt road and a closed bridge first.

At the end of the ride we asked Rick if he'd want to return or to stay away from us forever. He laughed and said he'd be back.

It took hours for me to stop shivering. What finally did it was messing with the miter box. My saw was a touch to wide, and the box a touch too cheap, for the saw to move smoothly. I had four corners to cut; three of them went well. The fourth was in the least obvious corner of the room. Jack H had expounded on the miracle of grout and spackle; I could see why.

The next steps would be to put in the nails, use a setting tool to hammer them in below the surface of the wood, use spackle to cover the dent, sand, and paint over the spackle.  I decided to test my nail skills on the one piece that hadn't required any mitering and that would be partially hidden by the door.

It didn't go well. I'm much too cautious and fine-motor oriented. Rather than hit the nail with all the force I had, risking smashing the wood, I attempted to put the nail in gently. I bent it instead, halfway in. I tried again a foot away. Same thing.

Nail fail.

I texted John, admitting defeat. For now the furniture is going back into the room against the loose shoe molding. When John has time I'll pull the furniture away from the wall and let him go at it with a nail gun. I'll take care of the rest. I can work an angled brush on a small surface and cut in without hitting anything else, but, strong as I am, I'm not comfortable with brute force. So much for carpentry. I won't quit my day job.