On the other hand, last weekend I heard 2nd or 3rd hand that an in-law has been telling people how much they like to read my diary. This can mean only one of two things: either I have an in-law who really enjoys reading my diary, or my mom is planting rumors because she likes to read my diary.
Either way, that makes me feel bad for not writing anything in months.
So, let's try the factual approach: Facebook has been an interesting experience. I signed up solely because you can't look at the site unless you sign up, and I was curious. Within a few days I not only discovered that some of my family were already on, Yankeehack found me and told me we had an IRL friend in common. (Note to YH: As you and I were chatting, our friend-in-common started IM'ing me and telling me to be nice to you because you were good people.)
And now, of course, my mom is on it too, which means I can't post anything important there.
What else? Well, I've taken all the advice I got here on the FB app I wrote and applied it as best I can. I fixed the date-handling problems with the import function, the log now handles metric and AmericanImperial units, I added ride-types, I fixed the import to be more flexible with date processing and you can now use the ride types to filter the data in your graphs. I loved adhoc's idea of integrating GPS tracks & Google maps, but that probably won't happen for a long while. If you've a mind, and you're on facebook - please give it a try and give me some more feedback!
Next step is to make the graphs completely configurable - let the user define what they want in the graph and how it should appear (within some tight limits).
What else? Eh. Work is work, grad school is done for the summer and, as of this moment, I've ridden nearly 800 miles this year.
Actually, that last reminds me of something I could share.... Over Memorial Day weekend, I went for a long ride, starting from Pottstown and heading towards Reading. Halfway there, though, I got bored of riding on the rail-trail so I cut over to 422 and started coming back. That wasn't all that exciting either so when I saw a "this way" sign, I decided to head towards Hopewell Village.
Unfortunately, however, that sign was an evil piece of misdirection - about 2 miles along, instead of coming to a lovely piece of Americana, I came to a place where a stream had washed the bridge out. I could see where the road continued on the other side.
Now, it wasn't a very wide stream - no more than 15 feet - and it didn't look very deep, because I could see the rocks on the bottom very clearly. Couldn't have possibly been more than shin deep.
So, I scrambled down the bank, bike on my back and stepped into the water.
Up to my waist.
Apparently the creek water was very, very clear....
and with a strong current, too....
Because my bike nearly went sailing away without me.
This was one of those life-defining moments, you know? Because I had two options. I could whine and squeal and scramble back the way I came, or I could laugh at my stupidity and enjoy the experience.
But, hey, I’ve made a life out of being an idiot, so I chose the second path - I forded the creek, climbed up the other bank, laughed a hearty macho laugh and jumped back on my bike and continued on....
Till I came to a sign.
That said "DANGER: BLASTING AREA! LISTEN FOR WARNING SIRENS!"
That concerned me a little, so I rode faster. And I couldn't help but notice that the road surface had been badly undercut in sections and obviously hadn't been used in several years. So I rode even faster.
Then I came to the second creek.
And the bridge was out.
(Later I found out it was the same creek - I'd just been crossing an oxbow in it.)
Two life-defining moments within 15 minutes! W00t!
At least I knew what was going to happen this time, and I crossed this one much faster than the first one.
But, this time, my hearty macho laughter was sounding a trifle strained, even to my own ears. After all, for all I knew I was deep in the middle of blasting territory.
So I rode… quite quickly, hoping that I’d cross a public road soon, and fearing that I was going to find myself at a dead end, looking at a sweaty Irishman wearing a hard hat and holding a detonator.
Instead, as the road began to look like it was going to cross the stream a third time, I found a fly fisherman. I stopped and, after looking around to ensure there were no witnesses, I asked him the best way to get back to 422.
And, honest-to-God, his jaw dropped and we had one of those "you can't get there from here" conversations, that finished with him explaining to me that I would either have to retrace my steps or continue in the direction I was going for several more miles and then loop back around the quarry that we were next to. (which was why I had been seeing those blasting signs.)
And, oh, by the way, the road back was going to take me up over the top of that there line of hills.
How badly did I not want to retrace my steps?
Pfft. In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say, so putting my hands on my hips, I gave another hearty hearty laugh and went on my way.
(The fisherman thought I was gasping for breath, but I was laughing. Really.)
And I did go away, and away, and away, and up, and up, and up. It was beautiful country, I think, but it was hard to tell because of sweat pouring down my face. Eventually I met a guy watering his plants and he told me, "Good news, bad news. The bad news is you're still 2 miles from getting back on the trail. The good news is that once you pass that stop sign, it's all down hill."
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