Mother’s Day
“Wow! That was fast,” exclaimed my mom. “I didn’t expect you for another hour or two.”
I didn’t expect it to be so little time either. As it turns out, even with my detour south to the airport so I could use the bike trails instead of the streets to get out to the ‘burbs, it was only 16 miles. I’d figured it would be 20–25.
She fed me lunch, kept me there all afternoon, and I had dinner there too. (Venison. Yum!) It was after dark and had gotten cold when it came time to leave. I had my lights, but no jacket, so we tossed the bike into the trunk of the Buick, and my dad drove me home.
Mixed bag actually. It was nice of them to do that, but it means I came up 2 miles shy of 100 for the week. On the other hand, I have to go to the hospital tomorrow for an interview with the guy doing the “consolation prize” sleep therapy. Then I have to come all the way back across town to go to work. At least I won’t be hurting then.
Along the way today, I learned my niece is working as a Labatt’s Beer girl. She does promotional work, like riding on the Labatt’s float in the Lilac Festival parade yesterday, and at night she goes out to bars and awards prizes to people drinking Labatt’s Blue.
My nephew—the one growing his hair out—made high-honor roll for the year.
My brother is going to tractor-trailer training school. And after that, since there will be money left in his retraining account, he’s thinking of taking heavy equipment training.
I thought it was kinda cool and said so. He looked at me with total astonishment, saying “Thanks. You’re the first person who hasn’t put me down for the idea.” Yikes!
My mother is disappointed she was born too early, because she always wanted to operate bulldozers, earthmovers and diggers. Who knew? Yet, somehow this seems inconsistent with learning she made my dad buy her an electric-start, self-propelled, walk-behind lawnmower for the cabin in Canada. Perhaps a concession to age.
A couple of weeks ago, they thought my dad was on the way out. He wasn’t well at all. Even he didn’t think he’d make it. Blood work showed something and the nurse called and told him to immediately stop taking the lovostatin. He’s getting better and no longer talking about dying, or apartments or nursing homes.
No-one thought to call me. Then again, I haven’t called there in a while either.
My dad was drooling over the prospect, but he wouldn’t take my bike for test spin. Not sure it he was concerned over his aftermarket knee, his ticker or image. I’d already told him my knee is much, much better since I started cycling. I should have told him that they have heart-rate monitors too. Not much I can do about image though.
My sister-in-law is delighted I bought a Giant. She loves hers. My brother also has a Giant hybrid along with a Specialized mountain bike.
Apparently he commuted to work on his Giant for while. I never got around to asking why he quit. It could have been something with work or the union. He’s a member of United Auto Workers. Prior to Toyota opening a UAW-represented plant in the US, he took a lot of shit for buying one. Afterwards, the union was cool with it, but he still worked for GM.
Back to heart rate. I was astonished that my resting rate had dropped so much when they checked vitals at the sleep research center a couple of weeks ago. I thought 54 was pretty good. This afternoon, watching TV (Yeech!) it was 46 with a BP of 104/62. This cycling thing is doing something for me.
