I Hate the Wind!

My wife loves me so much that she let me buy a new road bike last month, even though my "old" road bike was still in excellent condition. I have always wanted a carbon framed bike, but they are pricey. I convinced her that I would love my road rides so much more that it would make me more pleasant at home and happier at work. I don't think she really believed any of my sales pitches, but she let me buy it anyway just because she is such an awesome wife.

I somehow thought I would be faster and happier on a new bike. To be sure I like certain things about this bike much better, but I was so used to the stiff ride of my aluminum bike that this new feel is going to take me some time to get use to. The reality is the big hills that I used to struggle to climb are just as steep, the wind that always blows from the northwest still blows as hard, and my legs seem to wear out at about the same mile markers on this bike as my old bike. So I don't know that I'm any better as a rider, but I look really cool and I get to brag to my buddies that I am riding a carbon framed bike.

I rode to Ellensburg today. First there was the stiff canyon breeze that got stronger with every mile that I got closer to Ellensburg. Then it started rainin, and then snowing, and then finally, hailing. Even my very "technical" (whatever that means) riding jacket did not offer much protection. Apparently, I was over confident because of what I paid for the darn thing. Finally, I got to Ellensburg and the weather improved--sort of. Blue skies and wind, more wind and stronger wind. I know that there are many people who ride bikes in Ellensburg, but I have no idea why. Riding in the Kittitas Valley is like riding in a wind tunnel--a very cold wind tunnel. The Kittitas Valley is absolutely breathtaking, but I was never so happy as to have that beautiful valley at my back and that omnipresent and violent wind wildly pushing me back down the Yakima River Canyon towards home.

I Hate to Run!

Okay, I scheduled myself out of the office today, with the plan to climb Mt. Jefferson. Sadly, my climbing partner, TJ Hesselgesser's Grandpa passed away Thursday and we cancelled the climb. The Shewolf is uncomfortable with me attempting any technical climbing on my own, so I decided to do something else challenging. Those who are part of my vast worldwide readership know that I hate to run. What you probably don't know is why, and how much I hate to run. I think it all started with the first time I had to run to cut weight for wrestling in high school (circa 1973). Cutting weight became an obsession for me for the next decade. The "strength to weight ratio" is a tricky thing for wrestlers. The only real effective way for wrestlers to cut weight is to run. Some weeks it meant running a lot. It's not just that I had to run, but it was the running in rubberized suits, running hungry and running thirsty that created in me a total aversion to running. Now, my oldest daughter is an accomplised runner and keeps talking about the sheer joy of endorphins when she runs. Say what?! The reality is that I have never experienced an endorphin, an endorpho or anything remotely endorpinistic. I hate running, and it hates me. So, last night as I considered the disappointment of not being able to experience a big mountain challenge, I tried to think of some other appropriate challenge to fill the void. I decided a respectable, substitute challenge would be to go on a long run.

I went out this morning and bought an IPOD nano, compatible with the Nike Plus running system. I charged the unit and loaded it with some really awesome Rock tunes (Stevie Ray Vaughn, CCR, The Doobie Brothers, etc.). I started running at about 1:00pm. I ran as hard and as long as I could. When I got to 14 miles, I started thinking that maybe I would just run a marathon. It was only another 12 miles. How much harder could another 12 miles be? Apparently, exponentially harder! Something happened at Mile Post 16. My body broke down in ways that I couldn't imagine. It wasn't just the blisters on my toes--my legs felt like lead and wouldn't move. It was really weird. I'm a wrestler--I'm used to fighting through difficult things. This was , however, something altogether more painful and oppressive than about anything I have felt before. My feet felt like they were in cement. I ran another 2 and half miles. At 8+ minute miles, I ran for 2 hours, 32 minutes, and covered 18.5 miles.

Well, someday maybe I'll run a marathon...However, the reality is that I hate running so much that I'm sure I will never really consistently train, which means that a marathon might just be a pipe dream.

If ever I actually run a marathon, I would appreciate it if members of my vast worldwide readership would not bother to tell me Oprah's marathon time. I'm not sure if my tender male ego could take it if she turned in a faster time.

Above is a picture of Lil D after one of her cross country meets last fall.

A Coconut Bra Dance Invite

As my faithful, vast worldwide readership well knows, I never exaggerate. You may rest assured that the following story is entirely accurate and would meet the Paul H. Dunn veracity test for inclusion in any Sunday talk or gospel discussion. Sheila and I were enjoying a Polynesian dinner show on the final night of our stay in Bora Bora when the hotties in coconut bras decided to get a little crazy and invite dinner guests to join them. Even though I am mostly reticent to draw attention to myself via public exhibitions of self expression, I was nevertheless silently screaming, "Pick Me! Pick Me!" Unfortunately, I was afraid of appearing a little too enthusiastic in front of my bride. The Polynesian dancer closest to us, asked some very soft looking, self-absorbed French guy with a protuberant belly who declined her invitation and instead chose to nurse his red dinner wine. She then asked another skinny and self-important Frenchman with a toucan sized beak who apparently would rather continue to suck on his entirely offensive dinner cigar as opposed to dance with a Polynesian hottie in a coconut bra. Say What?! Fortunately, I was the next closest male in the crowd. I'm sure she couldn't have missed the eager look in my face, essentially begging to be embarrassed in front of total strangers. Yes, I was chosen to dance with a Polynesian hottie in a coconut bra. Woohoo! What a way to end a most excellent trip to French Tahiti. Unfortunately, I forgot my camera, but a Japanese friend, we met on the trip, Hirofumi Nakatsuji had a camera and kindly took a picture of Sheila and I after we danced with our Polynesian friends. It's an axiom of life that if you are asked by a hottie in a coconut bra, "Would you like to dance with me?" the only acceptable answer is: "Woohoo! I'd love to!"? For the life of me, I will never figure out the French.

Above is a picture of the legendary dance troupe and our friends from Japan, the Nakatsujis.

"What am I doing?"

I wrestled in the Greco Tournament this past Friday Night in the Chehalis Triple Crown, where they wrestle Greco on Friday night, Freestyle on Saturday and Folkstyle on Sunday. This year it was a monster tournament with wrestlers from Oregon, Idaho, Washington and Alaska. We wrestled on 14 mats spread out in the main gym, upper gym, cafeteria and wrestling room. It was a nightmare trying to keep track of wrestlers and when and where they were wrestling. I have wrestled in this tournament on a number of occasions (mostly with Shea), but as the years have passed I have wondered to myself, "What am I doing?" It was late in the evening, the crowd had thinned and the only wrestlers still in the gym were wrestlers who were competing for medals. I was on the side of the mat lacing up my shoes and trying to stretch and warm up muscles and ligaments that felt more like dried out gelfite fish than living tissue when a little smart-alecky, young wrestler with dyed red hair asked with a look of total bewilderment on his face,

"What are you doing?"

"What do you mean what am I doing? I'm trying to warm up. What are you doing?"

He replied, "I'm wrestling, but what are you doing?"

"Indeed," I smiled and thought to myself.

As I continued to warm up, he persisted,"Can people who are...um...well...like you, can they still wrestle?"

"You mean can old, fat guys still wrestle?"

"Well, I didn't say old and fat. But you know, can guys like you still wrestle?"

As I reflected on how badly I had wrestled in my last match, I had to agree, his question was entirely legit.

I responded, "Not really."

"Then what are you doing?" Another excellent question. However, I was getting ticked. Couldn't this punk kid see that I was trying to get in the zone mentally and that he was messing with my mojo, so I just replied, "OK little man, why are you wrestling?"

He confidently crowed, "I'm here to win!"

"Well then that makes two of us," I replied. I then went out on the mat and beat up a young wrestler who was maybe a year out of high school and had never wrestled Greco. Did I feel bad? Heck no!

Later in the night (close to midnight), as I was getting "ash canned" in the finals by a very young, and very athletic coach from the Westside of the state, that most excellent question kept bouncing around in my head, "What AM I doing?"

$5 Lobster

Several years ago while vacationing in Costa Rica with our kids, Sheila and I had a chance to enjoy a dinner out with her brother Daryl and his wife Annie. We were at a restaurant and I ordered lobster. It was the largest, most succulent lobster I had ever eaten. After the first bite, I felt compelled to review the currency exchange rate in my head and realized that this most delicious culinary experience was not only heavenly, but cheap--dirt cheap. My lobster dinner was a mere $5. I immediately ordered two more lobsters. With some embarrassment, our waiter apologized and explained that he would have to charge me for the entire lobster dinner even though I only wanted the lobster. If you were a certified Lobster Lover and rarely ordered it because it almost always costs twice as much as everything else on the menu, what would you have done when faced with the opportunity to order three delectable lobsters for only $15? That's right...I pulled the trigger on the three crustaceans and enjoyed what has become known in the Smart Family as "Lobster Mania."

Now fast forward several years, I am in Moorea, Tahiti with Sheila celebrating our 30th wedding anniversary and enjoying a romantic evening at a little French restaurant on the water. On the menu I find myself tempted to order "Lobster Flambeau." What is served dusts the flavor and intensity of my experience in Costa Rica. The French truly know how to cook. It was buttery, yes; but there was something more, much more. Something sweet and spicy. I couldn't quite put my head around all of the flavors. Out of curiosity I inquired with the Matre d' what it would cost if I ordered just the lobster and not the rice and veggies. With some embarrassment the Matre d' apologized and explained that it would be the same $85 as the entire entre "Lobster Flambeau." Lobster Lovers what would you have done?...OK, so it wasn't "Lobster Mania" like in Costa Rica, but it was pretty amazing just the same.

In short, a single crustacean was ample. The view and the ambience were something altogether out of this world. As you can imagine, the view across the water as we dined on the bay was heavenly, but the view across the table of my most delicious bride was, well, simply celestial.

Double Down on the Wolverine Talisman

On Monday, I took a big chance. A very big chance. Shea gave me a most excellent "Wolverine" T-shirt for Father's Day. This is a very cool shirt and I only wear it on special occasions. I decided to experiment and see what wearing both the Wolverine belt and the Wolverine T-shirt might produce when I went fishing. I suspected that this would be something akin to Gandolf the Grey accepting possession of "The One Ring" in Lord of the Rings. It would be a power too awesome to consider. Well, on Monday I wore both "The Belt" and "The Shirt" fishing. Suffice it to say that I was almost magical. I landed 19 fish in total. Although I missed a lot of fish, I was still regularly hooking up big fish. I was pretty picky and kicked off a number of fish that were foul hooked, small or Chinooks (You can't keep Chinook on the Klickitat after November 1st). Nevertheless, I placed 6 fish in the cooler. Most importantly, I ended up being one fish away from filling out my catch card. A first for me. Say what you will, but I will never even think about fishing without first putting on my most excellent Wolverine Shirt (Thank You Shea!) and strapping on the Ultimate Talisman, the Wolverine Belt. Above is a picture of me with a nice Steelie hen caught on a fly rod a few years ago.

My Barefoot Contessa

The other night I came home and was overpowered by the wonderful aromas of the Shewolf's kitchen. It was thick and sweet and tangible. I could smell the garlic and the onions. Was it also cumin? Definitely, there was a sweet, smokey flavor in the air, almost like honeyed ham. You know the aroma that you experience when you walk into a ridiculously expensive restaurant. Well, it was just like that, except I was home. Okay now I am going to make all of you extremely jealous. This happens all the time when you live with and sleep in the same bed as the "The Barefoot Contessa." It was about 7:30 pm and I had worked late. I knew I was in for a real treat when I entered the garage and could smell the tale-tell delicious aromas wafting in the air. My Barefoot Contessa was no where in sight, but in the warming drawer was the most sumptuous Proscuitto wrapped Halibut with Roasted Winter Garden Vegetables (Butternut Squash, Carrots, Sweet Potatoes and Yukon Gold Potatoes). It was truly a feast. My Barefoot Contessa had been experimenting with some new recipe. No, this was not my birthday. This was not even a Sunday meal with special guests. It was just a typically Wednesday night on a day that My Barefoot Contessa was not entirely swamped with church work. It was like being in a restaurant, but way better because I get to sleep with the Executive Chef after the meal.

Every man who loves his wife, loves his wife best naked. However, barefoot is also good. Who ever coined the phrase, "Kissing don't last, but Cooking do" was a certified moron. The adage is better phrased, "Cooking rocks because it leads to Kissing!" I absolutely love coming home to the aromas and ambience that has defined My Barefoot Contessa. I had no idea what Sheila's talents were when I married her. I loved her because she was hot and fun to be with. I know, I know. It was shallow and not at all on what I should have focused, and yet somehow, deep inside I knew that I didn't need to ask any further. I found what I wanted. I felt compelled to spend every waking moment with this most delicious creature. It was like a drug, truly. Idyllically, I envisioned my future--an amazing life filled with adventure and fun and children. However, life is nothing like what I imagined pre-marriage when I was begging Sheila to marry me. We have experienced our fair share of heartache and disappointment. We have endured some very dark, crushing moments--not at all what I had envisioned pre-marriage. And yet, there have been moments so sweet and encompassing that my pre-marriage vision pales in comparison. Better, much better.

I had no idea that Sheila would develop culinary skills worthy of Stadium Kitchen. That was not part of the deal. However, it has certainly enhanced the deal. When we built this house, I really wanted Sheila to have a kitchen worthy of her skills. I think she made some really good decisions: A second prep sink, two dishwashers, two ovens, a warming drawer, two kitchen aids, a large gas range top with indoor grill, a pot filling faucet above the stove, a large walk in pantry, and lots of counter space. My Barefoot Contessa has made the most of her kitchen. My life with the genuine Barefoot Contessa is way better than anything I could have imagined as a 21 college student madly in love with a beautiful brunette co-ed. Last Wednesday night proved that in spades!

Below is the Sous Chef--Lil' D, and Grandma She She holding Baby Ally.