Thursday, September 13, 2012
Photo of the Day: Mattias Fredriksson - August 29, 2012
Photo of the Day: Mattias Fredriksson - August 29, 2012
The most epic single track in Italy....snaking along the most picturesque hillside. How would that be?
The most epic single track in Italy....snaking along the most picturesque hillside. How would that be?
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Built bikes for Sale--2011 GT Karakoram 29ers XL
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| 2011 GT Karakoram 29er |
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| SRAM PG 990 Rear Cassette of the 2011 GT Karakoram with SRAM X9 Rear Derailleur--all new |
Building bikes, BIG bikes to be exact, started as a hobby of mine when I found other physical activities like basketball or running on concrete left me with sore knees the following day. I had to figure-out a way to get exercise and in the process, got hooked to how personal I could make plain frames designed to have certain parts into something of my own--color scheme, parts, and pieces. I've included some shots of the two I have for sale at the moment. And if you have come from Facebook or Twitter, I appreciate your time in taking a look. I hope you like them. If you want to ask some questions about what you see, please let me know. I'd enjoy talking about my hobby with you. Take care.tomstallbikes@gmail.com
"Allison's Uncle Tex"
"Allison's 'Uncle Tex'"
Recently, a football-related memory of high school was conjured up, thanks in-part to the passing of my 20th Reunion. And coincidentally, the NFL begins its 91st season on September 5th. But, I digress. Deeply buried within my archive of experiences-turned-memories is the one I bring up only in special occasions. Okay, I'll admit to wanting to see the facial expression of disbelief on their face after I let them in on this memory. Especially if they are a fan of our beloved Dallas Cowboys. And only then, their reaction is even better.
During the summer before leaving for college, a classmate and I became close friends. We worked at the same crappy summer job. We hung-out with the same people, but never got to know each other. On days when we didn't work, she'd call and come over. Inevitably we'd soon go someplace. Anyplace, really...She had a car and didn't seem to like to spend a single minute at home. Looking back at it, I guess she liked me well-enough to meet a relative.
One afternoon, the phone rang. I picked it up and "Allison" asked me if I wanted to go meet her "Uncle Tex" and his family up in Sunset Beach. I wasn't totally sure where that (Sunset Beach) was, but I was interested. "Sure, okay...I'll go." I didn't give it much thought, but I did wonder why she would have an Uncle Tex living in Southern California at the time. I figured Uncle Tex was a sweet, endearing nickname for a relative that most little girls liked to give such people. Of course, I immediately envisioned a tall man, cowboy hat perched high atop a balding head. Who wouldn't?
The drive up the coast was uneventful, other than the rare occurrence of non-existent traffic. A cassette tape played on the car's radio, instantly switching with an "eject" button push, going back and forth from the tape to a popular Alternative-Rock station transmitting from L.A. if a commercial came on. She was nervous, I could tell. Allison was excited to see her relatives again. I didn't know how long it had been since their last meeting, but I gathered it had been a while. "Wait until you meet him! You're gonna be so happy!" She repeated, tapping her feet on the floor board. I tried to appear as excited as she was.
An hour or so later, dusk fell as we arrived at a long row of brown-shingled vacation rental condos situated a stone's throw from acres and acres of sandy beach, reflecting late 60s, early 70s architecture at its finest. Allison parked
her small car in a visitor's space. Opening the car door revealed thick,
salty air blanketing us pushed onshore from an offshore breeze. Several
volleyball courts stretched in perfect rope rectangles appeared stacked width-wise toward the water. Crashing waves could
be heard softly in the distance. Getting out of the
car, she said, "Are you ready?" I shook my head.
Allison rang the doorbell. The sound of some rustling emanated from behind the door. Within seconds, the door opened and a little woman, Allison's "Auntie Marty," who was no bigger than Allison in size, threw her arms around the girl, resulting in a big, familial hug.
"Is that Allison?" a voice boomed from around the corner. "Uncle Tex!" Allison screamed as she ran over and duplicated the hug his wife had just given. "I want you to meet my friend, Tom." Allison turned toward me. "We went to school together." The small woman shook my hand, commenting on my grip. The voice introduced himself to me next. I shook his enormous, meaty hands with fingers the size of sausages. "Hello, I'm Tex...Nice to meet you." I thought I could detect a slight accent.
"Nice to meet you, too, sir." I replied. "Come, let's have a seat on the couch...Can I get you anything? Are you thirsty? How would like some lemonade, or some sweet tea?" Without waiting for our answer, Auntie Marty quickly returned from the kitchen with glasses of lemonade and sat down opposite us on the far couch. "Now Allison, you know who this is..." Her grandchildren sat silently next to the couple's daughter joining them for summer vacation. Allison commented on how much they had grown. All were seated flanking Uncle Tex; the patriarch, as further pleasantries exchanged.
Shortly after, I lost Allison in conversation as I occupied the couch seat next to her. I attempted to keep up, but to no avail. A neatly stacked selection of glossy football magazines sat on the coffee table a few feet away. I picked-up a copy as discreetly as possible and slowly began flipping through the pages while keeping an ear out for my name. I didn't want to appear as though I wasn't paying attention (to their conversation). Page after page described the two conferences, the NFC and AFC, their associated franchises and related histories as the conferences began to develop. I flipped to the next page. I finished skimming the article for things I might recognize when a photo caught my eye.
I looked up at Uncle Tex sitting across the coffee table from me and down at the photo on the magazine page in my lap. And up at him, and down again. A few lines of boldly written copy underneath the photo described the person, "Tex Shramm." Seated before me, with his grandchildren and daughter, was the architect of 30 Cowboys teams, from the
franchise’s inception as an NFL expansion team in 1960 and up until 1989, later becoming "America's Team." With his vision, the Cowboys won five NFC titles and two Super
Bowl championships.
I got to shake his hand. I got to meet his family in the living room of their vacation rental. I finally understood why Allison said I would be so excited to meet him, her "Uncle Tex." Finally. And, this was a secret she kept from ME? My classmate Allison was family friends with the Tex Shramm, the football genius who's style so many owners have tried to emulate.
Suddenly, I became tongue-tied. Speechless. What do I say? What do I ask him? Do I just play it cool? Would it be rude to bow at his feet? No, that wouldn't be weird, would it? I contemplated what the best plan of action would be this very moment. Would Allison talk to me ever again? My mind raced with questions. Don't stare, just be cool, Tom, I told myself, getting self-conscious that he might be witnessing my internal struggle.
Soon after, it was time to go. Conversation had been exhausted. We said our good-byes and began the drive home. "Uh, Allison..." I began, "you didn't tell me your "Uncle Tex" was actually "Tex Shramm?"
"Well, yeah...Auntie Marty gave me his trading card tonight." Allison handed it to me. I guess for my own confirmation of who I met earlier that night. "But do you know WHO he is, what HE has done for professional football?" I questioned, almost pleading with her.
"No, he's just my Uncle Tex..." She replied. As we continued toward home that night, we didn't talk that much. Her humble reply left me dumbfounded. For her, there was no need to gloat. I couldn't help but to wonder if she really didn't know her Uncle's history with the NFL, or if she was just playing it off. My mind reeled from the experience of meeting not only a legend of the sport I love, but also his close family. I realized I didn't need to be impressed, but rather to see my fortune in sharing their family's friendship with Allison. I would keep this night's experience as a special memory tucked-away in my archive only to be brought out for a special occasion.
Monday, August 27, 2012
20th Class Reunion
Recently, my 20th Class Reunion came and went. I wasn't able to make it to California, but my thoughts were with the merry reunion attendees as they drank, laughed and caught-up on old times of remember when? Twenty years-ago...those old times. Photos abound on Facebook and other social websites, as many who attended returned to search their long-lost archive of belongings to see what could be found, or better yet, dug up.
We all looked so young and beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I would swear we could've been inserted into some new and improved MTV reality spin-off sure to trump that Laguna Beach show. Wait, what?
How lame are they, the producers of this "reality" show. Lame they would take the idea of kids living in an amazingly plush environment where beautiful cast members abound, all classmates or mere acquaintances. But beautiful, none-the-less. Even the friends of friends were "easy on the eyes," as my late grandfather once said. And, they weren't even in the "inner" circle of cast members. Then there's the drug use, anorexia or bulimia, drinking, sex, angst, sex, drinking and all of the drama associated with the latter. Let's face it. The show could write itself.
Still to this day, I don't know what the characters names were. I never found the time to watch it...or wanted to watch it, really. Something tells me the show was simply a way to create another starlet in the making, poised to make her debut on a network show. I believe they got their wish on that one, too. Again, I can't recall what her name was. And, she wasn't even from Laguna. How fake can you be?
We all looked so young and beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I would swear we could've been inserted into some new and improved MTV reality spin-off sure to trump that Laguna Beach show. Wait, what?
How lame are they, the producers of this "reality" show. Lame they would take the idea of kids living in an amazingly plush environment where beautiful cast members abound, all classmates or mere acquaintances. But beautiful, none-the-less. Even the friends of friends were "easy on the eyes," as my late grandfather once said. And, they weren't even in the "inner" circle of cast members. Then there's the drug use, anorexia or bulimia, drinking, sex, angst, sex, drinking and all of the drama associated with the latter. Let's face it. The show could write itself.
Still to this day, I don't know what the characters names were. I never found the time to watch it...or wanted to watch it, really. Something tells me the show was simply a way to create another starlet in the making, poised to make her debut on a network show. I believe they got their wish on that one, too. Again, I can't recall what her name was. And, she wasn't even from Laguna. How fake can you be?
Sunday, August 5, 2012
The Hill
To a kid with a bike, and sometimes a soccer ball, a hill can provide hours of entertainment, and even a sort of free baby-sitter made with no prior arrangements. A hill is a way for a kid to burn an abundance of pent-up energy.
The hill our house sat on was this; a long, flat face fuming of tar and creosote, paved smooth by big machines pouring steaming black asphalt, and hot to the touch on a sunny day. But to anyone else, the hill was like any ordinary hill.
To a kid pushing his brother's heavy BMX bike, the hill was an obstacle to conquer capable of taking his breath away--the very thing standing in my way of pedaling freedom.
The hill and my brother's old BMX bike taught me how to ride. I was told I wouldn't be given a bike of my own until I learned how. My dad seemed to be gone all the time. My sister was busy with her friends and playing her guitar and singing in the choir. So who would teach me? My motivation was trying to teach myself.
On this hill this particular day, I pushed his heavy metal-framed bike to the hill's crest, or the point of no-return. Handlebars I could reach, just barely, but the seat required tilting the frame toward me to just enough of a degree to throw my leg over the bike's head tube. Pedaling was out of the question altogether. I relied on gravity to do the rest.
After pointing the handlebars down hill, like a sailor might turn his sailboat into the wind, I pushed off. My free foot still firmly planted to steady ground parted freely, like a jettisoned rocket propelled into space by giant secondary thrusters. Bits of blacktop crunched from beneath. I was off. With feet dangling below.
The hill welcomed my challenge; a quest to ride a bike for the first time and assisted by no one but gravity. The old bike had brakes, but only worked when the rider pedaled backwards. That's if reaching the pedals were possible. Still, I didn't think twice...I was gonna do this.
With the amount of speed gravity helped me to gather, the hill pushed faster...and faster as if to make me admit defeat. Staying balanced came easily. I held the bars connected to a quickly spinning front wheel steady; not jittery, nor shaky--not fighting the hill to keep my balance.
I was winning...my small, nervous hands clenched tightly to cold, hard plastic handles scraped and torn at the ends from being dropped to the hard, course ground.
The freewheel clicked faster on the hill's face. Worn knobby wheels "wrrrrr"-ed below. The brick path to my house quickly passed. I had to decide what to do. Turning was too late. The next place to go was the garage. I hoped the hill would release its grip.
My brother, busy working on something at the tool bench, heard knobby wheels and a rapidly clicking freewheel roll-on by behind him, resulting in a loud crashing thud of bike and a young boy's body. He witnessed the image of his bike and his brother colliding with a solid cinder block wall at the garage's end.
Fearing I was hurt, Erik came quickly over and picked me up from the garage floor. While holding me up, he quickly checked for injuries. His voice was a mix of shock and amazement with questions in the form of statements using my nickname, "How did you get on the bike? Motty, are you all right? I can't believe you did that, are you okay?" I replied I was as best as I could. An image of the quickly approaching wall was still fresh in my mind.
Before I knew it, my bike riding lesson was over. The maiden voyage wasn't much of a voyage, if you consider having to stop means colliding with a cinder block wall.
My brother Erik must have said something to my parents. The following Christmas, Santa placed a new BMX bike under the tree when word got out that somehow or another, I had learned to "ride" a bike...if that's what you call it.
The hill our house sat on was this; a long, flat face fuming of tar and creosote, paved smooth by big machines pouring steaming black asphalt, and hot to the touch on a sunny day. But to anyone else, the hill was like any ordinary hill.
To a kid pushing his brother's heavy BMX bike, the hill was an obstacle to conquer capable of taking his breath away--the very thing standing in my way of pedaling freedom.
The hill and my brother's old BMX bike taught me how to ride. I was told I wouldn't be given a bike of my own until I learned how. My dad seemed to be gone all the time. My sister was busy with her friends and playing her guitar and singing in the choir. So who would teach me? My motivation was trying to teach myself.
On this hill this particular day, I pushed his heavy metal-framed bike to the hill's crest, or the point of no-return. Handlebars I could reach, just barely, but the seat required tilting the frame toward me to just enough of a degree to throw my leg over the bike's head tube. Pedaling was out of the question altogether. I relied on gravity to do the rest.
After pointing the handlebars down hill, like a sailor might turn his sailboat into the wind, I pushed off. My free foot still firmly planted to steady ground parted freely, like a jettisoned rocket propelled into space by giant secondary thrusters. Bits of blacktop crunched from beneath. I was off. With feet dangling below.
The hill welcomed my challenge; a quest to ride a bike for the first time and assisted by no one but gravity. The old bike had brakes, but only worked when the rider pedaled backwards. That's if reaching the pedals were possible. Still, I didn't think twice...I was gonna do this.
With the amount of speed gravity helped me to gather, the hill pushed faster...and faster as if to make me admit defeat. Staying balanced came easily. I held the bars connected to a quickly spinning front wheel steady; not jittery, nor shaky--not fighting the hill to keep my balance.
I was winning...my small, nervous hands clenched tightly to cold, hard plastic handles scraped and torn at the ends from being dropped to the hard, course ground.
The freewheel clicked faster on the hill's face. Worn knobby wheels "wrrrrr"-ed below. The brick path to my house quickly passed. I had to decide what to do. Turning was too late. The next place to go was the garage. I hoped the hill would release its grip.
My brother, busy working on something at the tool bench, heard knobby wheels and a rapidly clicking freewheel roll-on by behind him, resulting in a loud crashing thud of bike and a young boy's body. He witnessed the image of his bike and his brother colliding with a solid cinder block wall at the garage's end.
Fearing I was hurt, Erik came quickly over and picked me up from the garage floor. While holding me up, he quickly checked for injuries. His voice was a mix of shock and amazement with questions in the form of statements using my nickname, "How did you get on the bike? Motty, are you all right? I can't believe you did that, are you okay?" I replied I was as best as I could. An image of the quickly approaching wall was still fresh in my mind.
Before I knew it, my bike riding lesson was over. The maiden voyage wasn't much of a voyage, if you consider having to stop means colliding with a cinder block wall.
My brother Erik must have said something to my parents. The following Christmas, Santa placed a new BMX bike under the tree when word got out that somehow or another, I had learned to "ride" a bike...if that's what you call it.
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