shed-plex

   Alex has been tolerant for many years. She's let me keep a workshop in the unfinished cantina all this time. I've had to move all the tools and scrap and shelving and workbenches around the floor several times to make way for progress, but I've always had a roof over my head. Until now. I should have made way for progress some years ago. The downstairs was supposed to be a modern kitchen, dining room and living room, unlike the rail-car life we've become accustomed to. Ask anyone who's visited and they will tell you stories of armchairs facing each other. The leg room between which lies a sleeping dog and two children trying to get their jammies on. Not to mention the red-hot iron woodstove. But never mind. If you ever felt the need for fresh air you simply turned around and faced the frozen window behind you. It's remarkable what house guests can get used to. They can get used to anything if it's only one or two nights. Alex has been cooking on a portable gas stove for what? ten years?
   But some of us here are running out of patience. There's only so many times one can fall headlong into the woodpile, tripping over the mound of unfinished homework before something cracks. Don't get me wrong. No plates have been thrown, but I'm keenly aware of when it's time to head off any trouble and bow out gracefully. That time has come and gone and my stuff is out in the rain.

    To my rescue arrived Charlie and Richie, two English dudes. Richie came to us some years ago as a workaway volunteer and has returned with a degree in architecture along with his assistant, Charlie. They convinced Alex that my building skills needed some "support," and after several agonizing seconds, she relented. Richie is keen on learning about preserving old buildings and I agreed to let him help, allowing me more time to ponder possibilities.
     Our first project was the construction of an open-air workshop incorporating two prefab, cardboard toolsheds we'd imported from Britain. I had constructed these sheds myself, but the wind kept blowing them down; so a plan was proposed to enclose the two under an oak-framed shelter where I might feel comfortable with all my scrap iron and bits of string. It began with the enslavement of two innocent workaway volunteers, John and Sinead, who were given the task of building the foundation without any guidance. Our lumber supply is the same pile we burn for warmth in the winter. You might find photos of Bob Henry at work on this wood in a previous blog post. With little more than a box of screws and a glue pot, Richie and Charlie constructed a series of roof trusses, stood them up on oak posts, covered the thing with decking and roofing paper, and clad the whole with bark-cuts. It looks like a quasi log cabin and is just about as waterproof. Under this now sits about $1000 worth of bicycles, two lawnmowers, Matt's chainsaw, countless rolls of scrap tubing, electrical cable, old paint cans, workbenches, and another $2000 or so in hand tools. The whole thing is probably illegal but at least we can get a clear shot at the floor and walls in the cantina, even if the tools we need are a mountain bike ride away.
    With me out of the way, there appears some possibility that our cantina may someday be transformed into a new living area for the house. And in the meantime, I can fiddle about to my heart's content in my new workshop.

smooth skin

   Alex arrived home yesterday looking particularly youthful and radiant. She's been eating lots of bird seed. We were buying our birdseed at the local pet shop until we found it much cheaper in bulk at a nursery supply store. She loads up an old coffee bean grinder and dumps what looks like half a cup of brown powder over her raw muesli every morning. This pile of roughage is watered down with soy milk and must be eaten at just the right moment. The fibre goes gelatinous after a few minutes of standing, but if the muesli isn't allowed to soak then only a horse could chew it.
    It's all about the famous essential fatty acids. They have been the rage for over 10 years and all the clamoring has filtered past biochemical skeptics into grocery pulp science. The "omega" in omega 3 and 6 fatty acids refers to the location of a reaction site in the carbon chain of these molecules. It makes the resulting fats less inert and more important for other uses in the body than energy storage. Alex is well informed.
    Alex's skin is glossy. It was predicted as one of the first things noticed after adding supplemental O-3s to her food. He skin is smooth and remarkably soft, and that alone is worth the trouble. Maybe nipping and tucking can be put off for a while.
    Forget fried fish, flax and hemp seed are, apparently, the best sources because the seed case keeps the reactive fats fresher than even freezing. All you have to do is crack the seed case before eating. Have a Wikipedia moment.

unpopular present

    Every now and then I pull on a t-shirt in front of a mirror and wince. The pain in my shoulder is always worse when I can see the permanent deformation. Sometimes I even indulge myself in a gruesome peek around the back where the muscles haven't really covered my riveted-together shoulder blade. But the good news is that most of the time I don't notice anything. I can still lift a bucket of water. And I can still pull on a t-shirt.
    Bob Henry is back with us. The last time I saw Bob his right arm was wrapped tightly to his chest to keep his broken shoulder from breaking any further. He'd suffered a bike accident the day before leaving and had to fly back to Wisconsin in what looked like a body cast. It was worrisome. I really felt sorry for him. I knew. When he left, he gave me instructions to take his bike apart and throw the frame away. I didn't have all the tools and I was too lazy anyway, but I knew how he felt. I didn't ride my bike, or any bike, at all. Now Bob is back for a month. He looks great. He feels great. He's passed his retirement eligibility at work which is a great achievement for a delivery driver with a broken shoulder. And he's been back on his bike. In fact, he brought some bike gear and immediately set to cleaning up his old bike and planning a few rides. During the past year, I confessed to Dad that I was too afraid to ride. I had seen myself panic and do something stupid. I had panicked, crashed, and permanently injured myself. He told me to get back on the horse. I didn't. Bob did.
     Bob, Thomasina and I went to the bike shop to repair his tire pump. He had gone previously and bought a helmet and a racing jersey sponsoring the shop. They like Bob. They know me from my purchases of all the kid's bikes and they let me poke around the back where the whoopties are left out in the rain. Sometimes there are some charming old Italian racing bikes back there with rusty chains and broken wheels. It gives me a chance to indulge in sentiment. I like to keep an eye open for the next bike for the kids. The bikes they currently have are far too small. They have to walk to Freddie and Izzy's house. It's not right. I'm a bike guy and they don't have good bikes.

    My first glance at the pile out back revealed nothing but a pile of rusty, cheap bikes. Not worth the trouble of fixing and franky, dangerous if you did. Thomasina wanted to know where I had gone so I took her back and showed her where her next bike was coming from, poor girl. Then, at the very back, through a confusion of spokes, tires, frames and torn saddles I saw a Specialized top-tube decal. That led to a Stumjumper downtube decal. The Stumpjumper was the world's first production mountain bike, a bike I loved and sold with enthusiasm for years. We sold them for $1000 each. This particular one was built at a time when one could buy a quality mountain bike without a suspension system. Suspension, with all its moving parts doesn't age well, but this bike was in perfect condition. It showed all the evidence of being well assembled: the screw threads were greased, the seatpost moved smoothly, and the cable ends were soldered. Just like the bikes we sold at Wheelworks. I asked Carlo. He said £100. I brought back the kid's baby bikes and we made a deal. Happy birthday me, but I hope it's a popular present. The kids like it. Bob is jealous. But Alex is in England. She doesn't know yet.

rambo

    Today I watched one of the best competitions. Compelling. It makes me think I can now do anything.
    I'll try and keep it brief. You probably already know this is about a bike race. The GeeRow dee Talia. The tour of Italy. A month of crap roads over a lot of hills and some ridiculous Alps. It's hard on the support vehicles, sick-making for the motorbike cameras and a killer for the bike mechanics. Everyday it's a race within a race. The big prize is the trophy in Milan after it's all over, but this story is about today.
    On the previous day to some breathless height near the Matterhorn, a young rider had to change his bike because of a mechanical problem. The original bike, worth about 10k, was left at the roadside and stolen. This morning the bike miraculously reappeared and young Matteo Rabottini got his bike back. And on this very bike, ol' Matt, sarcastically nick-named "Rambo," decided to ride away by himself at the beginning of a fearsome Alpine stage on a wretched day of cold rain, fog, and stupidly steep secondary roads.
    We pick up the story at about the halfway point when our young fool has established a five minute lead on a group of eleven with serious reputations, and some 9 minutes ahead of the overall race leader, an ex-mountain bike champ from Canada. Ahead are three mountain passes, a selection of steep walls that would reduce most of us to hitch-hiking. Sure enough he survives most of these obstacles when we learn that his coach has taken away his map of the course so he has no idea what's coming. And what's coming is a heavy cold rain that doesn't quite turn to snow, an 8 kilometer uphill finish, and an attempt by Damiano, a previous
Giro winner, to take the race lead by racing away from his select group toward young Matt. Courageously, or naively, Matteo Rabottini, kills himself to keep up his advantage while Damiano, although unable to overtake Matteo, advances enough to establish himself as the virtual overall race leader.
    All these steep hills have an equally steep descent on the other side where one might expect to get a short rest, but in these weather conditions snaking down steep swithbacks on skinny tires with brakes that don't work when wet... it's not very restful. Here Damiano really puts on the pressure. We watch nervously as Damiano sticks his foot out to stabilize himself and his bike wobbles right to the very edge of the cliff. He's going for broke. Then Rambo is down. He slides across the road, striking his back against the curb. Confused, he inspects his bike until a spectator gets him going with a shove in the right direction. He's still leading, but his shorts are torn and we imagine his Rambo recklessness must be exhausted by now.
    On the final climb, just when the rumors begin to float that young Matteo is going to be allowed to win his day, the whole thing explodes. A Spaniard climbing specialist in Damiano's small group sprints away in chase of the tiring Matteo. The gang surrounding the Canadian overall race leader are going flat out, now some 5 minutes behind, when a number of hotheads bust out including another Spaniard, Joaquim, who continues to romp straight up and past all of our favorites including Damiano. This guy, Joaquim Rodriguez, a previous overall leader, has been waiting all day to give it full throttle in his effort to re-take the overall lead with a heroic stage win. Meanwhile the Spaniard #1 is gaining on Matteo, Damiano is fading backwards, the Canadian is fighting to protect his overall lead, and Joaquim is lost somewhere in the radio silence behind rain clouds.
    When the slope eases with a few kilometers to go before the finish, Joaquim appears miraculously passing the Spaniard and powering his way toward Matteo as fast as an approaching freight train. Despite our wishes, poor Matteo is exhausted and finally unable to defend himself against the potential race leader on a raging mission to win everything. After all, Rambo is just a support rider, on a stolen bike, riding by himself, through terrible weather and terrain for over 150 kilometers against some of the world's strongest and best paid professionals. Sure enough, Joaquim roars up to him and steams past; and we resign ourselves to the inevitable. This is a professional sport and it's calculated to a fine degree. There's no room for fairly tales.
    Why and how Matteo Rabottini found the energy to join Joaquim in the final few is the story of competition. How he withstood the irrepressible force of the rest of the pros behind him to follow the virtual race leader to the finish line after a most exhausting stage remains a mystery. Normally, when a no-hope rider who has established his publicity through an individual effort in front the world and shown his sponsor's name on TV for several hours is overtaken by the favorites, his job is finished. He's expected to die gracefully when the top guns mow him down.
    But no. Matteo hung in. He stuck his tired guts to the back wheel of Joaquim and followed him to the finish line. And then he passed Joaquim at the line. He won the stage. Matteo Rabottini, "Rambo," a nobody on a nobody team, beat the world's best on one of the toughest stages in one of the toughest races in the worst conditions all by himself.
Bravo Rambo.

cement free

I don't remember if I said so, but when the big snow stopped us in our tracks, Richie and I couldn't continue working in the cantina because the mortar would freeze. We decided to move operations up to the middle floor and work on the unfinished back bedroom. I was happy to find his formula for plaster mixes was faithful to the original plasters using very old fashioned materials. This required more time to prepare and apply and along with his high standard of perfection Alex and I began to wonder if a few short cuts wouldn't be more economical. Once we got rolling with tools and techniques, the process began to speed up to the point today where we are racing through the walls downstairs.

We are using lime-based plaster which we mix using plain old powdered calcium hydroxide (white hydrated lime), sand and water. The calcium hydroxide, water and air (CO2) turn into calcium carbonate (limestone). Unlike portland cement based mortars and gypsum based plasters, the old lime processes are environmentally passive and are also much more compatible with crumbly old buildings like ours.

As if my philosophy of slow progress wasn't slow enough, now we are incorporating slower setting, older-fashioned plaster formulas.

The Fairy Woods

    Everyone must have fond memories of private places from their childhood. Places that inspired the imagination to flesh out an adventure or a make-believe shelter. Places that felt safe and secure from the real world. On one of my early walks through the woodland of LeCoste I entered an ugly dump site where the rubbish of maintaining 20-odd rural houses was deposited and occasionally burned. Piles of charred mattresses, broken wardrobes, masonry, roof tiles, old sinks, even grave stones. The dump was oddly located near the top of a lovely, grassy hill, nearly the highest point on the estate. Other people's rubbish can be interesting and after helping myself to a couple of old tiles, I wandered to the top of the hill and into the most remarkable stand of young trees.

    I can't identify the trees but they remind me of the california live oak. Pinnate leaves, smooth young bark, dark and knarly, the trunks only 4 to 6 inches in diameter. Throughout the rest of the LeCoste woodland, one must struggle through tough underbrush somtimes spiney and thorny, but this wood had a clear floor covered only in leaves and a dense canopy keeping it clean, cool and dark. Looking carefully, a pattern to the planting revealed itself. Rank and file, the trees were obviously planted on purpose. Among the trees stood two tiny brick cottages with broken roofs and battered doors but enough detail to reveal wonderful, old construction. Even more curious was a strange brickworks looking like an old foundation. It took the form of a narrow trench leading away from one of the cottages to a square in the ground and then beyond to peter-out among the leaves. The bricks were old and the trench too small to be a fortification and too improbable to be an aqueduct.

    I took the first opportunity to bring the kids to my newly discovered land and they fell in love with it just as easily as I did. It became a favorite destination for them, their friends and their toys. "Fairy Woods" became the new name and everyone on the estate soon knew of it.
    Two days ago, I walked up to the Fairy Woods and found it destroyed by chainsaws. Harvested for firewood. LeCoste has been selling its woodland as fuel, sacrificing its magic for a little bit of money. My memories of the wood and the impression it left are so strong, I find myself preferring my imagination to what's left of the actual place.

marzo e pazzo

     March is crazy. It's the second of March and it's a momentous occasion. A month ago we awoke to what turned out to be almost a month of snowbound isolation. Today I was forced to remove my long johns. This isn't something I do casually or often. I sleep in the damn things. Sometimes I wake in the night, sweating, and shove them down to my ankles; but they only come off for special occasions. They normally go on in November and come off in April. Really. This year I'm very thankful to my brother Matt for lending me two pairs of his best so now I'm able to change them every month or so. I know, I know, you're thinking I'm a complete grub; but actually it's not that bad. I'm a clean person, but the need for warmth can overcome a few other needs.
    I'd send you a picture, but my camera battery charger is broken. Sorry.
   Anyway, today I was forced to remove my long johns. It was that hot. Richie and I continue to work indoors where it's cold, but I was still overheating. Alex and her mother worked outside sifting fine sand for our plaster mixes and I found myself checking on their progress fairly often. They, predictably, were complaining from under their huge sun hats. We had spread the sand out on large wooden panels to allow the sun to dry the sand, making it easier to sift. The old camper van was loaded and the sand circulated by wheelbarrow from van to drying panel to sifting screen to storage vessel to mixing tub to builder's bucket to, finally, the wall. Mixing, spreading and finishing the plaster takes effort and concentration. After a few hours the chill of the morning wore off, the hot tea kicked in, the solar panels began their work, and before you knew it, one is sweltering in on's long johns. Around about  noon or so, I glanced over to Alex and cocked my head in question. Sure enough, she had removed her long johns as well.
   We're working on the middle floor corridor and it's northwest bedroom. Both areas are getting proper electrics, new wall plaster, cleaned ceilings and beams, and the bedroom is getting an old door fitted properly. Richie is dedicated to old buildings and has brought a passion and knowledge to the project. I admire his dedication to the old materials and find myself protecting him from the consensus for a rapid conclusion to this renovation. He and I agree on everything concerning the proper materials for restoration. If anything, he is more willing to take the more painstaking, authentic approach. His work is a masterful mix of perfection and correctness. It's inspiring since I thought I was alone in my zeal for authenticity. We are using hydrated lime and sifted sand for our final plaster and it takes a lot more work to prepare than the bags of pre-mix available at the local yard; but the result is very similar to the original work we are repairing.
     We are working here because one month ago the plaster wouldn't set on the floor below. It was below freezing. Now, one month later, I'm removing my long johns before the job, or winter, is finished. But, like the job, winter isn't finished. Marzo e pazzo.