Don't mind the smell, it's just my thighs burning...

I have a gym membership. At least, I'll have a gym membership until the middle of next month. I requested a cancellation, but you have to give 30 days written notice in order to cancel. I guess their thinking is that you'll reconsider during the 30 days and change your mind, figuring that if you have a gym membership, even if you don't go, you'll feel better about your health and well-being.

So, I bought a road bike recently, a Trek 1000, a step down from the Nimbus 2000, but a good bike nonetheless. I'm amazed at how much faster it rides than my old mountain bike. And I find it much easier to exercise with the wind blowing in my face as I dodge cars, pedestrians—and death—minute after minute.

So I've been going on small rides here and there: 6 miles, 7 miles, etc. Feeling good. Having fun. Even did 23 miles one morning.

Then my buddy Jason, who's a big road biker (referring to his enthusiasm, not bulk, although he has nice calves), he invites me to ride one morning, and proceeds to torture me for over 2 hours as we head up to Armonk, through Greenwich, and back down to Mamaroneck. 32 miles of thigh burning country roads. It was a good hurt, though.

We got to ride down some killer downhill sections, even hitting 40 m.p.h. a couple of times. Then, an 18-degree uphill that just about did me in. As I pulled into my garage, I was feeling really good about myself. Until I hopped off the bike and tried to walk upstairs with extreme Jello-legs.

Can't wait to go again.

La Ciudad de Nuestra Senora, la Reina de los Angeles.

Bit o' trivia. The name of this posting is the original name for L.A., and is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as the longest name for a city. The translation: The City of Our Lady, the Queen of the Angels.

No wonder L.A.'s so pretentious.

After spending a few weeks there on business, I liken L.A. to Diet Coke. The first taste makes you think, "Why would I ever drink something like this." But then, over time, you see other people drinking it, you get used to it, your taste buds start looking for acceptance, and before you know it, you've metaphorically drunken the Kool-Aid and now you're an advocate who can't be seen in public wihout a shiny silver can in hand.

I'm not so good at analogies.

We stayed in some pretty posh places, including Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica and the Sunset Marquis up in Hollywood. Saw some celebrities, including Nicholas Cage, Noah Wyle, Billy Zane, Justine Bateman (remember Mallory from Family Ties?), Audra MacDonald (she's on Broadway, kinda embarrassed to admit knowing who she was).

We also saw a lot of people who thought they were celebrities. That was entertaining. And I must say, if I ever become homeless, I'm moving to Santa Monica. Sleep on the beach, people watch all day long...those guys know how to live.

Do I look fat in this face?

So, when I came home in 1992 after a two-year mission to Argentina, I weighed in at a hefty 145 pounds. You'd think eating nothing but beef, I'd be a little larger, but that Atkins guy did get a few things right, may he rest in peace. Upon seeing my minimalist frame after having removed my suitcoat, my mother emphatically declared, "We're going to Sizzler!" Let me pause here to state the obvious: if you ever spend two years eating the most succulent South American cattle products known to man, Sizzler will leave you quite melancholy, even with the unlimited salad bar.

A few years later, I got married. 170 pounds. Even had a two-pack. Four-pack on Fast Sunday.

Four kids and ten years later, all the way up to 205. Even hit 215 at the doctor's office recently, but I credit that to heavy jeans, big shoes (size 13) and the fact that my wallet had lots of receipts from a recent business trip.

So, from 145 to 205. That's sixty pounds, or more than the weight of my external frame backpack on a recent Adirondack hiking trip. And I wonder why I can't play ball like I used to...

First Go...

Welcome to my blog. I will get progressively more interesting.