Off to OSH we went, where after much waiting, we procured a three foot pipe. Aaron worried that my 1/2" drive 12 point sockets would strip the bolts with that much torque, so we converted to a 3/8" drive 6 point socket instead. The setup: socket, adapter, extension, ratchet, pipe. Apply force.

To our chagrin, the bolt didn't budge, and instead the adapter ripped into two pieces. Well, isn't that just lovely?

Today, I took my car back to the tire shop to ask them to loosen and retorque the bolts to spec. I watched them do it by hand, and the guy seemed to have a pretty easy time of it. Why, then, did we have so much trouble? I'm guessing it's because my ratchet didn't have long enough of a lever arm, and although the pipe took care of that problem, we introduced a weak link by switching to a 3/8" drive. I'm glad I waited a week and a half to not be upset over the whole thing so I could go in there and ask them nicely to fix what turned out to be only a slightly overtorqued set of wheel bolts.

Also today, I took the busted socket adapter back to Sears and got it replaced for free. Much love for the Craftsman lifetime warranty.

So what did I learn?

1. Giant pipes rule.
2. Giant pipes don't play nice with 3/8" drive sockets.
3. It makes no sense that my 1/2" drive sockets are 12 point, and the smaller drives are 6 point.
4. The next time I go to a tire shop I should explicitly ask them to torque the bolts to spec.

Aaron and I went to see the Chihuly exhibit at the de Young this weekend. The full Flickr set is here, but I thought I'd share a couple of my favorites with you below.

If you visit the set, there's a bonus at the end: We came across a gopher on our way back to the car, so I took a few pictures and a video of that, too. :)

I wondered who I should call, but then I realized it'd be more efficient to put out a broadcast on Twitter. That did the trick; I got a few responses within minutes. I don't think I'd have managed to find the inconspicuous rink entrance otherwise. Thank you thank you, Twitterpeeps!

It was really nice to be on the ice with some of the folks from Maroon again. I've really missed skating with them. I felt right at home, although I did find it amusing/weird that the three assistant coaches at the clinic were Blue skaters. (From my team this summer, no less!) It really served to highlight how much of a n00b I still am in that division. Not that I didn't know it already. I'm not there 'cause I'm awesome; I'm there because several someones were kind enough to give me a chance.

We did some skating, some passing, some drills with more passing, some shooting. We also did a drill where we forwards practiced 1-on-1s against the defense. I had a couple runs against other skaters in the clinic, and then a run against one of my Lollerskate teammates. She totally schooled me, and when I got back in line one of my other teammates came up and said, "Don't let her do that to you!" My final run (against one of the other skaters) went much better, and for the first time, I tried to drive wide to my backhand with only my top hand on the stick while holding off the D with my other hand. It wasn't perfect, but I managed not to lose the puck and even curled back to center in time to get a shot on net. I'll have to remember to practice that one some more.

I also remembered to thank one of my teammates for her season's worth of advice this summer. I've gotten good advice from various players this season, but this teammate has had words of wisdom for me game after game. Much appreciation from me on that front.

Afterward, I drove... and drove... and drove in search of the mall exit. I eventually found my way out onto Stevens Creek, after driving around almost the entire mall. It wasn't the street I was looking for, but it was good enough to get me home.

The clinic left my body a lot worse for wear. The shooting drills wrecked my forearm (I've been battling tennis elbow for months) and I somehow managed to pull my right hamstring. The hamstring was especially troubling, as I had a 3-on-3 tournament scheduled for Sunday and a Burninators tournament the following weekend.

In the end, I decided against playing the 3-on-3. After a ridiculous number of phone calls, we were fortunate enough to replace (or, rather, upgrade) me with Shannon.

On Monday, I bought a big thigh wrap for my hamstring, a non-bulky elbow wrap for my forearm, and an ice pack for the freezer at work. I'll rest and ice and stretch as much as I can this week, then wrap myself up and Burninate away.

The official who spoke did so on condition of anonymity, saying they did not want to pre-empt a text-message announcement the Obama campaign promised for Saturday morning.

You say you don't want to pre-empt the text message announcement, but you just did. Anonymous official, logic is not one of your strong points, is it?

And you just took all the fun out of the whole running mate text message grand reveal thing. Poopiehead.

I headed out on Ten Hills, then up Brandon. At the top of Brandon, I decided to see where the downhill fork on the left went. It took me to the family campground entrance, which I recognized from my first group ride there a couple months ago. I continued out on Quail, then on Lost Ridge, and was amused to find that I had inadvertently retraced the route from that ride in reverse.

I backtracked to a trail fork just before the campground and took Live Oak back toward the parking lot. After short jaunt on Cameron Loop and back up the top portion of Ten Hills, I arrived back at my car. Total distance: 9.7 miles. Thank you, trail junction signs with directions to the marina!

Afterward, I looked up the group ride online, and it seems to have disappeared. I guess I'll be riding with the Tuesday group from now on. I suppose I could ride by myself again with a map, but Chabot feels just a wee bit too big for me to feel comfortable riding around solo with so little light left. The farther out I went, the more uneasy I felt. (Granted, I'd probably feel less uneasy if I could locate myself on a map.) What if I crash? What if my bike breaks down and I can't fix it? What if I bonk? What if a mountain lion eats me? What if space aliens hover overhead and try to beam me away?

Hey, you never know.

Too bad the Tuesday ride moves to Pleasanton Ridge next month. Maybe I'll ride solo at Chabot after all.

The only visible side effect of this less than ideal setup was the sluggish pointer response, which, when paired with pointer acceleration, made it look like I was mousing drunk.

End of season hasn't hit me yet. I think I'm still busy grokking the score at will thing.

A couple miles into the ride, I realized that I'd forgotten to take my pre-ride Aleve. This was bad news, as my knees are wholly unable to go any decent distance without the aid of an anti-inflammatory. Aaron was smart enough to look for Aleve at shops along our route, and picked some up for me at the Walgreens in Los Altos. It got me through about 30 miles of the ride; my knees started aching a bit after that, but fortunately the pain subsided a few hours afterward.

We continued up Foothill, up Sand Hill, and then onto Portola. Even though I was eating, I seemed to be having trouble getting enough calories in me. But then, hallelujah, we came across a lemonade stand along the road. When we stopped, the girls at the stand sheepishly told us they were out of cups. Oh, but we had water bottles! They filled one of my bottles and one of Aaron's. "How much?" we asked, and after some confused discussion, they decided that two water bottles of lemonade was worth two dollars. Aaron handed them a five and told them to keep the change. They were surprised, and happy. So was I. Lemonade! Calories! Hoorays! Plus, kids and lemonade stands, super cute.

The lemonade energized me, and when we reached Alpine, I decided I wanted to ride up to the end where it turns into a dirt trail. I love that stretch of Alpine. Smooth pavement, few cars, a beautiful creek surrounded by trees for most of the way, plus a few extra miles and some climbing.

I'd noticed that the ice cream place at the Rancho Shopping Center had switched from a Dreyer's to Lappert's, so we stopped on the way back for some ice cream. I ended up with a super flavorful coconut sorbet. Sorbet! I never eat sorbet, but I guess coconut is different because it's fatty and creamy on its own. Good stuff.

When we got home, I managed to lock my keys (including both my copies of the garage key) in the garage. I ended up borrowing a ladder from my neighbor, climbing up to the balcony, and entering my apartment through the sliding door, which I had left open. Thank goodness! After some searching, my neighbor found her copy of my garage key (she's also something of an apartment manager), and I was reunited with my keys. Phew!

Total distance pedaled: ~43 miles. I can't download data from my Polar wrist unit until I get an IR adapter for my laptop, so no detailed data until then.

[ Update: I forgot to mention that we saw an Ariel Atom zoom by around a curve on Sand Hill near the Portola junction. Sweet! The driver had a full face helmet on. I wanted to offer to trade him my bike for his car, but he was gone before I could say anything. ]

Despite the name, Pleasanton Ridge is anything but pleasant on a bike. It's miles of featureless fireroad that just go up, up, and up, leaving you with nothing to think about but how much it sucks to be pedaling, pedaling, pedaling in such a boring park.

It didn't help that I wasn't feeling very well. I've been staying up way too late watching the Olympics, and it has taken a toll. My legs were tired and my stomach felt queasy. How ironic; the Olympics is proving to be bad for my fitness and health.

Now if you'll excuse me, men's gymnastics is on.

At one point, she was talking about how my sister recently got a raise, and how she still remembered carrying her home from the hospital like a little lump of dough. (When you say it in Chinese it's cute and endearing. "meen fun") "And now," she said happily, "you're both grown up and making money, and your sister even drives me around!" I took that opportunity to thank her for where my sister and I are today, because if it weren't for my grandma, I wouldn't be here, and you wouldn't be reading this.

You see, way back when I was just a wee little meen fun, my grandma, who does not speak any English, bought a book about America and started studying. She studied every night while she worked on her sewing (for pay, not for fun). Then she rounded up a couple of US citizen friends to accompany her to the naturalization exam. (I guess you need to prove you know people who belong here?) She failed. She studied more, rounded up a couple friends, and went back. She failed again. She didn't give up, though. There was more studying, another round of rounding up two friends, and finally, on her third try, she passed.

After that, my mom (then pregnant with my sister), dad, and I got to move to the US. I can't imagine what my life would have been like if I'd grown up in Hong Kong. As it was, when my mom told my teacher we were moving here, she replied, "Good! Vivian will never make it here. She'll do much better in American schools." And she was right. In Hong Kong, I struggled to focus, and got in trouble because I couldn't. Here, I thrived.

Thanks, grandma, from the bottom of my heart.

* By "Chinglish", I mean Chinese that is interspersed with English, or vice versa, not bad English, as it is defined in Wikipedia. Bad English, in my book, is "Engrish". I've been using the term "Chinglish" since the 90's, and the initial Wikipedia definition of the word came about only in 2003, so suck it, Wikipedia, that's my word.

This was a little different from our previous visits to Arastradero; we carried a map this time, and used it to do a few loops and cover almost every trail in the park. Nice, mellow fun.

I've ridden a couple times since then, and if I can manage to keep my dirt legs under me (I lose them if I don't ride often enough, and feeling comfortable on dirt makes a world of difference), maybe I'll feel up to trying Skeggs next time.

So hooray. And boy, is it good to be back!

It really feels as if no one bothers to do their job (official or not; I mean that in a broad sense of the word) properly these days. What happened to taking pride in one's work? Sometimes I wonder why I bother, given that so many others around me (and who often directly affect me) don't.

In the end, I always do bother. I have to look at myself in the mirror every morning, and I want to be able to respect the person looking back at me. So if I ever fill a pothole for you, you can trust I'll level it out before I declare it done.

While their ridiculously cheery and helpful baristas perpared my drink, I browsed a few of their pamphlets at the condiment bar and found one with detailed nutritional information for what looked to be all of their drinks. I was pleased. Jamba needs to publish a portable one of those.

And finally, I left with a "Treat Receipt", which is essentially a receipt with a stamp on it that says, "Bring this in after 2 p.m. today and get any grande cold drink for just $2 (plus tax)." At first, I thought it was just a clever ploy to get people to consume more Starbucks (which it is), but then I thought, you know, I just might come back before my game this evening...

Anyhow, my company is holding a golf tournament next month. I'm signed up to play, and I intend to. Tennis elbow be damned! This means I have to start practicing again, so today I went to the driving range.

The good news: I can still hit the ball. This in itself is a surprise to me, and even more so is the fact that I'm hitting the ball better than I was before I stopped playing. Why? Because I don't remember all the things I was supposed to remember. Instead of going through a way-too-long checklist in my head before every shot, all I know to do now is get comfortable, focus on the ball, and swing. Muscle memory does the rest. My first shot (with the 7-iron off the tee) sailed a very straight 120 yards. Nice!

I can't pitch to save my life, though. It hurts the tennis elbow a lot. I'm hoping that I can get by with a brace. We'll see how that goes next time.

Putting was frustrating. I'm not focusing and being patient like I need to, which makes me miss, which makes me less focused and patient. I'm going to have to work on this a lot more, and I have no excuse not to because it's the least injurious golf stroke with the greatest potential to lower my score. Back to the putting green I go!

Aaron came too and we had a putting contest. I ended up buying him dinner.