I went to my 50^th high school reunion last night. I had no business being there.

I was not a big man on campus. In fact, few could tolerate me, as I recall. Lacking social standing or a hot girlfriend, I tried to be the class cut up, never convinced my classmates were laughing with me and not at me. I hoped at least a couple of the guys I knew would be there.

Just outside the door of the reunion hall were a few classmates, one a woman who was a looker back then—even in the 7^th grade when I first met her. “Met” is an imprecise word. Maybe she granted me a “Hi” once or twice. She was quiet back then—at least toward me. As I introduced myself to the people standing with her, I looked at her name tag. (She may still be considered hot to a 68-year old, but our standards are far lower these days; sentient is all that’s required.)

“I remember you,” I said, hoping that with a few sentences I could double the time I had ever spoken to her in my life. I didn’t quite achieve that, or even recognition.

“Right inside you can check in,” was all she said. It was an ominous start.

I had spent the earlier part of the day visiting my mother’s sister, the last remaining of the previous generation, then the two houses where I lived before going to college.

First was the Northeast Philadelphia row home my parents bought when I was one-year old. The neighborhood showed its age and changing dynamic that apparently didn’t include a working understanding of litter, replacing it with a sense that the sidewalk was a large trash can.

The house itself had been remodeled, with vinyl siding on the upper level replacing the faux Tudor look of the home that costs my parents $7,700. They were proud of their home but, being parsimonious, a trait in the Griendling and Patti blood streams, they wanted to pay the home off early. My mother had examined the amortization table and calculated the interest they were paying. So they added a few dollars to the monthly payment of $24. I remember when I first saw their mortgage documents in the mid 1970’s I thought we’d never see 4% interest rates again.

I walked up the street and then down the back alley where I played all those ball games city kids create—stick ball, half ball, wire ball, hand ball, step ball. I stopped behind my house. A car was parked in front of where the garage was before it was converted into what must be a tiny room.

A man, perhaps in his 20’s, was inside the car so I approached. He rolled down the window. I asked if he lived in my house.

“Uh, yes, sort of,” fumbling with something in his hands.

“I grew up here,” I said.

He perked up. “Really? Cool!” He fumbled with his hands again and looked apologetic. “I’m just rolling joint,” he said.

“That’s OK,” I said. I have a home in Colorado.

He laughed. He may have thought I bought the home so I could freely buy marijuana. We had a connection beyond the row house.

We talked a bit and I got the courage to ask the slightly creepy question, “Do you think your parents would mind if I took a peek inside?” He looked skeptical. “My mother wouldn’t mind at all, but she’s not home. My dad is, but he’s kind of weird and we don’t get along.” At least I tried.

I then drove to the South Jersey suburb where we moved when I was 11. My parents had paid off the row home and now could afford a split level on a cul de sac. They paid cash and never had a mortgage again in their lives. That neighborhood had fared a little better. I then drove by the old high school, which, again, looked pretty good for its 60 years.

It was time to face the music. Would anyone remember me at the reunion? After the ignoble exchange with my past crush, I walked inside and signed in.

“Were you red or blue?” the woman at the registration table asked. Our high school was so overcrowded with other immigrants to suburbia that we had shifts. One went in at 6:45 a.m. and ended at 12:30 p.m. The other started 15 minutes later and was dismissed at 5:45 p.m. One was the red school, the other blue and completely separate. We even played each other in sports.

“I don’t remember. Red I think,” I said. So I got a red star on my ID badge that had my name and my graduation photo. Of course, that photo might not help a lot of folks. It was heavily airbrushed to hide my severe acne. I thought I should dot my face with a red pen to help classmates recall me.

I pinned on the badge, took a deep breath and waded into the crowd. I was immediately greeted by someone who said, “I know this guy,” though he also squinted as he tried to read my name tag. “You looked just like your picture.” The other guys standing with him agreed. OK. That was a small victory to combat the relative anonymity of my high school years. At least I’m as unremarkable as I was then. As we age, we take anything we can get to remind ourselves that we are immortal.

But even that accomplishment soon was diminished by another’s comment. “You look just like an older version of yourself,” she said. I think that was a compliment.

Then it all came crashing down when another classmate later said, “Everybody thinks you dye your hair.” Great. Now I was unremarkably vainglorious—to “everybody.”

As I circulated I was sensing that this wouldn’t be a total waste of airfare or worst, a reaffirmation of my anonymity. I saw two guys I hung out with in high school, when we mostly drank beer in the woods and sang doo-wap songs. We dubbed ourselves The Four Gottens. Now I knew at least there was someone I could latch on as I was ignored by all the women.

Then the girl who lived across the street from me appeared and recognized me. We smiled and hugged and talked about our families. She introduced me to her husband. I then put my arm around here and looked at him. “I had a crush on your wife in high school,” I confessed. He just grinned, probably mentally boasting of his relative virility to mine. She just smiled awkwardly, probably thinking, “Yeah, I know, and it was awkward then, too.”

A woman and I then caught each other’s eye. Hers flew wide open. Mine looked puzzled I’m sure. I looked at her name tag. I remembered her immediately. She also lived on my block. We never had a thing for each other but we were friends from sixth grade on. I played touch football in the streets with her two older brothers. I learned two of them live in Florida with one in Clearwater. Small world.

As we talked a woman whose name or face triggered no recall walked up and smiled. My neighbor knew her. The woman said to my former neighbor, “Remember, you fixed up Bob and me for the 8^th grade dance!” She did? We did? This was awkward. I tried to excuse myself by saying that I couldn’t remember breakfast let alone an 8^th grade dance. But she did, and probably wasn’t buying my excuse. It did make me feel good. At least I had at least one date in my pubescent years.

While eating the mystery meat we had for dinner I looked across to the next table and saw a pretty blonde who, thanks probably in part to her hair dresser, looked exactly the same. Our eyes locked and I mouthed her name. She smiled and came over to my table.

Things were definitely looking up now. She was considered one of the most elegant in our class, or at least as elegant as a teenager could be. We talked and then I remembered that even back then, while I was not even remotely in her league, she was always nice to me. She said, “You were pretty shy back then.” I admitted to the charge, thinking that’s what severe acne will do to a boy.

As the night wore on, my courage was improving. I walked around the room looking for anyone who I might recognize and say hello to. I found a few, including a woman or two who were probably as nice to me now as they were back then—if I ever could see it past my facial and self-inflicted emotional scars.

The hall thinned out. I said goodbye and walked by the photos of the 80 members of our combined red and blue class of 500 who’ve since died. At least I made it to the reunion. And walked away feeling good about it.

The day wasn’t expected to be ideal for riding, but the storms weren’t expected until mid-afternoon.

Bicycling in the mountains requires respect for late afternoon storms. So I headed out at 9:20 a.m. hoping to get in a couple of good climbs by lunch time. It was about 55 degrees, mostly cloudy and windless.

Starting from our home south of downtown Evergreen , Colo. means the first two miles test only your courage as it’s two miles downhill on bumpy roads with traffic the last mile. But then comes the gentle climb along Upper Bear Creek, with gorgeous homes along it.

The climbing turns serious up Witter Gulch, but the hail storm that started at about 8600 ft. elevation and lasted almost until I reached the top at over 9,000 feet made it that much more challenging. The hail was about 1/4-inch in diameter but fortunately wasn’t too heavy.

At the top, I thought about taking a picture of the cloud enshrouded vista, but then thunder struck. What I heard in that clap was Mother Nature telling me “Get the hell off that mountain now.”

On the descent it drizzled so I had to keep feathering the brakes and taking the few switchbacks along Squaw Pass Rd. as its known carefully. Even though the temperature had dropped to the mid-40’s, the arm warmers and wind vest kept my core warm, even if my bare legs were a tad chilly.

I had planned to head south on Rt. 74 and then do one more climb up Stagecoach Rd., thinking the rain would stop at the lower elevation. But when it didn’t I decided to call it a day. Which meant holding on while I descended back into town. Normally, that drop is fun, but the road has deteriorated greatly the last two years and I had to scan for potholes all the way down, again scrubbing speed in case I hit one.

That left only the 1-3% climb up Cub Creek and the the dirt Mesa and Hermosa Roads until I got home.

Wiping the bike down I started to shiver, hoping that my numb fingers would thaw and that hypothermia wouldn’t set in.

The last time I got caught in a hail storm I couldn’t stop shivering for nearly an hour afterward. I took a hot shower, and still shivering, I looked up how to treat hypothermia. Apparently the last thing you should do is take a hot shower as the shock to the system can cause a heart attack.

But this time wasn’t so bad. The shower felt great. I lingered there awhile.

Click here for Strava data

It’s about clipless pedals for the newbie.

I have been riding my bike pretty seriously for the past year. I qualified to participate in the National Senior Games for the 40 km road race. So I set up a training program for myself where I try to have the right number of hard days, easy days and rest days. Sometimes it’s a little boring. Intervals based on my heart rate, practicing sprints, going on my own to stick to the program instead of riding with my friends is, yes, a little compulsive.

But in more than 40 years of riding, I had never raced until last year, so qualifying for the national race was pretty cool.

Unfortunately, it is the senior games. Which, to qualify, means you must be a senior. Which means you sometimes get confused. Which I did. Sometime last year I registered for something I thought was the national race but obviously wasn’t. Still, throughout the winter and spring I received emails from the Games, telling me of the hotels I could book and the sights I could see while in Minneapolis, so I thought all was copacetic.

As the time approached, however, I wasn’t receiving the kinds of emails I thought I would about the specific event. So yesterday I decided to call to just make sure I was registered. They had no record of me and I was weeks passed the registration deadline. The guy in registration said he’d talk to a couple of higher ups, but later called back and said they couldn’t make an exception. My flight and hotel were booked, but I had nowhere to go.

No sooner I had hung up the phone, my oldest daughter called. She asked, as she always does, “How you doing, Dad?” I told her, “Not so good” and my tale of stupidity. She sympathized and commiserated a bit before we went on to other subjects.

Today, she called. “I have some good news for you,” she said. “You can register for the Games. Here’s the woman to call and her phone number.” Kate took it upon herself to write them and ask that they make an exception and allow me to register. “I told them you just had a senior moment!”

So I’m off to Minneapolis, hoping first and foremost to finish the race, as we say, rubber side down. It’s not a course that plays to my strengths. It’s 15 90-degree turns per lap and I think there are 15 laps. So I’ll be racing with many other seniors subject to senior moments at each turn. But just to be there because of my daughter’s thoughtfulness and determination to make things happen, as she has done throughout her life, will make whatever result sweet.

I called her back to let her know I was set to go and how much I appreciated what she had done for me. I got her voice mail. But my message was probably incomprehensible through the blubbering tears. I’m one lucky guy.

Virginia is sinking as scandals envelop it. We all know about former Governor Bob McDonnell and his wife, convicted of corruption.

Lesser known outside the state is the story about how one Democratic state senator resigned at a crucial time. It was during debate in the legislature about expanding Medicaid. Republicans, who hold a majority in the House of Delegates, were opposed, but a one-vote Democratic majority in the Senate (the crucial lieutenant governor’s tie breaker) provided a pathway to approve the expansion.

Then a Democratic senator, Phil Puckett, abruptly resigned, flipping control of the Senate to the GOP. It was soon revealed that the Republicans in the House had offered him a plush state government position and were prepared to release a hold they had maintained on approval of a judicial appointment for the senator’s daughter. Federal officials are investigating whether these offers constituted corruption.

Yesterday, it was revealed an aide to the Democratic governor had then counter-offered the senator a different job for the daughter. Even some Republicans thought things had gone too far.

“This is the danger of criminalizing ordinary politics,” said Sen. Richard H. Black (R-Loudoun).

Criminalizing ordinary politics. Many of us thought we already had, and if we hadn’t formally, ordinary politics today does seem criminal.