A Piano Story

A Piano's Story

My piano has a long and loving history with my family.  It began at the Pick home in the early 1950's when it was handpicked by one of Grandpa Doc’s sisters, Sr. Aiden. And, yes, she really was a “sister”.  Four of Grandpa's siblings chose serving as a nun as their lifelong vocation.  The story, as I have been told, is that the musically gifted Sister Aiden went with Grandpa to the piano store and carefully played each piano until she choose the perfect one for her brother's home.  This same piano now sits in my living room.  My mom and her siblings were taught on this piano at their childhood home in Remsen, Iowa.  It then traveled to the farm as my grandpa retired from his life as a vet to begin his life as a farmer.  The piano ultimately followed my grandparents when they retired back in town.



The Pick "Sisters"
(L to R) Sr. M. Bertilda, Sr. M. Marius, Sr. M. Lea, Sr. M. Aiden 



I remember the piano well on the farm as a little girl. It had its place in the center of the family room. And although at times it was cluttered with stacks of paper and boxes; on holidays and special occasions, it was played with vigor!  Joan and Mom perfected their duets together in front of an engaged audience. The grandchildren played their songs of choice and sometimes just pounded on the keys (with a quick reprimand from Grandpa Doc). The piano was definitely a focal point at the farmhouse. Many family photos, including the one of my family below, were taken on the piano bench.

Mom & Dad with me and my brothers (Matt in the center and Mark to the right).  We were sitting on the piano bench with the piano in the background celebrating Christmas on the farm.  I would guess it to be 1971 and yes, my mom made my dress :)

After Grandma and Grandpa passed away, an estate auction followed.  The nine Pick children were allowed to go through the household items "pre-auction" and choose special items they wanted to keep in the family.  Somehow the piano was forgotten.  This oversight was not caught until well into the advertised auction time frame.  It was a beautiful fall day in Iowa and I had made the trip from Omaha with my three boys; Zach, Ben and Grant (then 7, 4 and 6 months). Things were chaotic with all that a public auction entailed and the many collectible and household items that had accumulated over my grandparent's lifetime. A crowd had gathered and was scoping out the items and collecting their bid numbers. The Pick siblings quickly realized that the prized piano was on the auction list. How did this happen? We all clearly wanted it to stay in the family, but per auction rules could not reclaim it at this point. Zach picked up on the panic among us and the ensuing conversations.  “Please, Mom,” he begged me; “can we buy the piano? I want to learn to play SO bad! Please, can we buy it? You NEVER need to buy me a birthday present ever again if you buy it for us! PLEASE!!!!” That was it. I was determined. That piano was going to be ours. It belonged in the Pick family and it was going to stay in the Pick family.

A new twist quickly developed as we realized that collectors were at the auction, eyeballing this treasure of a piano as well. Word spread fast that the family wanted me to get the piano. All of the townspeople were rallying; anticipating a bidding war as the piano got closer to the auction block with out-of-town collectors standing at bay. Everyone in the family, especially the Pick sisters and Zach, was nervous. When bidding began, as anticipated, the collectors were bidding against me on the piano.  None of the townspeople would bid.  They all knew it was to stay in the family.  You could have cut the tension in the air as the bids continued to go higher with my raising my bid number each time a collector raised his or hers. Zach was by my side, wanting me to “win” so badly. We went back and forth as the auctioneer barked the higher bids. Finally, without hesitation, I gave what became the final bid. The auctioneer asked the collectors for a counter…silence. He asked again…silence. “Going, going, GONE…Sold to Sandy Lane!!” The crowd roared. My mom and aunts cried as Zach jumped in the air. The overall feeling was of pure joy.  We were overcome with emotion.  It was although we won one for Grandma and Grandpa.  After the spectators and auctioneer moved on to the next auction item, the Pick sisters lingered by the piano in silence. My Aunt Joan quietly sat down on the piano bench. Without a word spoken, Mom sat down next to her and together they played a song. Without a word or a dry eye, the rest of us listened. This moment in time was a reminder to us all that life is built off of moments like these.

Mom, Joan, Ben and Zach enjoy a quiet moment after the winning bid

My cousin, Adam, hauled the piano to my house in his truck as I certainly didn't come to the auction prepared to bring a piano home.  And although I did not hold Zach to his commitment of giving up future birthday gifts, he did begin piano lessons that fall. He played for seven years until he reached high school.  Ben and Grant started at age 7 and are both still taking lessons.  For me the frosting on the cake was when I decided to relive my many years of childhood piano lessons and began taking them with the boys last fall.  As I listen to the sweet sounds of the piano fill my house, I am forever reminded of the loving fingers of my aunts that have danced on these same ivory keys in years past and of the wonderful memory I hold in my heart of that fall afternoon in Remsen.

Biking: Stage II

My biking escapades continue with me feeling like a newly minted cycling enthusiast.  I now have the cool spandex bike shorts, zip jersey, and fingerless gloves.  My shoes are the specialized ones that clip to my pedals.  AND this weekend I participated in my first ever organized biking event; which was a true adventure in many ways.  But before I dive into the details of the Tour de Sandy; let me digress a bit as to how this idea was hatched.  As I have indicated in past blogs, Garrett (my man from Denver) is very much a cycling enthusiast.  To give you a flavor for the level of his enthusiasm, let me describe his annual riding events.  Garrett will be riding in Colorado’s Triple Bypass Ride for his 11^th consecutive year this coming weekend.  This ride covers 120 miles over three mountain passes and over 10,000 ft. of elevation gain through the Rocky Mountains.  And, yes, it is completed in one day.  Garrett rides with a group of men who also spend three days in the mountains training for this grueling ride.  They meet a few weeks prior to the event and have coined this guy’s trip “Bike Camp”.  Yes, while most men plan their guy’s trips around beer and golf or beer and fishing, these brave (or insane) men choose to ride 200+ training miles together through the rolling mountainside.

Bike Camp was two weeks ago with Garrett an active participant.  On a phone call one night at Bike Camp, he asks me, “Hey, do you want to do a bike ride with me in Boulder when you are in town over the 4^th?”  Without hesitation (or further inquiry), I answer, “sure”.  For those who don’t know me; I will let you in on a little personality flaw that I have:  I don’t like to miss out on anything and tend to say “yes” to everything (if asked by the right person) before completely thinking through the logistics of the commitment.  So I guess you could say this fell right in line with my typical behavior.  Garrett asked me to do a bike ride with him, so, of course, how could I say no or even maybe?  Garrett goes on to tell me that one of his fellow bike campers, Gustavo, was sponsoring the race with his business, VeloShine (bike wipes...http://veloshine.com).  “Awesome,” I said, “just send me an invite with the details”.  So now I had a bike race officially on my Outlook calendar.  The frosting on the cake was that I was doing my first race with Garrett and supporting a great guy (Gustavo) and great product (VeloShine).  In my mind, it didn’t get any better than that. 

Now fast forward to two days post-Bike Camp.  Their last day of riding was a half day on Saturday morning.  As this was Garrett and my typical “non-kid” weekend that we share together, we had decided that I would fly in to Denver that morning, store my luggage at the airport, and then have some tourist fun in Downtown Denver until he completed his biking day and was able to pick me up.  Our plan was well executed as a good friend of Garrett’s, Craig, was with him at Bike Camp and needed a ride to the airport.  So after a day of museums and leisure, I was escorted to the airport to pick up my luggage while Craig was on his way to catch his flight.  After exchanging the usual pleasantries, Craig asks me, “So you are signed up for the Mike Horgan Climb?”  “Yes”, I answer enthusiastically.  He continues to ask me about my training and whether I had reviewed the website describing the race course.  “Ummm....no.”  There was a little hesitancy before Craig very kindly encouraged me to take some time to do just that and then gave me some very practical survival tips (survival tips?).  Hmmm…my read on Craig was that he was a bit concerned.  I made a mental note to ask Garrett more questions and do a Google search on this race. But no sense in letting it muddy up the weekend, so I didn’t give it another thought.  I decided instead to just focus on training and getting in miles on my bike.  I was signed up and committed, so just do it and don’t over think it, right?

By the next weekend, I had not gotten in the bike miles I felt necessary for my desired training in Omaha and had also concluded that my Omaha hybrid (bike #2) was not cutting it.  So to make a long story short, I am now a very proud and happy owner of an Omaha based Trek Madone road bike.  I logged some decent miles on my new purchase and was feeling like I was following the proper training protocol for the Mike Horgan Climb.  Following Craig’s advice and feeling a bit more confident, I did pull up the website to see that the race was only 21 miles and they did use the word “beginner” on their website.  The colorful elevation map looked steep, but it was a bit Greek to me as we don’t track things like elevation in Omaha.  The description indicated 4,100 ft of climbing.  This was where Garrett would need to guide me.  So I just focused on putting in miles.  That’s what we did when we trained for a marathon.  This couldn’t be that much different, could it?


Mike Horgan Climb Elevation Map



With the race and a much anticipated long weekend in Denver finally hitting my Outlook calendar, I packed my favorite hot pink cycling jersey and black spandex shorts and headed for the airport.  I arrived late Thursday night and was anxious to hop on my bike Friday morning to see if I remembered how to bike in Colorado.  The race was the next morning, so it sounded like a great idea to get the blood flowing a bit with a pre-race day ride.  Garrett asked what my ride preference was…climbing a mountain or riding in the valley?  So of course I answer “Let’s climb a mountain”.  And that is exactly what we did.  We set off for a ride up Deer Creek Canyon Road on a beautiful Friday morning in Denver.

As Garrett is obviously a much more seasoned rider than I, we have a little routine that we do when we climb mountains together.  As I chug up the mountain at my slow, but steady pace (Garrett describes my technique as the “Little Engine that Could”), Garrett does interval training.  Basically this means that he goes at Garrett pace and pushes it and then loops back around to check on me.  As we were about a mile into our ride up with Garrett ahead of me, another cyclist comes up beside me and asks where I am from.  Hmmm…how did she pick up on the fact that I am not from Colorado?  Yet another subtle hint of my rookie bike status that I had not yet picked up on.  We start to converse and I learn that she had ridden for the USA mountain bike team years back (thus the USA bike jersey she donned that only then was apparent to me).  I go on to tell her that I am signed up for a ride in Boulder called the Mike Horgan Climb.  My new friend, Linda, about fell off of her bike when I told her of this event on my calendar.  “Do you know much about that race?” she asked me.  Linda then goes on to tell me how I shouldn’t be climbing Deer Canyon on pre-race day and that the race I was signed up for was BRUTAL.  When Garrett looped back around, she expressed the same concerns to him.  I just got the “Garrett look”, which I knew was my reminder that cycling is not a social sport for conversation.  He had often told me that the “real” cyclists took it seriously and did not chat.  So as I thanked Linda for her great advice, I continued up the mountain to finish our training ride.  I also convinced myself that if I could climb this mountain, I could climb any mountain.  It might be more work, but I could do it (hmmm….).

So Garrett and I follow all of the pre-race preparation rules.  We “carb up” on pasta Friday night, go to bed early, and then are up early for breakfast and stretching.  Garrett has his official VeloShine cycling clothes to wear promoting this great product.  One of Garrett’s friends and fellow bike campers, Brit, also joined us representing Team VeloShine.  Although I was just the third wheel in my hot pink jersey, I was feeling pretty official.  As Brit, Garrett and I pulled into the parking lot of the race, the caliber of the riders participating quickly became apparent to me.  Most were warming up by riding their bikes on stationary stands.  Keep in mind that this was all an hour before the ride as we needed to get there early to get video cameras attached to the guys’ bikes for VeloShine.  I convince myself that these are just the serious riders and that the beginners like me would show up later.  As the video cameras are installed and time passes, I am noticing that I am the only cyclist wearing a jersey that is not endorsing a product (hmmm…) and most have matching jerseys constituting a team of riders.  I seriously just learned how to get my feet in and out of bike clips and my competition had long been promoted to select teams.  The women all had bodies like Jillian Michaels; including the 60 year old crowd.  It was about this time that I began to wonder what I had gotten myself into.

Brit and Garrett before their start

With a bike race, I quickly learn that the entire group does not start at the same time, but instead are sent off every couple of minutes in varying age and competition groups.  After I see Garrett and Brit off and wish them luck, I quickly scope out the crowd to find the friendliest female face who appeared closest to my age.  I carefully place my bike next to this random woman and ask when the “senior” groups are done so they can start releasing our groups.  The nice lady goes on to explain that anyone who was not a junior (18 and under) was a senior, which made me a senior and that if I didn’t sign up to compete, I would be with my age group, but grouped with the Level 4 competing group.  Clear as mud?  No, but I did understand that I was next in line.  My strategy was to follow my designated group and trail the end as I did not want to cross the yellow line (which they repeated a minimum of three times that this would be grounds for disqualification per the Boulder Police Department) or knock over another rider with my lack of biking prowess.    

So off my group went without incident.  I didn't cross the center line nor did I knock anyone over.  It actually went quite smoothly.  Not so bad, I thought.  And I was keeping up with the pack.  About three miles into the race, I was feeling pretty confident; a bit cocky, in fact.  There were three women (two with matching team jerseys) in front of me and I was having no problem staying with them.  Out of nowhere the woman in the third position turned around and said to me, "If you are going to ride with us, you are going to have to take a turn in our pace line."  I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about other than what I was doing was obviously not within cycling etiquette.  Since I didn't have the faintest idea on what I needed to do to be in compliance with their rules, I accepted defeat and simply answered, "I have no clue what I am doing, but I'm a good student.  Just tell me what to do and I'll do my best."  "That works for us," the woman yells back.  "I'm Darcy and this is Amy and Linda.  Stay on my wheel and follow me while we take the lead".  So I just kept following Darcy's instructions as I took turns leading the foursome in the pace line.  Wow...I started feeling cocky again.  I was a natural at this (kind of like "look, Mom...no hands").  What was I doing second guessing myself?  I was feeling golden; riding along the roaring Boulder Creek in a pace line, and carrying my weight as part of the cycling team (will they offer me a coveted jersey?).

Things were going great with my new friends on our steady climb up the mountain until we hit the mile four marker.  As we turned the corner, Darcy commented to the three of us that she was a "slow climber" and not to wait for her.  Sounds reasonable, I thought.  And then I looked up and what I saw took my breath away.  The winding road that laid ahead of me was at an incline that I had never rode before.  The best analogy I can give would be with skiing.  I felt like a novice skier who just got used to the greens and was flirting with the blues, but found myself accidently on a black diamond mogul.  But instead of look down this treacherous mountain, I was looking up it and on a bike.  Determination took over, so I pushed forward behind Darcy.  The next two miles were grueling with the incline increasing, sweat pouring off of me, and my legs feeling like rubber.  My pace line friends were now a distant memory and my only company; a young German man who explained to me that he signed up for his first "climbing" race and with his thick accent let me know that choosing this race was clearly a mistake.  So noted, I thought.

I started asking the roadside volunteers if the incline would get better (i.e. would I get a break).  Yes, I was told...after about six of the same steep winding hills that I just climbed.  By now it was apparent that other than my German friend, I was the trail-ender in this endeavor.  The Boulder policeman kept checking on me and asking how I was doing.  "Great," I kept telling him, "a beautiful day in Denver!"  By this time I was doing the math on my average miles per hour with the mileage I had left to ride and calculated that if I actually did survive this ride, it would be mid-afternoon before I would make it back to Garrett's vehicle.  I was in agony and knew that this girl from the flatlands would need to venture back down this monster of a mountain before making it to the top at Mile 20.  I was good with this decision.  I had made up my mind that the Mike Horgan Climb had now turned into the Sandy Lane Climb, with my new goal to push myself as far as I could before turning around and heading back down.  So that is what I did.  I pushed myself until near the Mile 8 mark when I knew I had hit my wall.  I then made my turn for the easy part; the fast journey down those same wicked inclines.  And I do have to admit that I had white knuckles gripping my brakes for dear life racing down the mountain around those many switch backs.  But I survived and in my mind did a fine job completing my very own Sandy Lane Climb (seriously, who is Mike Horgan anyway?).

So with a quick text to Garrett, I let him know that I was safely at his vehicle.  He later told me he was very relieved to get my text as he worried about me as he also struggled up the grueling course (whew!  I wasn't a complete disappointment).  As I waited for Brit and Garrett's return to the parking lot, I befriended some other waiting observers.  One was the unfortunate recipient of two flat tires during his race and the other, a boyfriend to one of the female riders.  We enjoyed some good conversation during our wait and they offered me encouragement and many ideas on "better" races for me with my level of experience.  Their company was great and a reminder that everyone has a story.  Many times talking to strangers is like reading a good book.  And there were definitely some good takeaways that sunny morning (God's reminder to me that I made the right decision coming down the mountain early).  Garrett and Brit successfully completed the course, but in one word described their trek as "brutal".  I believe they brilliantly represented VeloShine and after finishing the race on gravel, the VeloShine wipes were put to good use.  A good day had by all.

After giving our legs a day off from biking, Garrett and I took on another climb the morning of the 4th of July.  What better way to complete a perfect weekend in Denver.  The climb Garrett chose was up High Grade Road which definitely lived up to its name.  But the benefits of tackling the Mike Horgan Climb (or at least part of it) were apparent to me on this first post-race ride.  A difficult climb now felt like a cinch.  I felt a similar sensation after running a marathon.  Once I ran a marathon, I felt like I could run a half marathon with my eyes closed.  Hmmm...maybe there was some psychology to Garrett's signing me up for this race.  The picture at the top of this post was taken at the end of our climb which closed out Stage II of my biking adventures. So what will Stage III involve?  I really don't know.  There is nothing on my Outlook calendar yet, but just give it some time...